Mordechai Stone

Have you ever had a gun held on you?

I have.

Three times.

Well, technically, four—but that one doesn’t count coz the gun was pointed at my chest, not my head, during a little drunkman’s-bluff between friends.  The other three I felt the pistol ‘held’ firmly to my skull and friendship had nothing to do with it.  Those three times the wielder of the magic wand wanted drugs, money or both and the pistolero was willing to trade my life to get what he needed.

In the business I chose in the early eighties, I learned very quickly that criminals come in all sorts.  My life depended on knowing who I dealt with.  And everything I needed to know came stored in their eyes.  In those small, round orbs I could detect with certain probability the outcome of most encounters.  What I observed gave me my course of action. And that course of action determined my life expectancy.

Scared eyes.

Anyone with scared eyes believes in God, and if they believe in God then they fear going to hell.  I do my business quickly with anyone with scared eyes, don’t do anything stupid and chances are almost 100% that I will live.  You see no one with scared eyes ever enjoys pulling the trigger.

Business eyes.

Money is their God. If I produce consistently chances are very good that they will never interfere with my ability to breath. It’s all about accounts receivable and accounts payable with this class of criminal, all about balancing the ledger.  Great people to do business with.  I always knew where I stood.  Their money or my life were the only two things that could balance the scale.  They don’t mind using the magic wand. It’s the pen they use to make marks in the ledger.

Crazy eyes.

Criminals with crazy eyes believe they are God or they just plain hate your God.  Race hate, drug-blasted brains, fucked-up genetics, religious fanaticism they all have one thing in common, they are unpredictable. I hate unpredictable criminals, very bad for business, very bad for living.  They could buy me drinks one day, kidnap and torture me the next.  I do business with crazy eyes one time because I know I might not survive a second encounter.

And now to the stuff of nightmares…

Dead Eyes.

They know God doesn’t exist.  They have no soul.  Walking dead, they feed then move on.  They don’t dream because they are a wide awake nightmare.

I had a guy with Scared Eyes hold a gun to my head and I survived.

I saw Crazy Eyes dancing in his head as he kept tapping my forehead with his magic wand.  I looked at the ground so he couldn’t feast on the fear in my eyes and I survived.

I looked into Dead Eyes as he racked the slide on his Browning and couldn’t turn away.  And although my body survived he took a piece of my soul. I still have nightmares and wake up in cold sweats when Dead Eyes slithers into my slumber.

The last time I saw that look was in 1997 long after I got out of the business. I picked up a beautiful girl in a bar.  We went back to her place and had incredible sex for hours.  She was insatiable.

In the dark hours of early morning I woke with a start, heart pounding.  Something stirred in the bed. I looked up and saw her naked, gazing down at me.  She smiled, her eyes cold, dark, empty stared straight through me as though I wasn’t there.

Dead Eyes.

She said, “I’ll be right back. I have something you might like.”  She went to the bathroom.  I heard her humming off key while she rummaged around. I quietly dressed and quickly left her apartment.

I ran and never looked back.

I worked on South Padre Island, TX for 18 months. From my third floor condo I could look west across the bay and see the sun set on the mainland then turn east and see waves from the Gulf of Mexico roll onto the beach of the longest barrier island in the world. Every night I managed a large bar/restaurant literally hanging over the bay. Anytime the moon rose the reflected light shimmered on the still waters of the bay like broken glass on an undulating carpet of black velvet.

Fiery sunsets, still moonlit nights, crashing surf…paradise. Most days I forgot to look.

The last few weeks we’ve had rain and high winds in the LA valley. The sky cleared of haze. But it took a friend to point out how majestic the mountains looked in the distance. I never even looked up.

I have yet to leave the house today. I have to leave the house to look up. I have to remind myself to look up to see the beauty.

Now I torture myself with the loss of memories I’ll never have because for decades I’ve walked around, head down, thoughts misplaced, missing…The View.

I am assaulted by fear. It paralyzes me. If by chance the sudden assault happens while I am away from home I cement a smile to my face to hide my dread while longing to return to my sanctuary.

Some days the fear is so overwhelming I can only find refuge in darkness, sleep. I retreat to my bedroom. I mask the eerie silence of my safe place with the artificial sound of a rainstorm. I climb in bed and pull the covers to my chin. I block out the dim light of a city night with a dark shirt placed carefully over my eyes. But my bedroom is too large, it contains too many hiding places for scary monsters. So I retreat to my closet.

I lay out blankets and towels to separate my naked body from the dirty carpet. I cover myself with jackets, blankets and sheets before pulling the closet door shut. I can hear the sound of the recorded storm. A sudden crack of thunder brings me peace.

I rest in the darkness secure in my safe place…

My tomb.

Since I moved back to California in 2007 I have attempted to make my life manageable. I followed a formula. I cut expenses to the bone. I quit spending money on entertainment; no movies, no books, no dining out. I quit dating. I bought a disposable car. I rented a cheap one room apartment. And I did all of this in the name of art.

I reasoned that it would be good for my writing. I could work odd jobs and live off the money I’d saved while working on South Padre Island. Not having a full time job I could spend vast swaths of my time creating new stories. And it would all be manageable.

In the last three years I have completed one screenplay and three short stories. I began numerous other screenplays and a major novel. I wrote several screenplay synopses and registered a bunch of story ideas with the Writers Guild. But considering the amount of free time I had the writing output has been dismal. And now the disposable car is gone - sold for scrap, the bank account is empty and I am unemployed.

I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have the company of a female as we watch moving images on the silver screen, to enjoy a nice meal out with friends, to smell the fresh cut grass at the ballpark. I have robbed myself of the joy of my existence. What artistic inspiration can possibly come from that?

I believed that if I did penance and sacrificed for my craft that I would be rewarded for my pain and suffering. What an ass I am. The person I’ve always had the easiest time lying to is the one I find it hard to look at in the mirror every morning.

By trying to get a life small enough to manage I have ended up with a very Small Life.