the list

the director: a bulimic wretch who refused to show up on set until the producer changed her name to the christian actor that mentions his super co-star as an expletive at every opportunity. the kid only sees her when the cola spills onto the southwestern resort convention center carpet from her trembling hands.

he told me she sliced it open lengthways with a steak knife on the island
until all the yellow fat was spilling out of her.

in the golf course in the middle of death valley, the kid stands under the misters in front of the lobby. the director’s father - the investor - is saying something across the room to the producer while the mother untangles her hair. i think she’s been more than making up for what was lost.

kid hangs around in an old purple target tank, denim capris, overspilling. taller than most. face and shoulders blistering with a month’s worth of third degree sunburns between driving the golf cart for b roll. the producer let her have the silver sash from the sponsor, like the pageant - Miss Nassau Energy 2006.

she had been sleeping in it, on the couch pullout. it's wrinkled at the wrap party. everyone follows the formal code left clean from their suitcases. the mother begs her to take it off but he said this was meant to form a woman’s body. not enough time passes to know this is the week it ended, because it started.

a local DJ hosts karaoke in the middle of the hall, lights dimmed. party city LED disco balls flash across the room. various crew stumble to the crowded platform, it's really nothing. she's not even supposed to be there. the director takes off both of her shoes, lined in neon, shaking printed letter copies in the air.

do you know who you've been giving yourself to?

the elective improv class at the charter, teaching them how to make furniture of themselves, carved by hand. trash bags taped to the backs of chairs for tunnels. inside the walls at 4am, searching on the carpet for the braces and the letter with the heart through it. face pushed into the couch after she falls asleep, lights out while the st. augustine boys pull for an ankle. a fake gun is as deadly as a real one. writing it out under the franchise until he got the proper credit for his work. confirmation for those who wait for marriage, the importance of finding the one who looks like they can take it hard. he made the list.

the director locks with the kid
do you know who you've been giving yourself to?

crowd around like vultures with the light to tear it off, they cast you for your ability to roll. grey couch back room of the sports bar, camera center spread between two to get his money's worth. the files, the drives. names written by hand, reading aloud how you'd let them sit with yours as their own. they say you're the reason they get off free. make the incision and wait for it to instill. i scroll through every frame, watching each infection fester until the pus drains. if you have no feelings, this is the way to kill them.

she takes it out of her dress and exits the stage. hanging half below the platform, dripping into her father's hands. the producer pets the kid's hair while her mother covers her eyes. between fingers, electric horizontal lines the freeway, trailers leave in the half light. water tops the jacuzzi tub in the room, grab each handle in the mirror before slipping inside. i push myself in, counting face down until i can breathe.