HOLLYWOOD IS FAKE

by

Judd Hampton

The three of us move slowly across the roof, bent over, our bare backs soaking up the sun. Daryl and I work in opposite directions, laying down shingles, spacing them just right. Richard follows us around, nailing shingles as we set them.

Richard is always our nailer. He says a nail gun in his hands feels like an extension of his body, something he gives life to. Daryl and I think Richard enjoys his power tools too much.

The nail gun is large, yellow, with a round clip like a Tommy gun. In between shingles, Richard stands up brandishing the nailer, pulls his cap backward over his head and says, "Sh' yur a wise guy, eh?" in his best Jimmy Cagney, and then he opens fire on Daryl. Daryl stumbles backward down the roof, his body shuddering as he pretends bullets are riddling his chest.

Those two have been joking around like this since we were kids.

Daryl ends up down by the ladder. "I'm going for another bundle."

As Daryl disappears, Richard turns to me. "Let's take a break."

Sweat drips into my eyes. It stings like hell. I wipe off my forehead with the back of my wrist and sit down next to Richard, rubbing my eyes. "You don't have to ask me twice," I say.

"I'm tellin' you," Richard says, "it's too damn hot to be up here."

"I'm not saying you're wrong, but you know Daryl."

"Yeah, I know Daryl."

"Always gotta make Mom happy." We say it in unison.

We sit on the roof looking up at the sun, looking down at the street. I think of the Sunday game I'm missing; the one Dad's probably watching in the basement, where it's cool, and no one's allowed to speak until commercials; the old coffee table with watermarks, and his legs stretched across.

People walk by, glancing up at us. Pretty girls with bare legs and pierced navels, and tattoos around their ankles. I prefer them plain.

"That one's cute," Richard says, jiggling the nail gun around crotch level, "I'd like to nail her."

Richard's the only bachelor left among us.

The roof absorbs the heat like cement. It feels as if my feet are on fire inside my shoes.

Richard pulls off his cap, ruffles his hair. His hands come away wet. His face is red, moist and smooth, and his mouth hangs open, panting like a dog.

I always thought Richard was scrawny, but without a shirt, he looks athletic. His arms are muscular. His abdomen has definition. I tug at the waistband of my shorts, trying to hide my paunch and cover my love handles.

He says, "Married life done made you soft."

I find my shirt.

Richard holds the nail gun up to his face, studying it like a treasure. "You know, I bet the dudes who nailed Jesus to the cross could'a used one of these bad-boys," he says. "Yup, just a simple 'catchunk' and there you go, good and crucified."

"You're fucked," I say, lying down, draping an arm over my eyes.

Daryl appears at the ladder, a bundle of shingles slung over his shoulder. The house shudders as he drops it onto the roof. Then he disappears again, and when he returns, he hoists up a blue cooler and rests it on the top rung of the ladder.

"Come and get it, girls," he says.

Richard walks down to the ladder and carries the cooler up to the roof peak and sets it down, wedging it steady with scraps of shingles. We gather around as Daryl creaks open the lid. Like a scene from a movie, divine light bursts forth, the utter beauty of it blinding us. When the mist clears, we find a cooler full of ice and beer and all things good. We plunge our hands inside and drag ice cold cans over our burning bodies, snap tabs and guzzle beer like water.

"Guess what?" I say, between sips. "You guys are gonna be uncles."

"Wow," says Daryl. "That's great. When'd you find out?"

"Last night."

The three of us raise our cans and click them together.

"I ain't never gonna have kids," says Richard. "Just gonna have lots 'a sex."

"I hear that," says Daryl. He raises his hand for a high-five from Richard.

Richard scoffs. "You already sold out, man."

I laugh and scruff Daryl's hair. "Yeah, man, you're married now."

"I know," Daryl says. "What are y' gonna do?"

For a moment we sit in silence, absorbing the sun, the beer, the beauty of the moment.

Richard turns to me. "Seriously, man, that's great. I mean about bein' an uncle."

I smile. "Thanks."

As the three of us sit on the peak, rolling empties off the roof, Daryl picks up the nail gun and says, "You guys ever see that movie 'Lethal Weapon'? I can't remember which one-but you know, the one where some guy's trying to kill Mel Gibson with a nail gun."

"Wasn't it Danny Glover, not Mel Gibson the guy was trying to kill?" Richard says.

"It don't fuckin' matter," says Daryl, crushing a can with his fist. "I only wanted to know if you guys knew what I was talking about."

Richard starts laughing.

"Yeah we know," I say, shoving Richard's shoulder.

I pass Daryl another can.

"Anyway, that scene-the nail gun scene-was so fake," Daryl says between gulps. "You're right," I say. "They expect us to believe it was a pneumatic nail gun, but there was no air line running to it." "That's right," says Richard, tugging at his gun's air hose. He gives it a little whip and sends a wave down the hose that follows the roof and then stops beside the ladder. "What made that nail gun work? Magic?"

"It must have been one of those battery powered air-nailers," I say.

We all burst into laughter at this.

"And then what about the way it fired?" says Daryl, doubled over.

"I know, like a real gun," I say, barely able to contain myself. "When everyone knows you have to push down on the head of it like a stapler to make it fire."

"Yeah," Richard laughs, holding the air-nailer to my head and pulling the trigger. "See, nothing!"

Man, we laugh then.

"Hollywood's so fucking fake," says Daryl, standing up, throwing an empty over his shoulder.

Richard stands too, slips sunglasses over his eyes and cradles the nail gun. "Yah, dat's right," he says, imitating Arnold Schwarzenegger.

"Yah," I say, catching the spirit of it. "Da' cor' of Mauz is ice."

Daryl looks at me like I'm an idiot. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You know," I say, "from the movie 'Total Recall'. When Arnold discovers the core of Mars is made of ice, and they can melt it and make oxygen."

"You're a moron," says Richard. He and Daryl exchange smirks. Richard lifts the nail gun to Daryl's head and says, "Hasta la vista, baby."

Daryl says "I'll be bock" and then he grabs the gun, trying to wrench it out of Richard's hands. They struggle, dancing back and forth across the roof. Suddenly Daryl punches Richard in the gut. Richard doubles over as Daryl repeatedly pummels his stomach. Richard dodges a stray punch and then seizes the moment, slamming a fist into Daryl's face. Daryl staggers back as Richard rushes him, still wielding the nail gun.

As they charge back and forth, the whole roof feels like it might come down. I imagine Mom in the kitchen below, wearing the apron she wears, her hands lost in dishwater, gaping anxiously out the window, wondering whether the house will survive us.

A crowd gathers on the street below, watching my two brothers go at it on the roof of our parents' house.

My brothers fight a lot-in bars, on the streets outside of bars, in pubs and restaurants, anywhere liquor is served. They're very good at faking it. I will say it does look convincing. People actually believe they're trying to kill each other. Often someone calls the police.

"Someone call the police," I yell to the crowd between sips of my beer. "They're killing each other."

Daryl is laughing amid the punches and slapping his hands together, creating that authentic sound of skin smacking skin, as Richard's fist grazes his nose. The air-nailer ends up pointed at Daryl's face, Richard driving it forward at Daryl's temple. It almost looks as if Richard might put one into Daryl's head.

I check out the horrified faces in the crowd below and burst out laughing. "C'mon, Mel," I say to Daryl, goading him. "The bad guy's kicking your ass."

He winks at me. "Oh yeah?"

In a swift fluid motion, Daryl steers Richard and the nail gun to his side. They spin around. The air hose tangles around their legs. They lose their balance, fall over, and skid down the roof in a jumbled ball.

And then they're gone.

Looking down from the roof, I see my brothers lying on the grass below, their bodies twisted together in a gawky embrace, empty beer cans littered around them. They aren't moving.

Someone screams. Mom, I think.

Even then, the scene doesn't look real.

§ § §

When Judd Hampton isn't driving snow packed roads through groves of towering spruce trees, he pretends he's a writer and artist. His writing is forthcoming in Unknown Writer, Insolent Rudder, Night Train and Eyeshot. His artwork may be viewed online at Outsider Ink, Aileron, and Opium Magazine. He can be reached at stiksnet@telusplanet.net

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