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There’s this scene in Wes Anderson’s The Royal Tenenbaums. Richie Tenenbaum, played by Luke Wilson, looks at himself in the bathroom mirror. He stares at himself head on: former tennis prodigy grown to melancholy adulthood. The set lighting is the blue of Barbicide antiseptic. Elliott Smith’s song "Needle in the Hay" twangs in the background, the plaintive voice and staccato guitar the only soundtrack.
Richie takes off his terry cloth wristbands. He removes his Bjorn Borg headband. Still wearing a pair of dark sunglasses, he takes a pair of silver scissors to his long hair. To his ragged beard. He trims them until they are short and close cropped. Finally, he takes off his sunglasses. He applies shaving cream to his face. Using an old fashioned razor blade, the kind without a safety, he removes a stripe of his beard.
Richie says to the mirror, “I’m going to kill myself tomorrow.”
He removes a razor blade from its steel case.
He thinks of his sister, Margot.
He thinks of his hawk, Mordecai.
His hands splay palms up over the white ceramic sink. The surface is covered with the dark brown curls of his shorn hair. Water runs from the faucet. Blood runs from his wrists.
This is the scene I think about when I think about Charlie Spring.
This is the fate I’m trying to save him from.
***
If Charlie Spring is a character straight out of a Wes Anderson movie, then his boyfriend, Nick Nelson, stars in Disney’s Air Bud. You know the series. You probably watched them when you were a kid. Sporty golden retriever plays basketball, football, baseball, volleyball. Most of the films (and I’m being charitable, calling them “films”) come with terrible puns in their titles. I lost track of the sequence at some point after Bud sired a whole mess of puppies that started having their own adventures. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were on to, I don’t know, Air Bud: Catch the Birdie, where the dog somehow starts playing competitive Badminton.
What? Disney can and has done worse. (The less we talk about the Marvel Cinematic Universe, the better.)
Nick wears his heart on his sleeve and that heart is labeled CHARLIE SPRING in big metal-stamped “if you find me return to…” letters. So we’ve got our enthusiasm for Charlie in common, at least.
Nick is big and dopey, just like those damn dog movies that grow on you until you find yourself unwittingly cheering for canines playing competitive human sports that they have no right participating in. Over the past two years, I’ve come to appreciate him for what and who he is.
Mostly.
The problem is, Nick is headed off to University in a month. I've already seen him nearly break Charlie's heart once this summer.
I'm not interested in financing a sequel.
***
My name is Tao Xu. I was born in 2005 but everyone tells me that I should have been born in 1980, because my taste in movies is 25 years older than I am. Like it’s my fault that they can’t recognize that the golden age of cinema was 1994-2002. Like it’s my fault that reality television and social media completely poisoned most of the creative brains on this planet.
Fine. It’s not all crap. But for every Moonlight (2016), there are thirty Real Housewives of…somewhere (2006-current).
That’s the actual ratio. I looked it up.
So. I have taken it upon myself to rectify this imbalance in my friends’ modern cultural education by throwing regular film nights ‘round mine. Over the past three years that I’ve been hosting the series, we’ve upgraded from a laptop to an Optoma Short Throw Projector, which was totally worth it, BTW, and not an egregious waste of money that could have been put aside for university next year, when you’ll really need it. (Mommmmm.)
See, it used to just be the four of us in attendance at film nights. Me, Aled (the quiet one), Elle (the artsy one), and Charlie (the popular one). But then Elle transferred schools, and Charlie started dating Nick, and then Tara and Darcy started coming along with Elle. Or with Nick. Or...they just started showing up? It’s quite unclear to me. Sometimes, Nick’s friends Sai and Christian or the girls’ friend Sahar even turn out. Watching on a 17-inch LCD wasn’t going to cut it any more.
I used to worry about being left behind. Now I’m practically running a one-man arthouse cinema out of my bedroom one night a week.
It’s quite nice, actually.
Tonight, it’s just the core crew of seven. We’re watching Mike Judge’s 1999 cult classic Office Space. You probably know the seminal scene? Where three disaffected cube farm employees, led by Ron Livingston’s Peter, bring a malfunctioning printer that has plagued their corporate existence to a large empty field and take a slo-mo baseball bat to it, execution style, while the Geto Boys’ “Damn it Feels Good to be a Gangsta” plays in the background?
Christ. No one born in this millenia has any appreciation for cinema, do they?
We’re not too far into the movie yet. Just at the part where Peter returns to Chotchkie’s, the mid-level chain restaurant where Jennifer Aniston’s character is a waitress. He asks her to have lunch with him, and when she says she’s probably not supposed to do that in the restaurant where she works, he counters by saying he’s going to get a table at a competing restaurant next door.
The film is meant to satirize the inanity of the cookie-cutter suburban hellscape in which the majority of Americans live. So when Joanna (Aniston’s character) follows up, “When you say next door, do you mean Chili’s or Flingers?” you’re supposed to feel a pang in your gut because nothing is original or unique any more and if The Man had their way, we’d all be eating tasteless fried mozzarella planks until we die.
Here’s what you are not supposed to feel:
“Ohhhhh. I could really go for some Chili’s right now,” Nick Nelson, human garbage disposal, says. He rubs his stomach. Charlie is literally laying between Nick's legs, so Nick manages to work tangling his fingers in Charlie's hair into the movement.
Since their brief break up and makeup at the beginning of summer, I don't think I've seen the two go without touching each other for more than a minute at a time.
“I have some cheese in my purse?” Darcy offers, holding out her bag in Nick’s direction.
“That’s from lunch!” her girlfriend Tara says. “That’s like, nine hours old.”
“It’s still wrapped!” Darcy insists, waving her purse under Nick’s nose. He regards the handbag with interest, like he is actually considering consuming room-temperature purse cheese.
Dog hypothesis: still supported.
“Are we watching the rest of this movie or making dining plans?” I hiss.
Aled shrugs. The rest of the group looks around the room at each other.
“Actually, I didn’t eat dinner yet,” Elle says. She tilts her head and gives me a tiny little smile.
Elle is tall with endless brown legs and flawless skin and, because the fates have somehow shone upon me, tiny Tao, she is also my girlfriend. Not long ago, we'd set our sights on calling our relationship quits when she went off to university this fall. It was undoubtedly the worst idea anyone had ever had. Even worse than Paul Blart Mall Cop 2.
We hadn't even split up yet and I was a mess. Night sweats, binging on snack food. I even voluntarily watched a Hallmark movie with my mom. I definitely did not cry at the part where the big city lawyer reconnects with her high school boyfriend and saves his bespoke ceramics shop from being turned into a Lotsa Lattes franchise.
So we mutually decided to break off the pending breakup, to the benefit of everyone except my mom, who now has to cry at her sad, poorly scripted movies by herself.
Thing is, I'm so grateful to have Elle. Even more since the prospect of an Elle-less existence was laid out in front of me. When she speaks, she overrides all of my better judgment. There’s never been a person in my life that I’ve been more interested in making happy than Elle.
Sometimes, making Elle happy means making sacrifices.
“Fine,” I say. I pause the movie. My jaw clenches, but I manage to grit the words out. “We’re going to Chili’s.”
***
Look, I don’t blame Nick Nelson for having horrible taste in restaurants. Or in movies. But the idea that a person who is too young to be eligible for a social security check should be patronizing a corporately managed dine-in monstrosity with over 1,600 locations when GrubHub exists is just beyond my mental scope.
That’s why I make him drive.
Once we get there, Charlie and Nick look like they are unironically enjoying this whole debacle. They are literally sharing a menu. One of Charlie’s leg’s is draped over one of Nick’s, which is dumb because a booth that seats seven wasn't even available, so they are technically sitting in two separate chairs, not that you would even notice.
Elle leans over and whispers in my ear. “Babe? You’re glaring.”
I look back down at my laminated menu. I mean, I did eat earlier, but there’s something about the sizzle of fajitas being carried to the table behind us that makes my mouth water just a little.
I focus on the list of appetizers.
Southwestern eggrolls would make my NaiNai roll over on her barca lounger (she is still very much alive, 长命百岁 Chánɡmìnɡ bǎisuì). I practically dry heave just looking at the slabs of fried mozzarella. The Dip Trio? Looks like a trio of borderline appetizers at best.
“Does anyone want the Dip Trio to share?” Nick booms.
“No!” I say loudly, just as Tara and Darcy raise their hands. Charlie leans over and whispers into Nick’s ear and if I didn’t know better I’d swear I hear the words “guacamole” and “lube” used in unfortunate proximity to each other in Charlie’s sentence.
Then, I think my suspicion is confirmed because Nick’s face goes a shade of red almost as bright as the Chili’s apostrophe.
Get a room, I mutter under my breath. Elle definitely hears me because she hits me with her menu.
I make a face at her. "We could be learning about why no one should ever aspire to a corporate 9 to 5 existence right now. Instead, we are supporting the very enterprise that Mike Judge tells us to reject. I'm allowed to put in my commentary track."
“Actually. That's not a bad idea. Why don't you think of it as an immersive film experience?” Elle says. “We’ll eat. I’ll stop making my hangry face. We will go back to finish watching the movie. And everyone will have ten times more appreciation of what Joanna’s character is going through.”
I think about Elle’s point.
Darcy tries to balance two forks on the edge of her water glass using a toothpick.
Tara snaps a picture of a neon chili pepper wall hanging and posts it to Insta.
Aled turns to the next page in Diners, Drive Ins, and Dives: An American Road Trip by Guy Fieri.
Nick examines what I assume is the ingredient list on the back of a ketchup bottle and pokes Charlie in his side. I hear the word “sting.” I tune out the rest for my own sanity.
Immersive experience. I like that.
I imagine taking a baseball bat to the brightly colored 4x4 Mexican tiles on this table. I like that, too.
Nick Nelson once told me that rugby was good for releasing negative emotions. I think he underestimated imaginary baseball bats.
“Hey,” Nick says. His chair makes a scraping sound on the terra cotta floor as he stands up. His eyes shift around the restaurant. “If the waitress comes, can you put in an order for the dip trio? And a Strawberry Lemonade? I’ll be right back.”
“Sure,” Darcy says. The forks that she's been trying to balance crash onto the table. “Two quesos and the guac?”
Nick nods, swipes his hair back from his forehead and scurries off in the direction of, I presume, the bathroom. His arms are crossed in front of him, and I think there’s something in the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie.
Charlie stands up less than fifteen seconds later. “I will....also...be right back.” He practically runs off, dodging servers in black polos to follow the same path Nick took.
Darcy and Tara turn to each other and giggle. Darcy points at the metal caddy where the ketchup used to be, then the half empty slot for wet naps. She smirks.
Christ. Someone keep this entire table away from the industrial-sized tubs of ranch.
I look at my menu some more. I wonder how strict they are on the carding policy, and how much of a tip I'd have to leave to turn a virgin margarita into one with copious amounts of tequila.
Elle announces that she will order the Boneless Buffalo Chicken Salad. I decide to order nothing, out of principle.
The waitress returns. We order for ourselves. We order for Nick and Charlie.
Darcy gives up on the forks and tries to balance a salt shaker on its beveled base.
Nick and Charlie do not come back.
Our food is delivered. It looks surprisingly delicious. Elle takes a bite of her salad. Tara, Darcy, and Aled dig into an order of Texas cheese fries.
"You know what would make these even better?" Tara asks, chewing a fry.
"Ketchup?" Darcy replies, waggling her eyebrows at the empty spot in the condiment caddy.
My stomach growls. I hate this restaurant with the fury of a man whose printer-copier screen reads PC Load Letter.
Nick and Charlie still do not come back.
“Should someone...go check on them?” I ask.
Tara and Darcy giggle.
Aled raises an eyebrow over the top of his book. "They're probably just talking about their hopes and dreams," he says.
I dream of being anywhere but here. Preferably a large theater with stadium style seating, Dolby surround sound, and zero easily accessible condiments.
Elle squeezes my hand.
Everyone else at the table is eating or reading or...missing, so the next part of the conversation is just between Elle and I.
“Honey, I’m sure they know what they're doing,” she says. She leans in until her nose is brushing mine. It's a welcome distraction.
We kiss. She tastes like Buffalo Chicken sauce.
For at least 48 frames I feel that I am definitely the luckiest man in this Chili's. Then I remember what Nick and Charlie are probably doing right now and my mood sours.
"Do they?" I ask.
"We worked our pre-university drama out. It looks like they've worked theirs out too."
"It's not the same!" I insist. "You and I were rocky for a bit there but at least you were responding to my texts. I know Nick and Charlie love each other but I don't get how they're just ignoring everything that happened over the past two weeks, like one-hour photo and a carnival can fix all the things that led to a fucking huge miscommunication?"
I steal a chip from the basket at the center of the table and dip it into the white queso Nick ordered. I mean, someone needs to eat it before it congeals.
It is...unfairly good. It's salty and gooey and still hot. The jalapenos used in it may have actually grown from a plant.
"I think you have to give Nick a little grace, love." Elle wipes a spot of queso from my bottom lip with her manicured thumb. "And you know. Now they get to have fantastic makeup sex."
"Well--" I say. I load up another tortilla chip and lift a huge gob of queso to my mouth. "Aren't they lucky."
It's hard to associate Elle with just one movie or one character. All her roles get mixed up in my head. Sometimes she's Marla Singer from Fight Club, taking all of the fractured and angry and disparate pieces of me and making me whole. But I prefer not to think of her as a fucked-up character in David Fincher's paean to toxic masculinity.
Sometimes she's the titular character in Amelie, secretly making the lives of everyone around her better through small actions and deeds. But I've never been a fan of the manic pixie trope, even before Zach Braff garden stated it into the mainstream.
Don't tell anyone I told you this. But sometimes I think we're like Patrick and Cat in 10 Things I Hate About You. Her: curly hair, killer smile. Me: acerbic, cynical, easily won over by grand gestures like dancing across bleachers. It might be hard for me to express my love sometimes, but eventually I break down and reveal my true feelings by reading a tearful poem in front of my entire English Lit class...
No! Fuck! I'm just pulling your leg.
That's the best thing about me and Elle. We're just me and Elle. We're better than any movie. We defy genre.
I'm going to miss her so much. I don't know what's going to happen in the fall. I don't know if she's going to be my epic love story, or if we'll burn brief but bright like Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams after filming The Notebook.
You can't know. Life's not scripted that way.
I mean until a few weeks ago I thought Nick and Charlie were shelf stable. The dried beans that could keep a family alive through a zombie invasion, nuclear holocaust, or all of the Star Wars properties screened end to end.
Elle taps my thigh above my knee. I know what she's telling me. That the only life I can direct is my own. That happiness isn't an either/or. That I can't stop Nick and Charlie from living their life anymore than I could stop Human Centipede from being made.
She's right, of course. About Nick and Charlie. About them having the right to figure things out on their own. Probably about the makeup sex too, lalalalala, not thinking about that.
Not that I would admit any of it out loud. But the rest of the queso does taste better after I acknowledge it to myself.
Nick and Charlie finally come back. They’re holding hands. Nick has toilet paper stuck to the bottom of one of his trainers. Charlie has a wet nap stuck to one of his knees.
“I ate all of your queso,” I inform Nick primly. “It wasn’t terrible.”
Nick and Charlie look at each other. Nick wipes a spot of....ketchup?...from the corner of his mouth.
The tips of Charlie's ears are pink.
“I guess...we’ll try that one next time?” Charlie says. He looks at Nick and raises one eyebrow.
Nick's eyes flash back in the direction from where they came.
I hate those fuckers, so, so, so much. (Affectionate)
***
My name is Tao Xu. I’ve spent most of my life holding films and people to an impossibly high standard. I don't know what the last scenes of my life are going to look like; what will be in that final frame before the end credits roll. I don't even know what I'm going to be doing next Tuesday.
But I do know that I have amazing friends. A phenomenal girlfriend. A collection of over 1000 secondhand DVDs and Blu-rays, because you never know when your favorite movie is going to be dropped from a streaming service, and even then you never get the director's commentary.
We all walk out of the Chili's together. If this were a movie we'd be in slow mo, couples holding hands and looking into each other's eyes, yellow lit by the parking lot's sodium lights. An upbeat but wistful song would be playing. Maybe something by the Killers, or Simple Minds. Something that celebrated the freedom of youth and the long summer days that still stretched before us.
Maybe it would be followed by a montage, weeks and months turned to inches on a reel.
And as for that closing card? It would probably say something like "10 years later, they looked back on this as their most successful film night ever."
I get it. It's a little hokey. Definitely a cliche. But I'm not sure I would disagree.
-end-