Last Friday afternoon was typical except for the fact that Ryyyy came to meet me at work. That never happens. He’d had two job interviews in the neighbourhood and stopped by to say hello afterward. We went to the Artful Dodger, site of so much decompression and so many post-work drinks. He sucked back the Heineken while I did an enviable job on the house white.
Somehow we got on the subject of border crossings and racial profiling. I told Ryyyy that he had nothing to worry about at the border because he doesn’t speak with an accent and looks white enough not to be considered a security risk.
“Those people would be questioned,” I said of the pair of men in the opposite corner of the patio whose skin colour was darker than my own fading summer tan.
“Definitely,” Ryyyy replied.
“And I’m pretty sure that person would get harassed,” I speculated of an Asian man two tables away. It wasn’t for the fact that he was Asian but more for his brown fringe jacket, feathered fedora, long hair and day-glo green Reeboks.
I excused myself to use the washroom and when I returned, the fashion question mark was showing Ryyyy a page in his book. On the page there was a pen sketch of me. I was flattered. The sketch was crude but the gentleman promised to add to it, a mermaid tail here, and luscious flowing hair there. In a London accent he asked me for my mailing address so he could send me a hard copy.
“How about I give you my work address?” I asked in the interest of self-preservation.
“That’s the problem with you Toronto people,” the gentleman commented. “You don’t trust your instincts. In Montreal, women I’ve just met offer to pose nude for me.”
The gentleman introduced himself as Moo of Moo Movies. He proceeded to pitch a movie idea based on Hamlet but in which Ophelia lifts herself from the water, proclaims, “Fuck this!”, commits Hamlet to a nunnery then saves Denmark from its fatalistic end.
“I love it!” I admitted. “I’m so tired of movies that focus on the malaise and crisis of the thirty-year-old man. Give me something that’s relevant to me!”
My feminist manifesto pleased Moo who confessed he was starting an army of women that was 65 million strong.
“Count that as 65 million and one,” I told him before he offered me a job as a five-star general. This man was a smooth operator, someone who knew the secret knock to the backdoor of my heart.
Between his discourse on conspiracy theories focusing on his being targeted by the Harper government, and his inflammatory commentary on his ex-wife and her promiscuous lifestyle, he named dropped, of course. Diana, Angelina, Gwyneth and someone I’m ashamed to admit I neither know nor remember. And then, it happened. He pitched me a movie idea so brilliant I nearly creamed my pants. The film is reminiscent of a Wong Kar-Wai/David Lynch hybrid but with a story possessed of astute clarity and universal appeal. I offered my services pro bono as his PA that very minute.
SEGUE: (At some point, it started raining and we ended up under a patio umbrella where a man named Dave sat. He was gracious enough to invite us to stay and I inadvertently outed the closeted queen by suggesting he knew how to grab the bull by the balls and twist just in time. He proceeded to talk about his happy 32-year marriage to a woman, which confused and perplexed me more than Moo. Who knew?)
Now I’m confronted with an ethical dilemma: I want to write the screenplay for the film Moo pitched (with a modified and more cynical ending) but I don’t know what’s fair game. Isn’t it dirty dealings to steal someone else’s idea? Moo does not appear on a Google search; he could be any assortment of nutcase Yonge Street has on offer but something inclines me to believe him. How does one go about locating an enigma? Should I skulk the streets of downtown looking for that fluorescent footwear? Should I write, sell and wait for him to appear out of the woodwork demanding copyright ownership? Maybe at that point we could work out a barter system: one screenplay in exchange for a nude miniature. Help, friends!
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