The first thing I have to say is sorry... for not updating Roll Like a Stuntman for so long. You've all been so great in supporting the story so far and I'm truly ashamed. I have no excuse except for lack of character, but I intend to get rolling again next week... next chapter is half finished.
In the meantime I'm posting this little two part story in response to the title and behind the scene pics of My Blue Heaven, 6.09, the episode Simon is directing. I'd really love if they would use the song in the show. I haven't been able to stop dreaming of what an amazing episode this could be.
This is what I would love to see. I know it's never in a million years what will happen but I thought I'd put it out there anyway.
Please tell me what you think.
When whippoorwill call , and evnin' is nigh,
I'll hurry to My Blue Heaven.
You turn to the right, you find a little bright light,
That leads you to My Blue Heaven.
You find a cosy place, fireplace, cosy room,
A little nest that nestles where the roses bloom.
Just Molly and me, and the baby makes three.
Be happy in My Blue Heaven.
Nothing.
It's ten days and still nothing.
OK ... the fear is gone, the anger too, he no longer looks over his shoulder, hears things that aren t there, sees shadows where there are none.
It should be a relief.
A burden lifted.
He'd even hoped for the smallest glimpse of a future.
Perhaps the promise of new happiness.
Instead there's nothing.
There's still overwhelming guilt of course ... but that doesn't count ... goes without saying ... will always be there.
And apart from that there's nothing.
A void.
A vacuum.
Emptiness.
Red John isn't the only thing that's dead.
...
Since he turned his precious blue Citreon to the right, guided by the little bright light that shone a welcome from the village cantina in the corner of the square, he's been staying in a simple room that he persuaded the owner's wife is perfect. All he needs is a pillow and a blanket and somewhere to place his teacup. He keeps a box each of his two favourite blends next to the cup and its saucer, on the small rustic table beside the bed and he goes down to the bar to ask for truly boiling water whenever he feels the need.
Each day he rises early and goes to sit on the wooden bench in the square, under the shelter of a large exotic tree. He sits there all day casually aware that he's providing the whole population of the village with a new source of entertainment.
He doesn't care that he is the object of much attention and curiosity. He stays locked securely in his invisible cocoon and lets the townsfolk see what they want to see.
He doesn't care.
Because he doesn't feel.
...
The men pass by and stare at him sceptically, grumbling and muttering under their breath. They wonder which of their wives he's here to steal, what his hidden agenda is, why the rich American (all Americans are rich) with the fancy foreign car sits all day in his hippy sarong and his old brown shoes and why he chose this place.
The senoritas wander through the square more frequently these past few days. They gaze at the way the dazzling Mexican sunlight sparkles in his golden hair, at the way when it shines from behind him he seems to wear a halo that reflects the goodness that radiates from his shy smile and pale eyes when they greet him.
'Buenos dias', they say to him seductively, but he merely flashes them that sad eyed, bashfully wistful smile again and gestures to the simple golden band on his finger.
They meet later sometimes, while the children are at school, and gossip about the beautiful enigma who god has dropped into their humdrum lives. They wonder what they have done to deserve such an enticing distraction and decide that he has been hurt by a cruel lover and has come 'to find himself' or 'to drown his sorrows'.
But he wears a ring ... his wife is unfaithful? ... he is hurting?
Maybe they can help. If he sticks around.
...
After breakfast each morning, when he has already been resting on the bench for hours, the children begin to gather around him on their way to school. They have been doing this since he first arrived and their numbers increase daily.
He takes a pack of cards from his shirt pocket or produces a shiny silver coin from behind a young boy's ear. It's polished smooth with all the work it's done. The wide brown eyes of his adoring audience are round as saucers in awe of the simple tricks he shows them.
None of the children is blond or has eyes of azure blue so their presence doesn't hit a nerve. They don't bother to ask awkward questions as long as he keeps them amused. He makes them smile and laugh and he finds he is able to laugh with them.
They can only stay a while or they 'll be in trouble, but they return at lunchtime to listen to his tales of carnivals and circuses and all the places they've never seen (neither has he ... but he doesn't tell them that).
They come back again when school is over for the day and stay til they hear their mothers calling them back to eat.
...
The children see him as happy.
The men think there is something fishy going on.
Only the women see his emptiness.
...
In the evening when the children drift back to their homes, still chattering noisily, and the sun begins to dip, he goes to sit on the beach and waits until its dark and chilly and the moon is casting its dancing silvery filigree patterns on the water.
He listens to the sound of voices and music wafting from the homes and bars. Sometimes it's cheery, sometimes romantic, sometimes plaintive, even sad.
To him it's all the same.
And each night he sits.
Most nights he doesn't think about much, if anything at all.
Some nights he thinks a little more.
And when he thinks, he knows he needs something to make him snap back into reality ... into life.
But she isn't here.
And he isn't there.
Because he walked away, without a word and without looking back.
Because he had no idea what else to do.
Because when the deed was done there was only numbness and panic.
And the urge to run away.
So he sits there on the beach in his emptiness.
As far away from what he needs as he can get.
And he doesn t know why.
So he sits.
It's only when he notices that he's begun to shiver and the cool water is lapping around his feet that he slips his faithful shoes back on (they're nearly eleven years old now) and wanders back to the cosy cantina.
He finds a place in a secluded corner near the men's room (where nobody else wants to sit). He has a plate of whatever is left in the kitchen and he drinks just enough tequila to warm his bones but not his heart. A few nights he drinks enough to numb his senses but sometimes he can't tel the difference anyway. Numb or not it's all the same to him.
Then he retreats upstairs to lie half awake til sunrise announces the birth of another day
... of emptiness.
Final part of this story probably on Friday and next installment of Roll Like a Stuntman next week.
Thanks for reading.
X