Free Created By by Richard Matheson Page B

East. I’m good with directions if you ever need a map or anything. Is it okay to make jokes?”
    A meerschaum pumping smoke signals; comfort.
    “Nothing really to say about my sister. Pretty normal stuff. We fought, we got along. Sometimes we still talk. I don’t know.”
    Feeling in a womb.
    “I was married. Maybe it was a mistake. The divorce, I mean. But I wanted a big career. I started getting into a lot of success thinking. My ex-wife, her name is Cynthia. I guess I didn’t say that.”
    Confession lingering. An impression in fresh, wet thought.
    “I think my ambition scared her. I got married when I was twenty-three. Divorced three years later.”
    Discomfort.
    “I was reading a lot of books about how to make things happen. Make dreams come true, manifest the extraordinary … that kind of thing. Bothered her. She thought I should stick with more concrete approaches. I told her concrete was for sinking dead bodies.”
    Restless, percussive mannerisms.
    “We never had children or anything. I wasn’t ready. I’m still not. I don’t understand them. To me, they’re one step up from clay. It’s weird. She married some fucking gauze-head named Dave who leads self-realization workshops. Guess she was getting revenge.”
    Dark shrug.
    “My writing is my contribution. My creation of life, I guess you could say. Is that bullshit? Can you test for bullshit? I’m strong on the essay part.”
    Glancing at watch. Mind searching for a rope ladder. A way to escape sieged thoughts.
    “I’ve been having nightmares. Violent, bloody images. I came to you because I—I’m under a lot of pressure these days. I’ve created a TV series and it’s taking up all my time working on the pilot. Did I already say I’m a writer/producer?”
    Acid glance.
    “I actually have my own slash. That’s how you know you’ve made it in television. You’re two people.”
    Eyes forcing amusement; sad bellows.
    “Anyway, I’m under a tremendous amount of pressure with this new pilot and moving into an expensive house and having these weird nightmares and … I don’t know what they mean. Maybe what I need to find out is it means nothing. I guess that would be interesting. If it means nothing, do I still have to pay you?”
    Smiles. New question.
    “The marriage breakup? I don’t know. Sex was routine after a while. You hand me this, I’ll hand you that. Start a fire, put out a fire.”
    Mood weeds.
    “She used to tell me I was incapable of expressing rage.”
    Avoidance.
    “I’ve had fantasies about my father’s new wife. Is that
weird?
It’s weird, right?”
    Dimples clenching; retreating.
    “I feel embarrassed. I mean, I think it’s a little … but she’s young and totally gorgeous. Every time I’m around them, I have to hide my reaction. I should be put in like Freud prison and have a giant salami for a cellmate. I eventhink my father knows sometimes. But it isn’t like she’s really my mother.”
    The pipe considering; smoke thoughts. A glance at the wall clock. Minutes left.
    “Maybe I hate her because she’s alive and my real mother is dead and the wrong one is still around. The one who thinks art deco is a guy who owns a deli.”
    Nothing.
    “I don’t know that I’m really all that bad off. I mean, I’ve got a friend in the hospital dying and that bothers me a lot. Overall I’m okay. It’s just I don’t sleep well and I worry about things.”
    Long pause.
    “You know, they say the reason writers write is that they’re fucked up about life having no form. And writing is about controlling … you know, what we wish it was. Am I rambling?”
    Arms and legs crossed; flesh armor.
    “I get scared sometimes. I don’t know who I am. I get so depressed. Angry. I don’t want to end up like my mother. I don’t want to … have that happen.”
    The hour was up.

outline
    FADE-IN:
    8:04 A.M . Fifty miles off the English coast.
    A.E. Barek hovers over storming sea. Huey blades gust craters on steel