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As it turns out, there is a lot of fuss involved when you accidentally poison an entire wedding’s worth of guests with your mobile film archive. Hours and hours of fuss, even. Waiting rooms, medical examinations, and arguments began to run together in an alternating procession of repeated questions and tedious recounting. Gregg was certain he had spoken to more people tonight than he had in his entire life.
Cops turned into doctors turned into nurses turned into cops again. He began to feel disconnected from the entire proceeding, at least once it was clear no one intended to immediately haul him off to a prison cell. It almost felt like the authorities and medical workers wanted to interact with him as little as possible, which struck him as strange. Tim, as always, was doing most of the talking, eager to take any opportunity to absolve himself of all potential guilt. He played up the “distraught groom” angle to the point of absurdity, clutching onto Toni’s arm and bemoaning the ruination of his “perfect wedding day” in a painfully exaggerated manner. It made Gregg’s stomach turn, but he was grateful to have the attention on someone else.
The arguments were the worst part. They started and stopped again at random intervals, seemingly picking up whenever Tim was left unoccupied for too long. They were unlike their normal fights. Tim had never screamed at him this much, not in all the years they had known each other. It was closer to the way he’d acted around James Dean, or Mark on a particularly bad day.
It was startling, coming face to face with the idea that Tim had been going easy on him all these years. He had never screwed up this badly before, this sort of incident was more Tim’s forte. Gregg could barely get a word out in his defense, his most tried-and-true stonewalling techniques falling flat in the face of Tim's rage. The fights left Gregg shaking and overlaid his carbon monoxide hangover with fresh new headaches.
By the end of their time in the hospital, Gregg had nothing left in him. He started ignoring Tim entirely, opting to watch a Tom Hanks movie that was playing on one of the TVs. At first it had made Tim even more livid, but Toni had finally stepped in to subdue him. Gregg pretended not to feel Tim's murderous gaze until he was able to forget Tim was there at all. The movie ended, another started, someone let him know he was allowed to leave.
He was ushered out with nothing more than some stern advice to hydrate and get a good night’s sleep, along with a printout assuring him that all of his neurological faculties remained intact. He did not look at anyone as he left but he could feel their gazes upon him.
All this to say, it was almost three in the morning by the time Gregg finally got the Joker makeup off of his face.
The automatic lights in the bottom-floor hospital bathroom had been off when he first entered, only flickering on after he came to a stop in front of the sinks. He was slightly startled by the sight of his own painted face staring back at him. He had completely forgotten what he looked like. It was definitely odd that no one had mentioned it, but that was just one more thought to put aside for the night.
Casablanca, 102 minutes. Chariots of Fire, 125 minutes. Moonraker, 126 minutes.
The red and white paint dripped from his chin and mingled together in the sink to create a turgid pink color. The bathroom was empty and cavernous, the slightest sound seeming to resonate against the tile. He scrubbed his face for what felt like twenty minutes, the cheap greasepaint gamely resisting the equally cheap hand soap. He was trying very hard to not think any further than what movie he was going to watch when he got back to his van.
Blade Runner, 117 minutes. Gone with the Wind, 221 minutes. Creature from the Black Lagoon, a paltry 79 minutes.
He did not think about the people that had to be rolled away by the paramedics. He did not think about waking to a splitting headache and the sound of shattering glass. He did not think about the preview of the anniversary of Arthur, and he did not think about the way Toni had stared at him all evening in the waiting room, eyes glimmering with some unplaceable emotion.
Jurassic Park, 127 minutes. Multiplicity, 117 minutes. The Hobbit, 169 minutes.
Green hair dye started running down the side of his face and he wiped at it with a fistful of paper towels. The dim lights in the bathroom had washed all the color out of his suit and the flower lapel looked wilted despite being fake. His hair still had a distinctly greenish tint, but it was losing its signature Jack Nicholson shape. Flyaway strands stuck to his forehead and the hair at the base of his neck curled up slightly at the ends.
He meticulously cleaned the last remaining bit of makeup, watching his face slowly reappear in the mirror and feeling nothing at all. His plan was to go directly to the van as soon as soon as his hair was done. He was prepared to sleep in the Joker outfit if it meant himself getting out of there a moment sooner. Names of movies and their corresponding run times paraded through his mind like a soothing mantra.
Swing Shift, 100 minutes. Jaws, 130 minutes. American Graffiti-
The sound of a door closing startled him out of his trance. Tim had materialized behind him in the mirror like a ghost. Gregg’s breath caught in his throat and his heart rate quickened slightly. He splashed more water on his face, desperately hoping it conveyed nonchalance.
“I thought I might find you in here,” said Tim, steadying himself slightly against the back wall. Even reflected in the mirror at a distance he looked completely exhausted, slouching there in his rumpled and oversized suit with strands of hair falling over his face. Earlier the suit had made him look bigger, more imposing, but now the fabric hung off his frame like a partially sloughed-off skin.
“Go away. I don’t want to fight anymore,” said Gregg, trying to come off as firm and only succeeding at whiny. “Just leave me alone.” He pressed a handful of paper towels to his face and willed Tim into nonexistence.
Gregg sometimes had the irrational thought (he wouldn’t call it a fear) that Tim wasn't real if Gregg wasn't looking at him. He would watch Tim turn a corner and suddenly imagine him disappearing into nothingness, like the end of a tape dissolving into static. In the moment it would feel so real that on more than one occasion Gregg had run after him, just to confirm his continued existence. He wasn’t certain why he had this thought at all, but it was better than thinking about whatever Tim did do where Gregg couldn’t see him.
He invoked the delusion purposefully now and kept his eyes closed. In his mind’s eye Tim dissipated into nonexistence
“Hey, come on.”
And then someone was right behind him, presence achingly real and familiar in a way that almost overrode Gregg's panic response. He continued to hold the wadded up paper to his face as a makeshift shield and breathed deeply as best he could.
A gentle hand touched his shoulder, and he felt himself being turned away from the sink, towards the Tim-shaped void that stood behind him. The shock of being touched was enough to cause Gregg to drop the paper towels which fluttered softly to the floor. Gregg kept his eyes fixed carefully upon them. They landed gently next to scuffed black dress shoes that could belong to anybody. A dead moth and two beetles , Gregg thought deliriously.
“Hey, look at me. Come on, Gregg. You know I’m not going to hurt you,” said a very familiar voice, tinged lightly with impatience. The hand on his shoulder felt warm, tangible. Gregg gave up and looked at him.
At this distance the lines of Tim’s face were clearly visible, thrown into sharp relief by the unflattering bathroom lighting. He looked tired and run down, his eyebrows drawn together in an expression of almost comical consternation. He was clean shaven, which Gregg preferred. It made him look more like Decker, instead of some washed-up politician.
Gregg suddenly realized Tim was talking to him.
“Are you listening to me? What did the doctors say?”
“What?” Gregg's exhausted brain couldn’t make sense of the question. Tim now had both hands on his shoulders, squeezing lightly, which wasn't helping. He smelled like sweat and some sort of musky cologne. It wasn’t terrible, certainly an improvement over rotting flesh and burning rubber.
Tim was starting to look anxious. “Oh god, do you actually have brain damage or something? What did they say when they discharged you?” He waved a hand in front of Gregg’s face. “Gregg? Are you okay?”
This overwrought concern was somehow worse than the yelling. Gregg could at least understand the yelling. He had never been able to adjust to Tim’s rapid-fire mood changes. He could not reconcile the Tim that had screamed at him in front of all those people in the waiting room with the Tim that had pulled him from his van. In the same way that he could not reconcile the Tim that had burned his tapes on a beach with the person who had excitedly invited him to Hawaii. Sometimes it felt like Tim couldn’t either, though the thought was not exactly comforting.
“They said I should be fine,” said Gregg finally after fully processing the question. “They don't think there's any permanent damage.”
Tim’s features loosened slightly and he closed his eyes, ducking his head slightly to mumble something under his breath that sounded like it could’ve been an expletive or a prayer. Gregg could barely hear it over the rushing of static in his ears. He rummaged around in the cardboard boxes of his mind for anything; a runtime, a cameo, anything to put some distance between himself and this current moment. He found nothing but smoldering plastic.
He shouldn’t have to deal with this. It had been such a long day. He just wanted to watch a movie.
Gregg moved to sidestep Tim, but the other man’s eyes snapped open and he tightened his grip on Gregg’s shoulders. He was starting to look angry again. The cheap polyester of the Joker suit creased under his hands.
“This is a rental-”
“You’re not going anywhere!” Tim suddenly barked, voice echoing in the empty bathroom. Gregg stilled instantly and the sound of his own voice ricocheting back at them seemed to startle even Tim.
“You’re not going anywhere,” repeated Tim more quietly, still looking furious. “You don’t get to do that to me.”
Gregg straightened himself up, trying to look less like a startled prey animal that had shut down in the face of imminent death. Indignance was starting to flare up somewhere deep in his gut. “I answered all the questions they needed me for. They said I could go home. They said I could go home, Tim. You can’t just– you can’t just come in here and kidnap me–”
“I’m not kidnapping you, Christ!” Tim interrupted, voice pitching again. “I’m just– I’m trying to–” he abruptly cut himself off, as if realizing that even he wasn’t exactly sure what he was here for.
“Why don’t you just let me go home?” tried Gregg, desperation creeping up his throat like bile. He felt subhuman, a worm squirming under Tim’s gaze. He hated to beg like this. His brain kept asking him if he remembered the last time Tim had touched him for this long, which was supremely unhelpful.
“Let– let you go home ? Home to your car?” Tim sneered in disbelief, expression curling into one of imperious disdain. “Home to the car you-” He stopped again, perhaps reacting to a change in Gregg’s expression. Gregg didn’t know. He was becoming unable to think of anything but Tim’s hands on his shoulders. He imagined them slowly moving their way up to his neck and shivered.
“Look, I didn’t-” Tim started again, suddenly sounding repentant. He released Gregg and ran a hand over his hair a few times. “We can talk about this tomorrow. And we will, by the way, because you’re in big trouble. But I didn’t follow you in here to fight I just- I really thought -when you were in the car . . .”
Gregg simply stared at him, feeling disoriented and acutely missing the points of contact. If these emotional bait and switches were hard to deal with on good days, they were absolutely insurmountable in his current state. Tim seemed frustrated with the difficulty he was having articulating his point. Gregg felt cold. His face was still slightly damp. He hadn’t noticed until that moment how frigid the bathroom was.
“I just can’t deal with this shit anymore. I can’t.” Tim started again, voice strained. “I thought you were dead , Gregg. Like actually for real dead . With Mark, it's, well…you know. But you . . . I thought–” He gesticulated unhelpfully, eyes darting from Gregg’s face to the wall behind him as he failed to string together a coherent thought. “You can’t do that to me. You don’t get to leave. Everyone else, well, who knows. But you don’t get to leave.” He stopped there and just looked at Gregg helplessly, scanning his face for any sign that Gregg understood what he was trying to say. His eyes looked tired but his gaze was unusually sharp.
Gregg realized with a start that Tim was completely sober. It made sense. They had both spent the entire night talking to cops and undergoing medical examinations. Anything that had been in his system had worn off hours ago along with the effects of the carbon monoxide poisoning. It was just surprising. Tim didn’t usually initiate this sort of conversation without the prerequisite of being utterly trashed first.
As always, he felt cornered by the sincerity, the effect magnified a hundred-fold by the knowledge that Tim wasn’t hiding behind a veil of substance abuse. He never knew what to say to these maudlin proclamations, even under the best circumstances. As the years had progressed his and Tim’s relationship had been twisted into something that resisted any attempt at tidy categorization. His feelings for Tim Heidecker could no longer be distilled into a satisfying ninety minute narrative, and thus were unknown to him.
At times like this he desperately wished he could be watching the scene in third person, with an actor portraying him who already knew the script. He longed to experience the sentiment from a safe distance, knowing that everything would work out the way it was supposed to without his input. How satisfying, to trap a version of Tim within his memories and be able to rewind the moment as many times as he wanted.
But he was here and now, and Tim’s expression was wavering slightly like a kicked dog. Gregg’s baser instincts screamed at him to fight, take the advantage and crush Tim while he was weak. It would be justified, after everything. Comforting the person that had threatened to break a bottle over your head mere hours ago was insanity, even Gregg knew that. Take this sentiment and push it back in his face. Say something horrible, tell him to kill himself. Tell him you wished he had died, not tonight, but ages ago. In a fire, from a fall, from some sort of self-inflicted malady. It would’ve been easier that way.
But instead he found himself saying, “I wasn’t planning on leaving.”
Even to his ears, it carried a note of petulance. But it was the truth. Leaving had never even been a consideration.
Tim actually smiled at that, and Gregg felt with certainty that he was utterly fucked forever.
And then Tim was opening his arms and folding Gregg into them. He did this like it was nothing at all, like it was the natural progression of the conversation. Gregg’s thoughts flicked back to their third Oscar Special together, before Hawaii. It was the first time Tim had hugged him. He had seemed slightly nervous then, winding his arms around Gregg’s neck and pulling him in close. It had ended up being a bad night, but Gregg could still remember Tim’s breath against his ear and the way he had smiled at him after, a little tense but still genuine. Tim had blacked out that year so he probably didn't remember anything at all.
He felt himself come back to the present, encircled entirely by Tim who was holding him a little too tightly. It felt so good that it wrapped all the way around to making him feel helpless again. Gregg kept his arms straight down at his sides and tried to summon the anger he had been feeling just moments earlier. Their shared past seemed to be swallowed up by the silent bathroom, their future and present combined together into one moment of mutual desperation.
Tim suddenly made a small, pathetic noise and Gregg put his arms around him, almost unthinkingly. Despite everything. Despite knowing they would be enemies tomorrow. At the end of it all, he couldn't help himself. Outside of his precious tapes, this man was the only comfort Gregg had ever known.
Tim buckled slightly as Gregg touched his back, head collapsing onto Gregg's shoulder as if he had been waiting for permission. Usually when they found themselves in this situation, Tim was a drunken blubbering mess, heaving large sobs into Gregg's shirt. But today he was quiet, just breathing deeply.
Gregg wondered how it was possible to feel so simultaneously exhausted and alert. He couldn’t tell if he was hearing Tim’s heartbeat or his own. He felt like he was choking on a feeling he couldn’t even begin to describe. It was overwhelming. He felt both out of his body and more in it than he had ever been before. It was something like rubbernecking a car accident and seeing your own body limp at the wheel.
And yet deep down something else needled at him. A thought he was trying not to examine too closely but which was repeating over and over again, becoming louder in each intonation. It became so loud that it was a wonder to Gregg that Tim couldn’t hear it too.
THIS IS THE BEST MOMENT OF YOUR MISERABLE LIFE.
They breathed together for what felt like a long time. Every petty argument, every unforgivable act evaporated into the air of the empty bathroom. How could any of that matter when someone needed you this badly? He could hear Tim breathing, and it sounded easy and unburdened. If the world ended at that very moment, it would have been fine. It would have been preferable.
The sound of Tim’s obnoxious ringtone shattered the silence into pieces. Tim quickly released Gregg, looking somewhat guilty, and started fishing around in his suit pockets for his phone.
“Oh fuck, it’s Toni,” Tim’s demeanor shifted entirely after seeing the caller ID. He kept running his hand through his hair in the way he often did when he was panicking, which only mussed it up more. “I totally forgot. Fuck. She’s going to kill me. I told her I’d be right back after taking a dump.”
“Hey baby!” he plastered on a smile as he answered in a slightly strained tone. Toni’s voice erupted from the phone, tinny and indistinct but clearly furious. “I know, I know.”
Gregg didn't listen to the rest of the conversation. He was having a difficult time recovering from the abrupt loss of contact. Static was filling the edges of his vision again. He was looking at Tim’s face. There was a smear of green hair dye that extended from his temple to just below his ear. Evidence that Tim had really touched him and that it hadn’t just been some pathetic hallucination induced by stress and sleep deprivation.
Tim finished the phone call and noticed Gregg staring at his face. It seemed to catch him off guard for a moment before he schooled his expression into something resembling cold contempt. Gregg could feel himself being sized up against the life the phone call implied and being found wanting. Their moment of intimacy evaporated into the air like it had never happened at all.
There was absolutely nothing that Gregg could say to make him stay. He wasn’t even sure he wanted him to.
“I have to go,” Tim seemed to sense that no further explanation was needed and turned abruptly to the door. Toni must be absolutely livid. Abandoned in a hospital on her wedding night.
Tim strode across the empty bathroom, the footsteps of his dress shoes echoing slightly in the emptiness. Gregg just watched him go, numbness creeping back in. He would see him again, probably tomorrow under much different circumstances.
Tim would keep coming back to him, until one day he wouldn't because he would be dead. Gregg felt this with such certainty that he would sometimes wake in the night convinced Tim was gone. He thought he might feel it when it happened, some sort of sudden disturbance, the feeling of his life changing irrevocably. On those nights he would call Tim, or text him despite knowing he wouldn't answer. Unease would follow him wherever he went until he saw Tim again for their next recording. He could never tell if the feeling twisting in his gut was relief or disappointment.
It had been easier, back when they lived together. There had been something reassuring about hearing him snoring through the door, or seeing his figure curled up on the pullout. Many things had been easier, when they still lived together.
Tim suddenly froze. A slight shudder ran through his entire body, and Gregg took a step forward without knowing why. Maybe he was afraid that Tim was finally succumbing to some sort of carbon monoxide related seizure. He stood there for what felt to Gregg like an eternity but couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. Water dripped into the sink behind him, impossibly loud.
Without saying a word, Tim turned around and walked purposefully back towards Gregg. He once again felt like a wounded prey animal, helpless to do anything but stare down its predator. In that moment he wished Tim would give him a concrete reason to stay away. Finally make good on all his empty threats and tear a rift so great between them that it could never be repaired.
But the feeling passed. Tim stood in front of him, expression unreadable. With infinite gentleness, he took Gregg’s hands in his own and kissed him.
Anything else would have been kinder, but the thoughtless cruelty was so classically Tim it made Gregg’s heart ache.
It was soft and sweet, over before Gregg even had the chance to respond. Tim wrinkled his nose as he pulled away. “Your face is wet.”
The banality of the comment threw a wrench into Gregg’s already overworked brain, almost shutting him down entirely. He wanted so badly to respond, to at least have the last word. But Tim was already walking away from him, and saying anything at all felt too much like admitting he didn’t want Tim to go.
And then he really was gone, leaving Gregg alone in an empty hospital bathroom. As soon as the door closed, it felt like he had never been there at all. Gregg once again imagined him winking out of existence and did not raise his hand to touch his lips. He did not want to.
He moved mechanically to finish washing the dye from his hair. Just one last task and he could be done. He wanted to watch a movie. He wanted to sleep. He could not stand being in this bathroom for another moment. But the reality of living in the mobile VFA meant he had to take advantage of running water whenever he could.
As he watched the last of the green tinged water drain into the sink, he realized dully that he had forgotten to tell Tim about the hair dye on his cheek. It was already starting to feel like the entire exchange hadn't happened at all, or that it had happened to someone else entirely.
When the task was complete and his hair mostly dried, Gregg walked through a dark parking lot to the mobile VFA. The February air was chill, made more so by his damp hair. The van was parked all the way at the back of the lot, apart from the other cars. Someone from the police must have brought it here. Its shape seemed unfamiliar to him in the dark. Slightly monstrous. He kept his mind carefully blank as he stood in front of it, taking in the shattered driver’s side window he had completely forgotten about.
Grease, 110 minutes. Jack Reacher, 130 minutes. It’s a Wonderful Life, also 130 minutes.
Gregg cleaned the glass, slowly, carefully. This was just one more thing. The window could be dealt with tomorrow. Everything could be dealt with tomorrow. Now, it was movie time.
He had done some thinking in the waiting room about what movie he would watch when he was finally alone. Something comforting, life-affirming, with plenty of escapism. Something that didn't involve weddings or cars.
But instead of going for any of the favorites he kept close to hand, he found himself rummaging through the boxes of tapes he had in the back. He wasn’t certain exactly what he was looking for, his body moving completely on auto-pilot. Eventually he unearthed an extremely battered copy of Old Yeller (1957) from the pile. He extracted it from the sleeve and gently pushed it into the portable VCR he had hooked up in the passenger's seat.
The screen crackled to life, static resolving itself into a picturesque view of some bucolic Texas field. Gregg pulled a threadbare blanket from under a seat and wrapped it around himself, shivering slightly. A little yellow dog wandered into frame as credits faded in and out. The score swelled before changing into a jaunty, upbeat tune detailing Old Yeller’s many exploits.
The tears came before the song had even ended. It was a sad movie. It wasn’t wrong to cry at a sad movie, even if the sad part hadn’t happened yet. Gregg sat in his car, eyes locked firmly on the screen, wiping at his face occasionally with the palm of his hand. Sometimes sad movies were best.
He was asleep before the end of the opening sequence, clutching the blanket tightly to his chest.
Somewhere several miles away, much too far for any comfort, someone who didn't exist wished him goodnight.