Sometimes, Morgan thinks about the movie American Beauty. Not necessarily about the movie, and definitely not Kevin Spacey, but about that plastic bag caught in the wind. The infamous one, the one That Guy in the writers’ workshop somehow finds ways to mention, usually before or after he says he's almost halfway through Infinite Jest. He smiles at Morgan as he does, too much of his gums, and she just stares ahead—is there something impressive about a community college student not quite reaching the midpoint of a book that may have inadvertently boosted sales of Depend diapers? That Guy, who probably has a name like other That Guys do, he doesn't get it. He doesn't understand that plastic bag. He's hunched forward in his chair, thumb and fingertips pressed together like his monologue is divine spice, analyzing art and symbols and how only pretentious people complain the bag is pretentious. The bag isn't art, Morgan wants to say and never does. It's just blowing around, like trash, like debris, like, well, a discarded plastic bag. Morgan thinks about that plastic bag because it's so ordinary, it's nothing; the art, the transgression, is American Beauty, or rather the film within the film another That Guy made of the bag—not because it’s good, not because American Beauty is good either, but because it made a piece of garbage unforgettable. That Guy in the writers’ workshop doesn't even own a camera, can't look at anything through a lens, and he's performing, dancing, every single day he's trying so fucking hard to explain that plastic bag as if it contains the meaning of life. Morgan shakes her head, and That Guy is still rambling, still spraying spit at her, reaching for immortality inside her acknowledgment. The others like That Guy will always be searching. They'll always lick their lips and pick Morgan, crave the ingénue, the receptacle, the monosyllabic response, the what do you mean I'm talking at you? This is a conversation. They love finding a plastic bag and filling it with their important ideas. That Guy doesn't realize he can't weigh it down, catch it, claim it, keep it from floating away—hey, Morgan, babe, are you listening? Buy a camera, Morgan thinks. And stop smiling at me.
Comments