A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (33 page)

“
We can
’
t pay you,
”
we say.

“
That
’
s okay,
”
he says.

We do not know why he wants to do this, to get in a car with four strangers and run naked on a beach and be photographed doing it, and come to think of it, we do not want to know.

So then we are on the beach, Black Sands Beach in the Marin Headlands, on an unseasonably cold October morning. We have just become naked, and have noticed that, right where the fifth guy
’
s regular penis is supposed to be, there is a penis with a gold thing through it. Like a needle, or a nail or something—it
’
s hard to tell without staring. When I glance at it I feel woozy. As a reverent and terrified Catholic I hadn
’
t seen my penis until my teens, hadn
’
t touched it until college, so to see this, which I didn
’
t even know was being done— I turn my attention to Marny
’
s breasts, which look different unclothed than clothed, and, come to think of it, are kind of uneven. June looks normal, lithe and strong, certainly the only one among us with everything perfectly in place. Then I try to discern if Moodie
’
s penis is noticeably bigger than mine, and decide that at least flaccid, it
’
s a draw. Just about. Good. Good.

We are young and naked and on the beach!

Debra gets set up, sitting on a log, facing the water. We get a twenty-yard head start and then we run past her, along the shore, at full sprint. We try to space ourselves out so when we pass her we will be spread out, everyone visible, all colors and sizes. It will be
beautiful and poetic and it hurts like a motherfucker. Our penises flop up and down, and then as we pick up speed, slap left to right, back and forth—who would have thought left to right? The pain! People should not do this. Penises were not built for running. I think of a distended muffler scraping the pavement; I think of a bird shaking the life out of a worm— The agony is ridiculous. We run past her, she gets maybe two frames off, and then we do it again. A dozen times at least. I begin to hold my penis for the majority of the run, letting go only when passing directly in front of her. I can
’
t imagine what it
’
s like for the pierced-penis guy. It
’
s definitely not helping to keep it in place. If he had some kind of hookup, like to his navel—

We do one where we run away from Debra and straight into the water, which is frigid, as always. Then we get dressed and go home. When we get the pictures back we are all hopelessly blurry, and the pertinent demographic efforts we have made—two women, one black—are barely visible. All the running past her pictures are unusable, meaning that all the penis abuse was for naught. We are left with the last picture, that which shows all of our bare asses, running into the Pacific. We use that one.

It is the last picture of the first issue
’
s opening six-page spread, a visual montage that precedes the manifesto reprinted earlier. Each page has a grid of sorts, with photographs abutting each other. And over each picture is typeset a word. To wit:

Over a picture of a spoiled-looking young woman: Nope.
¹

Over a display of guns for sale: Nope.
²

Over two Kewpie dolls in marriage gear: Nope.
³

Over a televangelist extolling his flock: Nope.
⁴

Over a detail of the
Rape of the Sabine Women:
Nope.
⁵

Over a close-up of a young man sneering: Nope.
⁶

Over a bunch of women
’
s high-heeled business shoes: Nope.
⁷

Over a close-up of a collar and tie: Nope.
⁸

Over Adam and Eve being expelled from the Garden: Nope.
⁹

We are fairly convinced that what we have here is a work of such powerful genius and prophecy that it may very well start riots. Should the meaning prove elusive, a key:

¹
 
We are
not
spoiled and lazy!

²
 
We do
not
think guns should be sold at counters

³
 
We are
not
for marriage.

⁴
 
Or religion.

⁵
 
And we
’
re
definitely
against rape.

⁶
 
And sneering.

⁷
 
And
heels.

⁸
 
Same with ties.

⁹
 
And also being expelled by God from gardens. Or being ashamed of being naked. Or eating apples. [This last one was unclear.}

Then, in the spread, after all this negativity, all the things that we reject out of hand, is the kicker, the finale: a full-page photo of five people running, naked, their backs to the camera, into the ocean. Over that picture, emblazoned in black against the sky (this is in black and white), is one word: Might.

Boom!

In general, we are sure that we are on to something epochal, and our work hours reflect this. They are tests of will and examples of the deleterious effects of peer-pressure and guilt, because as non-traditional as we clearly are, we begin to keep standard daylight hours, nine to five, and add to them two or three bonus rounds, depending on what needs, for the sake of ourselves and mankind, to get done by the next day.

It must be done! Waiting is obscene!

During the day Moodie and I do our graphic design work, primarily for the
San Francisco Chronicles
internal promotions department. Moodie is still doing other marketing work, and I am still temping, usually at the Pac Bell headquarters in San Ramon, where I spend eight-hour days de
signing certificates commemorat
ing exemplary achievement (fig. 3). Marny is waitressing four

nights a week, but increasingly, our bills are being paid by the
Chronicle,
the heads of which
 
 
took pity on me early on—

the eyes of Dianne Levy, a
single mother of a teenaged
daughter, welled up when I
told her that I, too, had a

youngster at home—and
now they count on us to do
ads, posters, and campaigns
that promote the paper
’
s

various sections and columnists. We do the work with the radiant
acuity for which we are known.

“
We need an ad for the business section,
”
they say.

Sure, we say. The result:

The Chronicle. Make It Your Business.

“
Now one for the sports section.
”

Chronicle Sports. We Know the Score.

We are tired of such misuse of our creative powers, and have decided that we will not wait to raise money this way to fund
Might.
While we tell anyone who asks that
Might
was started on overworked credit cards, on the runoff from our graphic design business, the terrible, unspeakable truth is that I simply wrote a check. It was about ten thousand dollars for the first print bill, constituting a hulking portion of the insurance and house money that came my way after the estate was settled. I thought, at first, that we should tell everyone the truth. What better metaphor for our endeavor? Rising from the ashes—literally—of our parents, this smallish amount of money enabling us to do it the way we want, to save us from having to sell the idea to others, to raise money, or to abandon it altogether when it would become obvious—as it surely would—that no one would put such funds
behind such a ridiculous enterprise. But this way there is no waiting for approval. This way there are no strings. Moodie and Marny know that this is how the magazine has been funded, but no one else is told, ever. Maybe they wouldn
’
t understand; maybe they would understand all too well. After that first investment, though, future contributions will be minimal, as the operation begins almost immediately to pay for itself, though hopes for it paying
us
are very dim and far away. Then again, things could change quickly. Things could turn around if, say, we weren
’
t just a bunch of anonymous half-wits putting out an underfunded zine...but, rather, the same half-wits, admittedly, but one of whom was the star of a widely watched and wildly influential MTV real-life-revealing television phenomenon?

We get applications.

Marny and I decide we
’
ll both apply. We fill out the short questionnaires. As required, we both make videotapes of ourselves talking and doing something that we hope they will find diverting. Some people skateboard. Some tap-dance, introduce their families, play with their dogs. For mine, I sit at my desk in the warehouse, and Moodie videotapes me as I talk about nothing and then, kind of suddenly, I start drumming, epileptically. I do a routine where I
’
m the drummer for Loverboy, who for some reason couldn
’
t drum without blinking and twitching like he was sitting on loose wiring. The videotape is kind of funny, we think. It
’
s likely more scary than funny, but Moodie laughs. We send it in.

Two days later a woman, Laura, calls. She is one of the show
’
s producers or casting agents or whatever, and she has obviously recognized me as the sort of person who belongs on TV, inspiring a nation of disaffected youth. I am to go into the new
Real World
headquarters for an interview, half an hour or so, which will also be videotaped.

The interview is on a Sunday. As Toph is still sleeping, I drive in from Berkeley, over the bridge, miles above the water, to the makeshift MTV offices in North Beach, next to the Embarcadero and, appropriately enough, lodged among a good portion of the city
’
s ad agencies. I am filled with pride and terror. Of course I wanted to be asked to audition, wanted them to see all there is to see in me, but I had no real intention of following through with it all. And now that I
’
m actually going through with it, I
’
m petrified someone—Beth, Toph, David Milton—will find out. I convince myself that this is just for sociological or journalistic reasons. What a funny story this will make! But really: Am I just curious? Or do I want this? And if I did want this, what sort of person am I?

When I arrive, the neighborhood is deserted and I am twenty minutes early. Because people who appear on MTV are not early, are not anxious and responsible enough to be early, I walk around until it
’
s time. When I
’
m two minutes late, I walk in. The office, only a few weeks old, already has, over the receptionist
’
s desk, a huge, perfect MTV logo fashioned from corrugated steel. As I wait, the young assistants chat with me, attempting to make me feel comfortable. While waiting and chatting, I realize that, duh, I
’
m already auditioning. I begin to think harder about my words, making them more memorable, wanting to be at once fun, cutting edge, soulful and midwestern. I notice my legs; they
’
re crossed. But how to cross my legs? The guy-guy way or the women
’
s—older man
’
s way? If I do the latter, will they think I
’
m gay? Will that help?

Then a woman walks in—
glides
in. She looks down at me. She is my mother, my girlfriend, my wife. It is Laura, the producer/casting person who called. She has an Ali MacGraw look about her—her skin lightly tanned, her eyes dark, with straight, milk-chocolate hair, soft on her shoulders, a velvet curtain touching a velvet stage.

She invites me into another room, where she will conduct the interview. I follow. I am ready to give myself to her. She will listen
and when she listens, she will know. But my hair is probably all wrong. I meant to check it in the bathroom beforehand but didn
’
t get a chance. Ridiculous. On what could be the most important day ever, for me, for my hair, I leave it to chance—and if I asked to check it now, she
’
d think I was vain, self-conscious—and we can
’
t let her get the wrong idea. Of course, maybe she wants someone vain. I could be the Vain Person. There
’
s always someone vain. Of course, they
’
re usually models. I could never qualify, never— Unless I was one of those Benetton models, strange and homely. I could do that. Odd-looking, but defiantly so—like the heroin people, or the ones with freckles and huge hair. That could be me—