On the Edge of a Dream - Michael Wiese

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I ask.

      “Fantastic, fantastic.”

      “Then you’ll show it in the New Director’s Program?”

      “Of course, my boy, of course.”

      I get out a quick thanks before I am pulled away by Burt, a Montgomery Street financier. His face is red and puffy from drinking.

      “I don’t know what it all means, but they like it.”

      “You’re not getting cold feet, are you?”

      “Hell, no! I smell money. And when I smell money I move. Come and see me next week and we’ll get the ball rolling.”

      “Fantastic, Burt, thanks.”

      Adrian comes up.

      “Well? Don’t keep me in suspense.”

      “Cannes is a done deal.”

      “All right! And the money?”

      “Adrian, my lad.…start writing!”

      “Hey, this filmmaking thang is not so hard,” Adrian says.

      “Yeah,” I say, my thoughts pulled elsewhere.

      “Hey forget it. Besides, you’re 4F if I’ve ever seen one. Come on…”

      More and more people shake my hand. Pat my back. Pour more champagne. A blonde actress of Amazonian proportions appears.

      “I am in your new film, aren’t I? I’ve told all my friends it’s about the power of the goddess.”

      “Yeah! Sort of…”

      I give her a two-minute kiss until she has to pull away to catch her breath. I glance up. Sonny stands on the stairs to the balcony. She shakes her head and smiles, then flips me the bird.

      Several members from the Jefferson Airplane and Big Brother have put together an impromptu band. A wave of psychedelic rock fills the lobby. A dancing frenzy carries me outside to the ticket booth which is decorated with Indian carpets and religious artifacts. The Chinese owner is counting the evening’s take. He is very happy. He has seen our Midnight Movies “sold out” for the last year.

      “Big night, Nick. You have much success.”

      At the end of a red carpet, in the street, are several klieg lights which splash light in the sky over Chinatown, North

      Beach, and Nob Hill. What a night!

      A group of white-faced mimes are dancing. Photographers take pictures of me and Adrian with our actors in front of the theater marquee. More champagne is poured by harlequin servers. There are jugglers, fire-eaters, and fortune-tellers who have been hired for the premiere. Rock musicians, drag queens, artists, and models pass joints and trade phone numbers.

      Eddie, an old friend from high school, surprises me with a crushing handshake, smiling his irresistable smile.

      “Hey! What are you doing here?” I ask.

      “I got your flyer. You know I wouldn’t miss your opening night.”

      “You still playing music?” I ask.

      “Not much time with my studies.”

      “You didn’t come all the way from Salt Lake..?

      He nods.

      “Still studying theology?” “Trying to.”

      An assistant yells to me over the music that reporters from the San Francisco Chronicle, the Haight-Ashbury Oracle, and Berkeley Barb want a quick interview.

      Hours later, about twenty of us are still partying through the North Beach after-hour bars along Columbus Avenue. Only a handful make it to Enrico’s for an espresso at dawn. Boy, are we a tired mess.

      I look like shit. All the better to beat the draft. This morning I have my physical at the Oakland Induction Center. Bummer.

      Adrian paints on more makeup, “You’re gorgeous,” he says as he eyes his handiwork and laughs. “You look like our Tibetan seamstress!”

      GOT NOWHERE TO RUN

      My stomach is in knots as I mount the stairs leading into the Oakland Induction Center. Hundreds of young men my age climb the steep steps, like lambs to the slaughter.

      “Kill some gooks. Kick some ass.”

      These macho punks actually want to go to Vietnam.

      There are no others like me. Maybe they’re already in Canada.

      We are herded into a green-walled classroom to fill out forms. It’s claustrophobic. The men sit at tiny desks like school kids and horse around as they complete their applications. Cigarettes dangle from nearly every lip and fill the room with the exhaust.

      These guys have never seen anything like me. I try to ignore their wisecracks.

      “Does the queer want to kill some gooks? Kick some ass. I’ll kick his ass.”

      Screw them. The more of an outsider I appear, the more the doctors will see that I don’t fit in. My goal is simple. See the psychiatrist. Get out.

      I’m told that if you don’t wear underwear, they’ll assume you’re gay and send you straight to the shrink. Watch this. Fifty of us stand in a circle. A red-headed, fat Sergeant commands us to “drop trou.” Here goes…

      “Get that faggot outta here and away from my boys,!” screams the Sergeant to an assistant. I’m yanked from the room and hurried down a hallway to the shrink’s office. All right! I’ll be a free man in no time!

      I hand my doctor’s letter to the shrink, who looks it over then sets it down. My pitch is real short.

      “Listen, the quicker I’m back in the street the better for everyone. These losers can throw their life away. They don’t know any better. Me, I’ve got important things to do.”

      The ashen-faced shrink is inscrutable, like the Sphinx.

      “Besides I have allergies and mental problems.” There. I said it.

      The shrink says nothing. He stares at me for a moment, then resignedly leans forward and stamps my papers: ‘Fit To Serve.’

      “Welcome to the Army,” he smiles, self-satisfied.

      GETTING SOME RELIGION

      Hong Kong. An hour before midnight. It’s far too hot to sleep. I climb into a colorful rickshaw pulled by an incredibly strong old man. On the panel above the footrest is a painting of a space capsule landing on the moon. The driver turns around while jogging.

      “You American? You go to moon?”

      “What?”

      “You go to moon?” nodding to the night sky.

      “No, no. I go to night market. To meet my friend.”

      I lift a bowl of noodles. The hot broth is fishy and steams my face. There is a string of small lights above the street vendors stalls. I watch the action. People come and go, to and from work. Doesn’t anybody sleep here? Wave upon wave of bobbing heads as far as the eye can see pass by. Then, suddenly there he is.

      A blonde-haired, aristocratic face floats among the throng of Chinese faces. White shirt buttoned at the top, black pants and sandals. The light reveals his ruggedly handsome face as he talks animatedly to someone beside him. When he gets closer, I don’t see anyone. Maybe he’s talking to himself.

      He sees me immediately

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