I’d heard that film critic Rex Braverman would be in the audience tonight. Well, so would I.

The movie theater was crowded and smelly just as I had predicted. There were more unsupervised kids than I could shake a stick at. There appeared to be a Mary Kay convention down front. There was a group of Elvis impersonators on the East side of the theater. I had a feeling that my new shoe leather might stick to the floor. That my big gun might get clogged with chocolate. That my head might implode from chewing caramel. Sticky.

But I had a responsibility. A person had gone missing. It was my job to go looking. Rumor had it that he might be here tonight.

Most seats were taken. I sat in the front row center, between an incessant babbler and a chewing gum snapper. Later my neck would hurt as if in a hot vise. As if impaled by a voodoo pin. As if impacted by a night of hot romance. You get the picture.

I saw a lot in this job. Sometimes I saw too much.

The event was a Woody Allen film festival. One had to ponder the diversity of the crowd. The theater was packed. Many had come in only to get out of the rain. Many sought Schwartzenegger. Many had no want for Woody. Made no whoop for the Woodman. Thought the Woodster a wimp. They were wrong.

I had been retained to locate a missing person, by an anonymous source who had paid in cash by proxy. I was on a loose leash. I knew a good deal when I found one.

It was a simple missing persons case, which would soon blossom into a murder investigation.

I was seeking Braverman. Rex Braverman was a legendary film critic and social butterfly. But now harder to find than a Dan Quayle IQ at Mensa. Than a bear in winter. Than a New York style pizza in the deep South. Than a sock mate. Face it, the man was scarce.

Usually spied tromping from theater to restaurant to theater, he wore a trench coat and fedora, summer and winter. Rex cut a suave path. But face it. The man was eccentric.

Braverman’s film reviews had angered many. The man would argue genre and quality till blue in the face, a becoming color. Actors and critics gave him wide berth. The public loved him. His bosses loved him.

“It’s not a comedy-drama, it’s a drama with comedic undertones!”

He would cut filmmakers no slack if he thought that they were slacking.”This is no historical epic, it’s a soap opera with swords and swine!” He would opine.

Controversy generated popularity. But the man made enemies.

As the screening of Play It Again, Sam flickered, I discreetly eyed the filled theater seats, looking for a fedora-clad head. I was amazed to notice a group of Humphrey Bogart look-a-likes seated near the front west exit. My search for Braverman was becoming complicated. More complicated than a solving a Rubiks Cube in the dark. Than making pastry on a humid day. Than juggling dates on a busy week. Not simple.

BLAM!  BLAM! Gunshots rang out. I checked my gun. It hadn’t accidently gone off as in an unfortunate previous incident. I was relieved.

People began to scream. Mr. Fetzer, the theater owner, had fallen to the aisle floor, clutching his chest. Spectators gathered around the prone victim, as he tried to speak.

“It was . . . it was  . . .” Mr. Fetzer managed to choke out, before he collapsed, dead.

“Why do dying victims always repeat the subject and verb without getting to the object of the sentence?” A bystander asked no one in particular.

“I dunno. That’s what they always did in the movies.”

Movement suddenly caught my eye, fortunately not like last time. As I looked towards the exit, I saw him. Fedora cockily tilted over an intense face, trench coat aflutter, Rex Braverman ran for the exit. I gave chase.

I caught up with him. I then managed to disentangle my blouse sleeve from his coat buttons.

“Back off, sister! What’s yer problem?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Rex! You practically stand before me with a smoking gun!” I exclaimed, perusing his gun area.

“Lady, who are you?  Christ, a person gets a little fame, and look what happens! Nuts chasin’ ya down the street! . . .”

“Rex, I’m no nut. I’m a private investigator. I was hired to find out your whereabouts. And now it looks like you’re involved in murder.”

“I’m innocent. I can’t stress this highly enough! We must talk. Care for dinner?”

“I could eat.”
Ducking into Andiamo’s, we took a booth and ordered drinks. Rex looked suddenly vulnerable, seemingly deep in thought, semi-collapsed against the red booth cushion. I felt a little vulnerable myself. Like a candy that’s hard on the outside and soft in the center. Like a person who doesn’t know whether to go or stay. Like a little deah sipping at the brook as the hunter splatters its little deah brains. Like that.

Our drinks arrived. We gulped to calm our nerves.

Rex made eye contact. “Oooohhh! Gross! Stop it! Put your eyes back in, silly!”

“Oh. Yes. Well, wait, just a sec. There. That’s better. Sorry, I just couldn’t resist!” He responded, shyly grinning. He was adorable.

He took a deep breath, exhaled, and looked into my eyes.

“Sheila. Listen to me. I did not kill Mr. Fetzer. You must believe me. You must help me. I was framed.”

At this point in my career, I’d heard it all. Had my eyes deceived me at the crime scene? Was this hard boiled gumshoe gal getting soft in middle age? In any case, I had to get the facts, and go from there.

I interviewed crime witnesses. Their recollections were diverse. They had more versions than a politician in the hot seat. Than a software giant. Than a dalmation had spots. Lots.

“Elvis is back, and he shot Mr. Fetzer! I realize that the theater was dark, but I know what I saw!”

“The shooter was clearly a Mary Kay saleslady! She stood next to Fetzer on the east aisle. She cranked stick and popped lead in rapid succession.”

“The killer wore a fedora and trench coat. He seemed to be very anxious, and paced the aisle. Suddenly he walked past Mr. Fetzer. He stopped and turned, facing him. He pulled a gun! He pulled the trigger! A little flag popped out of the gun barrel, that said ‘BANG!’ in big letters. He cursed and threw it to the aisle floor. He pulled a second gun, and shot Fetzer! He ran for the exit, slipping and falling several times on a giant banana peel. Then he was gone.”

Big picture, suspect-wise: I didn’t believe that an Elvis impersonator would commit murder, risking a wonderful career. Ditto for a Mary Kay magnate. Not logical. But suspect number three raised my red flag. Tweaked my gray matter. Sent my deductive logic on a blue streak.

Why was theater owner Fetzer targeted for murder in the first place? How did film critic Braverman fit in, was he just in the wrong place at the wrong time? Clearly there was a cinematic theme here, and I don’t mean the soundtrack to The Sound of Music. Or Jaws. Or Chinatown.
Later that evening I received a phone call at home. The voice on the line was male, and veiling controlled hysteria.

“Br- Br- Braverman killed Fetzer! If I were you, I’d look into him!” I tried to keep the caller on the line.

“Seen any good movies lately?” I cheerily asked him. This ploy seemed to work.

“Ha! You have got to be kidding. How would I even begin to find one in this sea of mediocrity?”

“You sound very negative. What would your analyst say?”

“He would say that I’m a perfectionist who feels inadequate . . . hey! wait a minute!  . . . why am I telling you this?  . . . and why are you asking me these things?”

“Silly! It’s an old trick, to keep you on the line!”

“Gasp . . . REEEAlly?” He hung up.
I schlepped uptown. Arriving at last, I took a deep breath and knocked on the apartment door. I steeled myself. It was very uncomfortable.

He answered the door. Wearing horn rimmed glasses, a cashmere pullover, khaki pants, and a morose expression, was filmmaker Woody Allen.

“May I help you?” He suspiciously asked.

I quickly shouldered my way inside.

“Woody, the jig is up.”

“REEEAlly? . . .  um . . . what exactly is a jig?. . . where?” He asked, glancing nervously upward and around.

“Mr. Allen, I know that you murdered Fetzer and tried to frame Braverman.”

“ExCUSE me? . . . uh uh  . . . I don’t know what you’re t-t-talking about!” He stammered, backing away. As I approached him, he took off his glasses, threw them to the floor and stomped on them. He made a run for the bedroom. I gave chase.

Catching up with him, I tackled him and began to tickle him. The old Tackle and Tickle technique, as they called it. Guaranteed to make a grown man cry. To beg for mercy. Just plain beg. Yup.

“Gasp! OOOOoooohhh . . .  hahahahaha . . . hehehe  . . .  please stop! I’m not only ticklish, I’m polymorphously perverse! Okay! I’ll confess! Please stop!” He choked out, tears of hysterical laughter streaming down his face.

Woody gathered his wits and began to speak calmly.

“Fetzer was going to show colorized versions of Manhattan and Stardust Memories. I couldn’t allow this to happen, okay? And that Braverman! One of the few critics who doesn’t like all of my work!  What does he know? Do you know what he said to me at a party once? ‘Do you want to do humankind a real service? Tell funnier jokes!’  . . . the nerve!

“And yes, I knew that Braverman would be at the Crest Theater that night, dressed in that ridiculous pseudo PI getup. I tried to use him for a fall guy, a patsy.”

“I know, Woody.”
That night I met Braverman at Andiamo’s for drinks. He’d taken a corner booth. We greeted one another as I slid in opposite him. Our hands brushed on the table, discharging static electricity. Startled, I accidently dumped the contents of my purse onto the table, seat, and floor.

“Oh Sheila! Let me help you with that.” Rex sweetly offered, smiling and laughing. A true gentleman under his gruff, tough, wry exterior, I had the feeling that he held more surprises that a pinata. Than picnic potluck. Than Christmas fruitcake. Face it, the man was yummy.

“Sheila! What IS all this stuff? Have you considered cleaning out yer purse sometime maybe?” He asked in an exasperated fashion, holding up a partial banana, distastefully, between his right thumb and forefinger.

“Hey! Careful with that!” I reminded him as our eyes met over my big gun. He gingerly handed it over to me. Static electricity manifested once more, startling us, almost causing yet another of my little accidents. This relationship was clearly dangerous. More dangerous that Denis Leary on amphetamines. Than Bill Murray on live TV. Than lightning during a drought. Not safe.

“Sheila. I want to thank you for everything. Who would have thought this turn of events possible? To have been framed for murder by a major filmmaker? I realize that I’ve made some enemies with my film criticism, but this is ridiculous!”

“Rex, it’s over. Put it behind you. And may I ask you a question?”

“Certainly. I imagine that we’ve achieved a certain level of intimacy at this point.”

“Is Rex your real name?”

“Oh, Sheila! How did you know? No. Rex is not my real name. My real name is Spike. Braverman. Spike Braverman.”

We finished our drinks, lingering for a moment, looking into one other’s eyes and communicating a wordless goodbye. As he walked out, I wondered if I would ever see him again.

Who knows, I just may sense him in a darkened theater some night. And we’ll always have Woody.

Now he was back, visiting in my adulthood.

My childhood friends and I sat around and talked with him, and watched film clips of dramatic historical civil rights events – small town events that had not actually been filmed.

As I was speaking to him – asking him questions – I called him Mr. Green.

It was nice to see him.

“I feel that they’ve done my story to death. But don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining.  I do however  think that I should be allowed to play myself. God knows I need the money. And that TV Guide cover! I find that actor to be totally unrealistic for the role. I’m just surprised that they didn’t choose Brad Pitt or Matthew Perry. Surprised and relieved.

“I don’t even own a television set. I just got back into town and moved into my new place.

“And it’s funny, even in NYC, I seem to attract attention on the street. Many people seem shocked and intimidated by my presence. Many others seem to have no idea who I am. ‘Get a job, hippie!’ some yell at me.

“Young women try to pick me up.

“Young men try to pick me up.

“I don’t get out much. I mostly stay at home in my apartment, read, and talk to God. And the holidays tend to depress me.

“But my Easter was super, thanks for asking! Had a few friends over for dinner. It was nice. I love to cook. But let me ask you, what do bunnies and egg hunts really have to do with the concept of Easter? What’s up with that?”

When asked whether he would be viewing the JEsus! miniseries, he seemed somewhat enthusiastic.

“I might watch it at a friend’s house, or I might even buy a television set. I look forward to seeing it. It’ll probably stir up memories of the old days.”

Jesus Christ has been back among the people for several months. His initial reappearance however occurred during a busy celebrity news week, and the articles were bumped.

Yet another alarmist article has hit the media, warning us of the alleged dangers of the internet (people tend to forget that the internet is simply a tool – amongst other tools – all used in a number of ways)! The article refers not to crime, nor violence, but to being exposed to a photograph of male nudity. Traumatized by the image of a penis – I suppose nightmares might ensue. Of course, the person in question didn’t ask to see the photo (perhaps downloading the pesky attachment from an email entitled “Cutest Pet Pics Ever!”). I however imagine that the writer of the article likely grew up in a home with a resident male or two. Perhaps this was a family in denial – reminiscent of a twin-bed Hayes Code film universe – in which penises didn’t exist!

Female breasts: how hypocritical can we be? Typically mammalian commodities, breasts usually raise no issues – unless of course there is wardrobe malfunction (in which case innocent children may be allegedly corrupted!). If the breast in question is dispensing milk in a public place, society can go medieval. So skewed are values that is more acceptable in film scenarios to hack off a breast than to kiss one.

The current Swine Flu concern is reminiscent of the Bush administration Homeland Security Department fanning the flames of human insecurities – remember the color-coded security warnings? There were several bright colors involved as I recall, possibly causing one to awake in the morning pondering “Is it yellow or orange today? Should I go out? Should I stay in?” Mutating viruses are no doubt a cause for concern – but sealing international borders and slaughtering animals seem extreme. Resort to common sense. Wash your hands. Keep your hands off your face. Cover your sneezes. We learned this before first grade, remember?

Vitamin X Prevents Cancer! Vitamin X Causes Cancer! Click here to buy Vitamin X. Oh, the alarmism and informational overload! Is it really necessary to take a plethora of nutritional supplements in order to boost one’s immune system? Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve dropped a lot of vitamins onto the floor, which roll under the fridge. I’m watching for giant mutant cockroaches to crawl out and threaten my dogs.

Now excuse me while I go lock up.

Heather: “Damn, my Lipitor pamphlets just blew away!”

Brad: “You need to keep those packaged.”

Heather: “I know, I know, it was an anomaly.”

Brad: ” ‘Anomaly’? Sounds like a new drug. ‘Anomaly: take occasionally . . . just because’.”

Heather: (sighs) “The company’s got to get me a rental, or get my car out of the shop.”

Brad: “Like, truly. Sales territory issues. You wear that cheerleader’s outfit and seem a bit conspicuous.”

Heather: “Remember, Goode Pharmaceuticals recruited me from the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders.”

Brad: “Yeah, yeah. They recruited me from the Berkeley croquet team.”

Heather: “Let’s go pick up lunch for Medical Arts.”

Brad: “Right.”

_____

Brad and Heather take an exit to find a restaurant. Naked human directionals advertise a car wash. They find a drive-through and order turkey sandwiches at the window.

Speaker voice: “Sir, this is a bank.”

Brad: “I knew that.”

_____

Medical Arts Clinic is located next to Back Neck and Shoulder Pain in the Sunrise Center. The building is beige stucco, surrounded by palm trees.

Heather gathers pharmaceutical samples and sandwiches, walks to the entrance and enters the lobby.

Heather: “Is he in?”

Office assistant: “Go on back.”

Heather walks down the hall to an empty conference room and enters. She sets up the freebie lunches, walks out and down the hall, connecting with Doctor Fear. She touches his arm, her pompom gently brushing his wrist.

Doctor Fear: “Good morning, Ms. Corman . . . this way, please.”

In his office, Doctor Fear takes a seat behind his desk and crosses his hands over his lap. Heather stands across from him.

Heather: “I want to talk to you today about Vivify, the new drug for patients who are on multiple meds. (stretches out arms, shakes pompoms, kicks left then right, repeats)

“ViviFY! ViviFY! Works in seconds! Zaps the fog, starts the brain!

“ViviFY! ViviFY! Lasts for hours! Tweaks the synapses, stops the pain!

“Open the bottle, caress the pill

“Wash it down!

“Vi vi FFFFYYYYYY!” (jumps; performs split).

_____

Brad and Heather in car on freeway, yelling, with the top down.

Heather: “Sold him!”

Brad: (sighs) “Yeah.”

Heather: “Next stop?”

Brad: (smiles) “Dr. Bronner at Sunset Plaza. We play croquet together.”

(Pamphlets litter the freeway)

No pharmaceutical reps were harmed in the creation of this story.