It’s All Make Believe, Isn’t It? *Marilyn Monroe Returns*
By Ben Campbell
Published by Ben Campbell at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Ben Campbell
Cover Art Designed by Ben Campbell
Discover other titles by Ben Campbell at Smashwords.com
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Chapter 1
HE FELL STRAIGHT DOWN, HIS legs giving way underneath him. Bleached hair tousled as his head bounced one time on the tile floor. He laid spread across the aisle with a mirror on his chest, his arms at his sides, his legs unfurled.
Ten seconds passed while Martin’s mind was a brew of dreams about Marilyn Monroe. The mixture of Marilyn’s memories, situations, names, relationships, all streaked by like shooting stars in a midnight sky. Martin’s body remained stationary while his mind was a wave, soaking through Marilyn’s life. The present was a meeting point between the past, the future, relevant mixtures of important phases of Marilyn Monroe’s existence.
The cosmetic clerks Celeste and Jen ran to Martin’s body spread across the department store floor. They hovered, quarreled then decided what they should do first. Celeste would call 911. Jen would perform CPR.
Jen knelt beside the casualty. Her black mini shirt highlighted by a light blue blouse clung to her body like leotards. She flipped her red high heels off to reveal red painted toenails. Straight, short hair was Jen’s specialty, which matched her toenail color as well as Martin’s lips.
She bent down, put her ear to Martin’s chest where breathing lifted his diaphragm. Jen’s red hair flopped forward in an arch. Martin’s breath was shallow. His chest was warm. She checked the passageway, pinched his nose, put her lips around his then blew into his lungs. She pulled away letting her breath escape from his chest.
She didn’t mind pressing her pale glossed lips to his moist red lips even though he resembled Marilyn. He was a strong man not a weak woman, who just happened to like wearing red lip-gloss. He was handsome, the type of generous good looks any single or married woman would examine. Jen was a woman who liked kissing men not women. This man was there at the right time.
She pumped on Martin’s chest forgetting how many times, pinched his nose, opened his mouth, put her lips around his but didn’t blow. He was breathing on his own. She kissed his lips repeatedly like nibbling on a chocolate chip cookie.
Martin’s eyes opened to the fairy princess face to face. She exuded lemonade fragrance. He tried to sit up but Jen held him down. He looked at the diamond stud in Jen’s nostril. She pushed his hand aside, avoiding his touch to her nose.
“I guess you saved my life,” he said. “You have red lip gloss smeared around your mouth.
“You have the same red gloss smeared around your mouth.”
Martin touched his lips. He recalled Celeste applying the gloss. After he touched Jen’s lips, she smiled.
“Are you Okay,” Martin looked at her name tag, “Jen.”
“As good as it gets.” She said. “Just stay still, the paramedics will be here to check you out.”
He felt embarrassed as he lay flat on the floor. He didn’t feel injured after falling, except for a light ache at the backside of his head. His emotional sensitivity bewildered him. For a moment he felt he was having a Twisted Sister minute. He had bleached hair with lips of red. All he needed was the heavy dark mascara around the eyes to complete the hard rocker look.
Jen scooted one leg around in front of her then rested Martin’s head on her lap. She was having a Reba McIntyre minute with the red hair, silver eyeliner, smiling blue eyes with smeared red gloss around her mouth.
Jen’s lap was supple, like a mother hugging holding a child for comfort. She brought a wealth of hospitality to Martin’s body.
“The red on your toenails match my tie. Did you plan that?” Martin asked.
“Things like that can’t be planned.”
The photo of Marilyn Monroe caught Martin’s attention. The frame sat upright on the floor by the counter. Marilyn eyes stared at him. Jen grabbed the mirror then shoved it in Martin’s face. He sat up in disbelief.
“She could be your grandmother,” Jen said.
“Or I could be her.”
“No, you’re not Marilyn, you just resemble her. She could be a neo-transmittable spirit. That’s a type of reincarnation, which is suspended until the most convenient time when the soul arrives. Your spirit then gets absorbed.”
“Excuse me?” Martin looked confused.
“What?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t mind me,” Jen said. “I’m sort of a medium, an amateur mystic when I’m not working here.”
Celeste with the department manager came to stand by the two sitting on the floor. Celeste was the cosmetic clerk that selected Martin’s lipstick shade.
They looked at Martin’s reflection in the mirror. With a flick of eyes they looked at the picture of Marilyn Jen held in her other hand.
Celeste took a deep breath then helped Martin stand up off the floor. “I think your condition is more symbiosis than anything else.”
Martin handed her the mirror. “Is that a supposition or fact?”
She moved closer to the man of her dreams. He had a masculine body to satisfy her physical needs. His Marilyn Monroe face would satisfy emotional requirements. He was the perfect match for her.
Jen stood up beside Martin. She put the photo of Marilyn back on the counter. Martin brushed out his suit. He tried to help Jen smooth out her skirt but she brushed his hand away.
Her body was a blast from the past—full bosoms, narrow waist, full hips, narrow legs—she wasn’t a sneakers or blue jeans girl. She was a perfume woman. Martin stood silent examining Jen. He took a moment enveloping Jen’s fragrance, the sculptured body then he realized his infatuation for someone who just saved his life.
Jen backed away. She smiled in embarrassment. She knew Martin would be the man in her bed within a few days, as well as the man waiting for her on the wedding altar.
The department store floor manager stepped forward to greet Martin.
“Hello. I’m Mary Helms, the department manager. I gather you’re not injured?” She extended her hand to Martin.
He looked at the quarter size opal ring on her index finger then shook her hand. Her grip was soft yet her hand was callused like a gardener’s.
“I don’t feel injured, just a little messed up,” Martin said. “Who knows why I fainted.”
Mary Helms was a smoker. Her guttural voice was irritating. Her face sun wrinkled, hands aged stained, which made her smooth opal ring dazzling. She spent too many Jackie Collins decades sunbathing in her back yard. The shorter round figure fit in a matronly black pantsuit that matched her black dyed hair.
“The paramedics will be here in a few minutes. We want them to check you out.”
“Not to worry. Here’s my card. I’m fine.” Martin pulled a business card from his inner suit pocket.
“Oh my god, a financial consultant,” Jen said looking at the card in Ms. Helms hand. “Martin Montage, I could use you, I mean your services. I mean your financial consultant services. May I have a card too?”
A body blush flushed Jen like an electrical current. Her red face matched her hair color. She was hot, relieved, motivated.
Martin pulled another card from his jacket pocket. White with bold black lettering, the card listed his name, credentials, cell phone, office address. A window to his profession was open, yet closed to his personal life.
“You can call me anytime,” Martin said, “the sooner the better.”
“Thank you, I will,” Jen blushed.
Martin leaned closer to Jen, “What’s with the big opal ring on Mary Helms’ finger?”
Jen whispered. “Opal is her birthstone.”
She touched the top of Martin’s hand, took his card into her fingers, accepting it in the same manner with which he presented it to her.
Their exchange made Celeste unhappy.
Mary Helms looked at Martin’s lips. The smeared lip-gloss was clownish.
Martin took the photo of Marilyn then scanned the clear plastic frame for fractures. He placed the photo on the counter with her facing him. He put a palm over her face feeling the coolness of the plastic. He moved both hands over the frame performing a magic trick. Was there a cathartic revelation, a feeling of renewal, or a significant reflection about her past transferring into him? He was disappointed.
The three women looked at him.
“Here, let me wipe the lip gloss from your face,” Celeste said.
The women walked behind the counter. Martin stood in front of it. He looked in the mirror while Celeste dabbed the red off his lips with a damp cloth. Jen was in the background beyond Celeste, dabbing the red from her mouth.
A shadow of Martin’s new face stared at him—the puffy cheeks with delicate features, the eyes, arched eyebrows, soft jaw line, and cheekbones of cotton— all were cosmetic miracles. That beauty mark was a remarkable, tiny yet distinct light tan.
Marilyn’s face came smashing into his eyes when he looked at Marilyn’s picture. My face is her face down to that flirtatious beauty mark.
But what was he thinking? He was Martin Montage, a well-dressed man, a professional respected by his clientele. He loved football, baseball, politics drowned in beer, as well as the controversial subjects of religion intermingled with war. He wasn’t sensitive to emotions caused by irresolvable situations linking inexorable love, ill-fitting clothing, dieting, babies, menstruating or social catastrophes. He had feelings not driven by emotions. He had an excellent professional future. He wasn’t a celebrity, a woman seeking adulation. He couldn’t be confused about vaginas or boobs—he was entrusted with testosterone—owning a penis with testicles as his driving force.
Celeste finished cleaning Martin’s lips. He caught the women starring at his face again, looking at Marilyn’s photo then looking at him, their heads making exclamation points with each stop.
“You’re beautiful, I mean handsome,” Jen said. “Have you had cosmetic surgery to make you look like Marilyn?”
“If you were a mystic wouldn’t you know the answer to that question?” he touted.
“If I were psychic maybe I would, but I’m a mystic.”
“I’m not obsessed with Marilyn if that’s what you’re getting at.” Martin said. “That large poster of her at the front door was the first time I examined her face. You saw me a few minutes ago I didn’t look like Marilyn then. You don’t think I look like her, do you?”
“Not really,” Mary Helms said. “In the right light you could pass as her double. But of course, Marilyn’s been dead for over forty years.”
“I couldn’t even be her grandson. I’m thirty-four.”
“Marilyn didn’t have children,” Mary looked at Martin’s card. “Mr. Montage. I recall reading newspaper headlines years ago that she had a couple of miscarriages or abortions.”
Martin leaned forward, rested his elbows on the glass top of the counter, feeling dysfunctional.
Two paramedics came rushing down the aisle carrying medical equipment. They stopped beside Martin. The heavyset female asked, “Which one of you is the injured?”
“I fainted,” Martin said. “My suits just a little messed up.”
The paramedics put their paraphernalia on the floor.
“I’ll just take your pulse then listen to your respiration. Then I want your autograph.”
She took Martin’s wrist, checked his pulse while reading the time on her wristwatch. She made him breathe while she listened through his back with a stethoscope.
“Where’s a good place to eat around here?” She said.
“I think there’s a McDonald’s around the corner,” Mary Helms said. “They have a special on fries.”
“You’re good, mister.” She looked at Mary. “We have some paper work for you to fill out.
“This way please,” Mary said. “Go home now Mr. Montage. Don’t do anything I would do.”
Mary with the two paramedics walked away down the aisle, the male carrying their medical equipment, the female looking back at the new Marilyn Monroe image.
“Here’s my card.” Jen pushed her hand at Martin.
He took Jen’s hand in his with the card. The texture of her skin was delicate. She was temperate.
She held Martin’s hand for a few seconds in search of a spiritual significance. She tingled all over but tried not to show it.
Celeste was jealous with Jen’s glow. Martin was going to be the next man in Celeste’s bed however desperate Jen was to get a man.
Martin released Jen’s hand then reached for the diamond stud in her nostril.
She let the warmth of his fingers tingle the side of her nose for a second.
“May I purchase that photo of Marilyn?”
“You can have it,” Celeste handed it to him. “No charge, it wasn’t for sale anyway.”
Martin took the framed photo. He looked at Jen’s card. Jen Dougherty, Cosmetician. She had a San Francisco phone number.
“May I call you,” Martin said. “You live six blocks from my house.”
Jen ran a hand through her short red hair. “Don’t forget.”
Celeste stepped in front of Jen with one of her cards. Martin read it.
With a wink of an eye Celeste said, “You may call me, too, if you please.”
Martin nodded then paraded like a sure footed seductive woman down the isle. His gate wasn’t of a meretricious sex object, nor was he all meringue. Martin was now partially Marilyn Monroe.
He looked back over his shoulder.
“Excuse me, Jen Dougherty, could you re-bleach my hair when the roots start to grow out.”
The cosmeticians were shocked, listening to the seductive whispery voice of the late actress.
Jen called out, “Sure thing that’s my specialty.”
Chapter 2
MARTIN DROVE FROM BLOOMINGDALE’S TO Hemingway’s, a bookstore in Menlo Park. The small book outlet was a few miles north of the city of Palo Alto along the congested El Camion Real.
He parked at the curb in front of the popular bookstore. Martin stretched his neck to look at his Marilyn face in the rearview mirror. Yep, the coiffed hair plus makeup didn’t vanish. I’m stuck with it.
The man-woman got out of the BMW X5, locked the doors with the remote, looked at the newspapers displayed on racks by the front door of Hemingway’s—Twenty-five die in a string of Afghanistan insurgent attacks. NASA takes a major step in the return to space.
All that information seemed trivial to Martin. But current events weren’t frivolous. News drives American society. Information was the news of the United States that drives the political world. He couldn’t ignore that. Martin couldn’t ignore the fact that his face was a replica of Marilyn Monroe’s.
Martin entered the bookstore. A curly red haired clerk stood behind the register by the front door. He was proud of his thick wavy locks. They resembled a small Afro that covered the tips of his ears while curls tickled his neck. Few tresses dangled over his forehead. He was a serious worker adding up daily receipts, examining the tallies with his Pablo Picasso face. His eyes were large yet small. His nose was a thin pencil, while his cheeks were sunken but looked full. His skin was shiny but looked dull. He was a boy not yet a man. When he stared in a mirror he saw Picasso distortions of his ears attached to his chin, one eye on a cheek the other eye hanging off an ear, his mouth where his nose should be, his nose stuck on top of his head. He was an original boy, a young man expressing physical alterations.
His anemia indicated hunger. The light acne beside his nose implied fast food diet. Over time he would gain weight. With a healthier diet his pimples would clear up. A newly high school graduate, this was his first job before starting college at Stanford University. Books were his passion. Journalism would be his major study. He worked in the bookstore as a hobby.
Martin stepped inside the store. The smell of mildewed older books surrounded him. The overhead lighting was dim. Too many jammed the shelves. That was a sign of bad business.
“Do you have a section about Marilyn Monroe?” Martin asked the clerk. He looked at his nametag pinned to his left pocket. Elwood Markson.
The clerk froze with Martin’s question, memorizing the last accounting number in his head. He looked up at the new customer. My god he looks like Marilyn Monroe.
However shocked he was, he decided not to tease the transvestite about his resemblance to the celebrity. “To the back over there, right side to the left. We have hardbacks, paperbacks, calendars, anything you want on Marilyn Monroe we have it.”
“Thank you, Elwood. May I call you Elwood?”
He ignored the question. “We have a postcard book of Marilyn’s most unique sexy poses, they’re all sexy poses. My personal favorite book about her is the Marilyn Encyclopedia, by Adam Victor. My dad keeps it in his bathroom, on top of the toilet tank. That’s the perfect place for it. The photos are…delicious, you know what I mean.”
Martin tried to slip away but the clerk kept talking. He put down the receipts, came around from behind the register, leaned into Martin’s space where two small white heads in the corner of one nostril distracted Martin’s attention.
“There’s this one photo with Marilyn’s dress blowing up to her shoulders,” Elwood said. “I can’t get enough of her legs. Do you think women like that fart?”
“Where’s the Marilyn section again?” Martin said.
“Are you related to Marilyn?” Elwood stood next to Martin. “You look like her.”
“Where’s the Marilyn section?”
“Down there, right side to the left. Have you had cosmetic surgery?”
Martin walked away hearing Elwood’s last question fade in the distance. The blunt interrogation by a punk kid wasn’t worth the irritation.
A couple women shoppers stood idle in the store. Martin would have the entire isle to himself to do research.
Three eye level shelves were dedicated to the deceased actress. Martin scanned over the numerous books of different sizes. The top shelf displayed hardbound biographies, a comprehensive guide to memorabilia, stories about her life, a compilation of the FBI files about her death, and a diary of her lovers before her death.
On the next shelf down was a large book about newly discovered Marilyn photographs, a book about her murder, a book about her suicide, a book about unseen archives, a memoir, a book concerning Marilyn knowing Jacqueline Kennedy, a book of Marilyn Monroe poems, a tome dedicated to the films of M.M., a digest of murder alternating with cover-up stories, a volume of secret tapes, a log of M.M. in her own words, a chronicle of the death followed by her funeral, a diary myth about M.M., an account of M.M. in the camera eye, a book of M.M. essentials, plus more, including a book about the M.M. resurrection.
Everything about M.M. from her birth to her death, from the beginning of her career to the end of her career then afterward, was in front of Martin’s eyes. He shook his head, rubbed his face to uncross his eyes. Anticipation ran hot inside him.
He fingered the books on the middle shelf like running his fingers down a piano keyboard, trying to pick out one book. He took out a picture book. The sepia photographs of her were Hollywood on display. Artistically Marilyn, the celebrity portrayed, exploited while alive, written off after death—she was certainly kissed to death while alive.
Martin’s connection to Marilyn was almost solidified. He was Martin Montage, a man in full who was professionally successful. His childhood was normal—he was a college graduate top twenty-five in his class—he was a man with friends with a successful future in finance. He was a man with a woman’s head.
Martin looked at the ceiling finding cracks in the drywall. The building was old in need of upgrading. He looked down the aisle at two teenage girls. They flipped the pages through fashion magazines. They wore low cut jeans, tight short sweaters that revealed their baby fat stomachs. One had a tattoo of a guitar on her backside, half covered by the jeans.
Martin looked at his manly manicured hands. He looked at the bookshelves in front of him. Jen Dougherty came to mind. He wanted to know why she had kissed him while he had red gloss on his lips. Why did he want to inhale her being into his life?
He pulled a book off a shelf. Marilyn’s face took up the whole cover. Her features were hazy.
He put the book back on the shelf, looked at other books about Marilyn. He realized he couldn’t read every one about the celebrity. How much of the information would be true anyway? Hearsay didn’t fit into Martin’s vocabulary like so many of her contemporaries wanted. None of the books he could use as a touchstone for his future.
He meandered, brushing his fingers along the book spines. He searched for the right note to a familiar tune. What he wanted wasn’t there. He would have to ask Elwood for the book.
Elwood wasn’t behind the register. Martin looked in the next room where bookshelves were lined up like room dividers. Elwood balanced on top of a footstool, reaching skyward placing a book on the top shelf. A large picture of Jimmy Hendrix’s head was on the back of his black t-shirt. The shirt lifted out of the waistline of his baggy carpenter jeans. His pant legs were waders, revealing white Nike’s with short socks. On his outer right ankle a two-by-two color pyramid was inked. Martin touched Elwood’s arm, he jerked like a guilty kid stealing candy.
“Elwood, do you have Victor’s book about Marilyn?”
The boy came down off the stool in a trancelike condition. “The Marilyn Encyclopedia?”
Elwood scratched his neck, bent down, tied one Nike shoelace, stood up then looked at Martin eye to eye. An angled smile clipped the right side of his mouth.
He checked the time on his Mickey Mouse wristwatch. His shift would end in five minutes. His co-worker Angie was his ride home.
“Elwood, look at me,” Martin said. “Do you have the Marilyn Encyclopedia?”
“There’s one copy behind the register. Do you want to look at it?”
“I want to buy it.”
Elwood moved forward on his tiptoes. Martin followed. Behind the register Elwood bent down. Martin waited on the customer side of the counter.
Elwood stood up holding the book. “This is sort of my copy. You can look through this one?”
Elwood held the book overhead.
The liquid honey photo of Marilyn on the front of the dust jacket sent Martin’s mind ablaze. She was seductive yet withdrawn. Do I look seductive? The black background of the photo pushed Marilyn in his face. The gold lamiae dress cut in a deep V to her naval was a designer's dream come true. Her sultry expression revealed a life half closed. Her presentation exemplified insecurity knitted to frustration. The photo wasn’t mysterious yet the snapshot epitomized fact verses folklore. In her death, as in her life, myth overshadowed reality. Legend embodied Marilyn.
Martin’s knees went weak. His eyes crossed. The pores on top of his head tingled. His skin felt wet, his underclothes stuck to him. He was possessed he thought, partially controlled by some unearthly force, perhaps a leftover spiritual aura of Marilyn Monroe. A soft touch inside of his mind, gradually coming on, or a measured river of emotions. Was it symbiosis as Jen had said? Two different organisms attached or one within the other. Martin shook his head, uncrossed his eyes then came to his senses. He looked at Elwood as though he was questioning his existence.
“Are any of the pages in the book stuck together,” Martin said.
Elwood lowered the book positioning it on the counter beside the register. He rested his hand on the top of it. With the index finger of his left hand he scratched around the two white heads next to his nose, irritating the surrounding skin. He stroked the same hand through his heavy red locks on top of his head, pushing them back. They fell forward resting like layers of ribbons. He felt violated, like the stranger in front of him just accused him of masturbating, smearing sperm on the sacred pages of the Marilyn Encyclopedia.
“You know what, Mr., you irritate me. You should leave the store.”
“I apologize, Elwood. You said that the perfect place for the book was in the bathroom. I assumed…”
“You assumed too much.”
“May I purchase the book?”
“Hell no.” Elwood went soft for a second. “But you can look through it.”
Elwood shoved the book across the counter. Martin stepped to the side but didn’t touch it. He starred at the indelible image of the famous blond on the cover.
“I’ll read it when I own it. How much, Elwood?”
“This book isn’t for sale. Navigate the Internet for a used copy. Maybe you can find a copy autographed by Adam Victor. You’ll pay with your life though.”
Martin opened his wallet, pulling out a hundred dollar bill. He pushed it across the counter to Elwood. The boy snickered.
Martin pulled out a fifty-dollar bill. The curly headed boy’s eyebrows rose. He scratched at the acne. Martin pulled two twenty dollar bills out of his wallet.
“A book about Marilyn can’t be worth that much, Elwood. Money isn’t an issue, the inconvenience of shopping for it is.”
“You’re right. This book is worth much more.” He pushed the money back at Martin. “You look like Marilyn. You have her face. I’m not used to seeing a man with a tint of red around his mouth. What’s your name?”
“Martin Montage. That’s not important.”
“Of course it is. You have the same initials. Marilyn Monroe. Martin Montage. You guys are related, what is it?”
“No, we’re not related. I just resemble her.”
“You don’t resemble her, you’re her exact image. You’re Marilyn Monroe reincarnated. It’s a good day to be Marilyn Monroe. You must live in San Francisco. Yeah, I can see that. Did you have cosmetic surgery?”
“You’re getting too personal, Elwood. Come on, sell me the book.”
“You got a card? I’ll call you if we get another one in.”
Martin picked up his money while he was thinking about age.
Marilyn was dead at age 36. That was over forty-five years ago. Martin was 34 last June. Elwood was thinking about Marilyn in the present not the past.
“Marilyn’s dead, you know that, Elwood? This is my last card. Call me soon.”
Elwood took the card. “Martin Montage, Financial Consultant. San Francisco. Are you Marilyn’s grandson?”
“Yeah, I’m her grandson. It’s all make believe, isn’t it?”
Martin headed toward the front door. Elwood leaned across the counter shouting, “That’s a quote. Marilyn said that, you know. You stole her motto.”
Chapter 3
THURSDAY MORNING AT 7 A.M. Martin sat at his small black desk in his living room. He welcomed the day. As he pushed a hand through his hair he discovered a large sore spot on the backside of his head. Fainting at Bloomingdale’s was an incident he wanted to forget.
After leaving Hemingway’s book store late yesterday afternoon he drove straight home to San Francisco. Exhausted, he took a shower then dived into bed. His reverse brilliance during the day curbed his appetite for all human interactions. Food wasn’t even a concern. Sleep deprivation was a concern. A concussion wouldn’t come easy on his hard noggin.
He fell asleep translating the word brilliant into Dutch: briljant; then into French: brilliant; then into German: glänzend. Italian for brilliant is: brillante. He could never own a Thursday, much less any one other day. What he did own was his time. He fell into a deep sleep all night, trying to figure out why he was translating brilliant into languages he didn’t know.
Martin sat behind his desk where a Dell Laptop starred at him with information. Coffee was brewing in his drip maker. The delicious aroma filled the house. Martin read the In The News section on his amazon.com home page. He loved his wide-screen window to the world but the headline news that morning was discouraging: Violence against American troupes takes toll. Snow with winds beset storm–weary Californians. Business News: Yen rises Euro falls. Blue Chips fall in trade.
All of the news items depressed Martin. They replicated the news in newspapers. He was sick of all the negative news. He didn’t open any of the titles. He needed to think freely. Live and let live, shut my eyes to the evils of the world. He rubbed the sore spot on his head. Martin was ready to trade the memories of yesterday for the promises of tomorrow. There were no pleasures for today.
He sat in his black leather desk chair wearing white Nike runners, black Macy’s sweat pants contrasted with a Bugle Boy white hooded sweatshirt with a black Gap t-shirt underneath. He dressed for comfort at home knowing he wouldn’t go to the office to work on boring spreadsheets, all the while detailing the stock market for his clients’ portfolios.
He checked his personal emails on the computer. The one he wanted to read wasn’t there. The email wasn’t there because he had not met the woman of his future.
For the first time in his adult life he felt free, however dissatisfied in his personal direction. Two weeks ago Sarah Eaton, the supposed love of his life, his fiancé, a runway fashion model, broke off their romantic relationship after they had dinner at Restaurant Niagara on Folsom Street.
That night they sat at a table sipping cups of French Roast coffee after dinner. All seemed dreamy. Martin tried to hold her hand but Sarah pulled away.
You’re Too Real, she said to him. That scares me.
Too real? Martin sipped his coffee.
I need somebody false. I need a fictitious character-lover so we can fabricate a future together. I don’t want any set rules or obligations like you have. I don’t want a house or kids, grandchildren or death. I want spontaneity, calamity like I have in my profession. I want to live.
Martin put his coffee cup down. I’m too real. You don’t want death you want to live?
Dumbfounded was something that strangled Martin. He was speechless sitting across the small round table from Sarah. His love was burned to a crisp, like her words were streaks of lightening. She had just shattered one year out of his life like throwing a champagne glass into a fireplace. After all, she was Sarah fucking fashion model Eaton; a tall, gorgeous brunet, whose professional future was limited by Martin’s regulated intelligence combined with synchronized personality.
I am on the threshold of being discovered. She told him. You just sit there staring at me like I am a disheveled Marilyn Monroe knowing that Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend. They are a girl’s best friend you know, but I don’t want diamonds, I want celebrity, I want flexibility, I want freedom.
Martin stood up in front of his computer interrupting his memory of that night. He went into the kitchen. Caffeine would drown his ugly mental image of Sarah. She had broken off their relationship two weeks ago. As a single man he had yet to move forward.
He never knew that he was Too Real. The image of rules plus regulations that Sarah sketched for him was unacceptable. Too real couldn’t be that bad. She could have been his drama teacher, in a classroom drawing his orderly personality in a horizontal line with chalk on the blackboard in front of the entire student body. He felt violated, worst of all he felt cheated, defenseless, useless, all of that was unacceptable.
At the dinner table that night he tried to eliminate the embracement. One way was not to beg Sarah to stay with him. He had no choice but to go home with his tail between his legs like a rejected dog. From then on he knew he would see her in the fashion sections of newspapers or on ET on television.
When he left Sarah that unforgettable night at Niagara’s, Martin had decided to change his personal direction. He wanted to be spontaneous. Let go of the usual or at least change the usual into the unusual. He would be less cohesive, less thematic living his new life. But nothing had changed since then. He had to eliminate his rules. He would be the person Sarah wanted him to be but separated from her.
In the kitchen Martin didn’t pour a cup of coffee, instead, he went into the bathroom, looked into the cabinet mirror, where his eyes popped open. The life force had just drained out of him. The heralding reflection was Marilyn Monroe. His blond hair was bountiful, mellow, thick, big, wavy, curly, parted on his left side. The teased style was his.
He turned on the cold water, bent forward, splashed wet over his face three times, and felt his coiffeur jostle up and down. He took a hand towel from the towel rack, dabbed the water off his face. His eyes were closed and covered with the towel. He stood up.
Damage control was the idea. He uncovered his face, opened one eye, spying on his reflection in the mirror.
Pulling the towed away his full reflection in the mirror was a collision of illusion, or was it?
He recalled the time ten years previous, when he swam the distance in the bay between Alcatraz Island and San Francisco as an initiation into the SF Swim Club. Resting on Aquatic Park beach afterwards hypothermia set in. The killer chills, nasty nausea, anxiety disassociation made him ill for a week. He felt those same symptoms now.
His hands flung up to cover his mouth. A thrill of wonderment opened his life. He moved to about one inch from the mirror. How does one examine facial features; two brown eyes highlighted with black mascara; a petite rosy nose; voluptuous lips for kissing; two perfect ears hidden by hair; a tiny round chin worthy of pouting. He pinched a cheek hoping he would wake up. He was real. He was Marilyn Monroe, a disheveled Marilyn Monroe, just like Sarah Eaton had told him. Holy crap, I am Marilyn Monroe.
He wanted to barf. He wanted to scream. He wanted to mess his pants. But women don’t do those things. Their emotions are substitutes for physical purging.
The light fixture over the bathroom mirror highlighted the beauty mark between the edge of his mouth and cheekbone. He touched the petite brown mark in wonderment. The blotch was raised with numbness. A statement of panache was made.
None of his features were dominating. They presented less than perfect exotic Marilyn Monroe characteristics. He wanted to cry. He wanted to giggle. He wanted to dance. Women do those things. They harvest emotions.
He missed his masculine face. Instead of crying he smiled. Something exciting had happened yet he knew the change was temporary. The form was provisional bliss where masculine blended with feminine traits, a type of transfigure so to speak but much less than transgender.
Perfect white teeth glistened when Martin opened his mouth. He was a perfectionist. Filings or crowns weren’t acceptable. He picked up a round shaving mirror, turned sideways, inspecting his profile. An index finger lined the surface of the dainty nose rounded on the tip. The lips were putty, cheek bone high. His eye accentuated a sneak preview of what was with what is—Marilyn Monroe. Her face wouldn’t stop smiling. A man just doesn’t change overnight into Marilyn.
But, Marilyn didn’t have a beard. Martin was happy to see the shadow of his whiskers, however transvestite it made him look.
He put the mirror on the sink counter then pulled down his sweat pants. A masculine giggle erupted from his throat. His supple penis was still there. However, it had been over two weeks since he fulfilled its purpose with Sarah. He pulled up the sweats. Felt his masculine hard chest. He was a man with the head of a woman, with a penis not a vagina. With any luck his changes would be transitory.
Chapter 4
MARTIN DARTED FROM THE BATHROOM into the kitchen. His hand shook while pouring a cup of coffee. Forget the image in the mirror, he said. The cup was full of smooth black liquid, Martin’s face was wrinkled, his legs anxious. He put the coffee pot on the counter.
Fretful to do some work he needed something real not false to turn to. He hurried to the living room window, looked down one floor at the street, his eyes needed a stoplight to halt his life.
After tasting his coffee he caressed his new features, his index finger sliding down the nose, over the supple lips then dabbing at the beauty mark.
Victorian houses lined the street. All were three stories with shared walls. Each house had a one-car garage opening that led to parking basements below the first floor.
Mrs. Tribble across the street peeked between the sheer, white curtains covering her living room blinds. A cup of coffee hid one hand, a cigarette between the fingers in the other hand. She watched the neighborhood come to life.
Martin looked at her. She released her peek-a-boo grip on the blinds. He wasn’t introduced to her but he liked her impropriator disposition. That provided a purpose to her isolated life.
Activity on the street was real for Martin. The image of Marilyn in the mirror was false, he had to remember that. The condition was temporary, one in which made him comfortable inside. He didn’t mind possessing Marilyn’s facial features because he had beard stubble. Women don’t have beard stubble, especially Marilyn. Martin sipped his coffee.
The traffic on Fulton Street was normal for seven in the morning. A double-parked car was two houses away. A couple of cars swerved around it. A half-dozen people dressed in layered clothes walked down the sidewalks in different directions. The skimpy Japanese maple tree planted in one square foot of soil on the concrete sidewalk across the street was ready for winter. This wasn’t an interactive neighborhood. Most neighbors maintained anonymity if not separatism. And the neighborhood people ignored each other.
A young black couple huddled, standing on the curb under the maple tree. Their sexual tangle of arms turned into a steamy goodbye kiss.
Martin was a voyeur, not getting involved but enjoying the passion with angst in the couple’s embrace. His first love as a senior in high school defined hormonal passion not emotional involvement. He was a teenager then he’s a mature man now.
He watched knowing the couple would walk away any second, leaving the heat of zeal to history.
The sky wet the cement. The overcast was a light mist drifting. San Francisco was the complicated city to live in.
Martin thought about his twin sister Marilyn, who now lives in Bucharest, Romania teaching English to young children. Why his beautiful sister chose Romania was well known to his parents. She wanted to be a part of the current Romanian cultural changes taking place. But changes had already taken place. Marilyn’s reality reason was to become a piece of the world, a traveler, a changer of ideas. She didn’t want to watch cultural revolutionary changes pass her by like her parents had watched the 60s psychedelic storm by them. By being in the center of the action she would partake in the action.
Romania was the last country Martin’s parents would ever think about as contributing to their daughter’s liberation. They wanted her to live in Berkeley. As a hobby she could open a coffee shop, selling books on the benefits of caffeine addiction, fashion dedication, hair restoration, and perhaps sexual abstinence.
Their daughter wasn’t a product of social changes. She didn’t even hobnob with Martin. Her mother wanted the brunette blue eyed to be either a physicist or geneticist. Her father wanted her to be a low-spirited person administering pharmaceuticals. That would be the perfection of steady income balanced with job security. She would never be in want of a job, unlike being an actress.
Martin wanted her to be his affectionate understanding twin sister, a person he could confide in or just hang with, without being criticized because he wanted to become a number pushing accountant like their father. Martin wanted his sister to be a nurse like their mother. The twin just wanted all the fucking irritating family members to leave her alone so that she didn’t feel compressed into a can like a sardine. Just because the twins were both born on June first, didn’t mean they had to be dependable souls, didn’t mean they had to be supportive of each other.
All the Montage family members were born in San Francisco. As teenagers in the sixties, Martin’s parents were privileged to have survived the turbulent times of social and political changes. The psychedelic sixties became historical icons of late.
Martin reflected on how his parents told stories about their adventures, events back in the good old days. Marilyn Monroe, her irreverent celebrity status, her link to John F. Kennedy, his assassination, communism, the cold war, the race to the moon, the Viet Nam war, the Peace Movement, Flower Children, interrelated or not, they were the new American cultural fabric. His father explained that Martin Luther King, Johnny Carson, Jerry Rubin’s Social Activism had changed Middle American thought processes.
He put the Beatles, Janis Joplin, Jimmy Hendrix at the top of the sixties music revolution. Not to forget about Bob Dylan, the Doors, Jefferson Airplane as the leaders in social reform from the Counter-Culture and the Sexual Revolution, not to mention the Summer of Love in the City in 1967 as the consequence of sexual promiscuity, tension, release and liberation.
His parents during the late sixties lived in the Haight-Ashbury District, the center of San Francisco’s vanity of bohemian social-drug-consciousness and Hippies. Of course his parents weren’t Hippies, the longhaired degenerates that in one way lead to homelessness in the nineties.
Both parents were twenty years old in 1968, sophomores at San Francisco State, well groomed, hopeful of prosperous futures, making freedom babies without LSD, alcohol and social activism.
But the best craze in those days was the excellent service A&W and Dairy Queen had bestowed upon their customers. Papa Burgers and Frosties were their favorite aphrodisiacs.
Martin stopped thinking about his family. He took a gulp from his cup of coffee, now warm. Present time flashed forward. He wondered if Marilyn Monroe’s sudden death in 1962, under a cloud of suspicion, would be linked to his future.
He shook his head went and changed the CD in the stereo with The Beatles “Norwegian Wood.”
Martin kept his home warm with the heat always leveled at 70°. He purchased the renovated white Victorian three-bedroom house one year just before he met Sarah.
She loved his home with a dark blue Ikea sofa, a contemporary area rug of red and black squares, two black angled bookshelves leaning against one wall. The shelves were half full of hardback books of contemporary authors. The thirty-six inch flat panel television with surround sound gave credence that his house was a bachelor’s pad, not a family household.
Sarah Eaton had hated spending nights at Martin’s house. The following mornings she would have to step out onto the dangerous neighborhood sidewalk to catch a cab. Inside, she was loved. Outside, she was insecure, frightened. The neighborhood wasn’t the best but was well maintained.
Martin went back to his laptop to check out Marilyn Monroe websites via Google Search. Two million nine hundred thousand results pop up about Marilyn Monroe. He looked over a few of their names: The official web site of Marilyn Monroe, Marilyn Monroe Current Month TV Schedule, Marilyn Monroe Poupée Papier, M.M. Gallery, and M.M. Archives. Two million eight hundred and ninety five thousand more results popped up that he didn’t care to surf through. The photo that Celeste gave him was beside his laptop. He looked at it.
He was impressed with the quantity of information at his fingertips on the Internet. Whether that information was true or not, he was still curious from his deep-rooted knowledge about the woman he represented.
She had been dead for over forty-five years. He hadn’t watched more than five of her movies or read a Marilyn biography. His friends never mentioned her other than watching The Seven Year Itch at Tommy Eagleface’s home two weeks ago.
People in Martin’s click didn’t care about Marilyn Monroe. His best friend Tommy cared about the failing economy. Derek Stinkwood, Martin’s workout partner, cared about Mini-Coopers. Steve Romberg, Martin’s investment partner cared about skyrocketing rents in San Francisco. Casey Falls, Martin’s Starbucks coffee drinking partner, cared about himself. Casey, who made it his profession to hang out at Starbucks complained about everything. He was Martin’s connection for the evolution of humanity. All of Martin’s friends cared about their 401K’s, the NBA, the actress Mira Sorvino.
Martin’s friends were interdependent, seeking advice from each other, looking for praise for their most mundane ideas, wanting to meet as a group. Martin was more independent, secure with his decisions about living. He was appointed leader of the group, the one each of them came to for counsel. He was the guru grunt who weathered all his friends’ personal, emotional storms.
Martin shook his head. Pressure from the new information about Marilyn crowded his brain. He got up to refill his coffee cup. His cell phone rang. Yesterday he put the phone on the desk behind his laptop. When he left for the day he’d forgotten to take the cell with him.
His connection to the world he named his portable devise Zodiac, his wireless posse in the sky where the paths of the sun, moon and principal planets divided into twelve equal parts. Zodiac was his electronic bond to nature.
The phone’s memory contained social as well as professional life-links. The features were photo ops on a whim, connecting to the Web with voice recorded personal messages. All other features were excessive technology he didn’t use. He had the phone set for ten rings before the greeting message activated. His friends knew he’d let Zodiac ring until he answered.
Chapter 5
MARTIN PICKED UP HIS ZODIAC cell phone, flipped it open and said, “This is your lucky day.”
His co-worker Carrie Stafford asked, “Where are you, Martin? You’re five minutes late. You know the boss will fire your ass.”
“I may as well be a lifetime late, Carrie. Jeff Adam Mitchell couldn’t fire me without the big boss firing him.”
“Where are you, Martin? It’s five minutes after eight.”
“I’m not going to work today. My bathroom mirror said that I look too much like Marilyn Monroe.”
“I’ve always wanted to kiss Marilyn Monroe, not that I’m a lesbian.”
“You’re not lesbian? I’m not gay! But every time I look in the mirror I want to screw myself.”
“I’ll tell Jeff you’re mentally sick, that you’ll come to work in another lifetime.”
“Thanks, Carrie. You know I love you, don’t you?”
“I love you, Martin. I was serious about kissing…you, not Marilyn.”
Martin closed the phone. He needed more caffeine to communicate effectively. He poured another cup of coffee. Liking Carrie Stafford like a lover without the love was a given, as long as commitment wasn’t an issue. She was his co-worker at O’Connor Financial Consultants. After graduating from UC Santa Cruz a year ago Martin hired her as his assistant.
She wasn’t a protégé of the younger generation she was the younger generation. She was handsome in a feminine way with broad basketball player’s shoulders. Her waist had no excess, her hips less wide than her shoulders. Any woman would kill for her muscular runner’s legs. Martin visualized them while talking to her over the phone. If her long Goldie locks weren’t sacrilegious, neither were her high cheekbones, petite nose, wide mouth and flat ears.
Even if she wasn’t the best looking female in San Francisco, she had the most beautifully shaped hands Martin had ever seen. Slender fingernails manicured like sculptured marble. He would hold them anytime if she wanted him to.
Her insistent energy was appealing. Yet her education, with no work experience in the financial industry worked against youth discrimination, which included a warehouse of connections of employed youthful acquaintances that she could tap into. The new generation needed financial directions for their futures. Carrie could refer that uninformed generation to the company. Martin hired her as the new client organizer.
He liked Carrie’s fashionable dress code. Nothing less than what Steven Cojocaru would suggest she wear. Of course Martin had ideas about Cojo after seeing him on the Entertainment Tonight TV show, but he didn’t care whether he was an entertainer or a fashion guru, Cojo knew his clothes.
Martin’s phone rang again. He knew he was going to answer it because all calls were important.
He flipped his phone open. “Carrie, about that kissing? It’s a bad idea.”
“Shut up, Martin Montage, you look too much like Marilyn Monroe for Carrie to kiss you,” Elwood said.
“Elweed. Let me see, I met you in the bookstore yesterday. What the hell do you want?”
“My name is Elwood not Elweed. I did some research on EBay for you. There are a few used Marilyn Encyclopedia’s but I wouldn’t buy any of those.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I can get you a new one for two-fifty.”
“Elwood, you think like a pimp. I’m a stock market analysis that equates to financial consultant. My clients are successful lawyers, politicians and CEO’s. They didn’t make their fortunes by marketing Marilyn Monroe items.”
“Martin, now you listen to me. I didn’t become a bookstore clerk by pushing Marilyn Monroe books. I promote books because I enjoy it. If you want a new Marilyn Encyclopedia I’ll get it for you for two-seventy.”
“Do me no favors, Elwood. From two-fifty to two-seventy in fifteen seconds is an excellent profit. I can find a used one for thirty-five dollars.”
“It’s your choice, dude,” Elwood said.
“Okay. Your offer is quite lucid, Elweed, but I can do better.”
“My name is Elwood not Elweed. I said it’s your fucking choice.”
Martin remembered the two pimples along the side of Elwood’s nose, wondering if he had popped them yet. “Goodbye bookstore clerk.”
“Wait, Martin. I was wondering if…you could help me with my finances. You know, invest my money in stocks.”
Martin went silent. He took a sip of coffee. He thought about how much money a bookstore clerk could have to invest. That wouldn’t be much. Investing would be arduous explaining how the stock market works, like training a grade school child in margin investing.
“Elwork, go back to school. Learn some math first.”
“My name is Elwood not Elweed or Elwork. Can you remember that, Martin? For being a financial consultant you’re not adept as a personable businessman.”
Martin thought for ten more seconds before responding. Confiding in a stranger would be good, someone impartial to his problem. Someone with book sense to offer suggestions.
“Are you there, Martin?” Elwood held the phone away from his ear. “Did you fucking hang up on me?”
“I’m here, Elwood, I have a major issue facing me. I think Marilyn Monroe’s spirit has entered me. She has changed how my face looks. Remember my face yesterday? Today it doesn’t resemble Marilyn anymore. I look like her. My hair, my features, everything resembles her. Elwood, I am Marilyn Monroe.”
Elwood went silent for a few seconds. He didn’t want to get involved with a psycho. But Martin seemed like a normal guy even though he had a face that resembled Marilyn Monroe.
“Good,” Elwood said. “I’m glad you resolved that situation. As for Marilyn, she’s dead. Martin, dead spirits don’t inhabit living beings. You look like yourself not Marilyn. As people age their bodies change. Now, will you work on some investments for me?”
“Come over at three this afternoon, Elwood. I’m at eight twenty-two Fulton Street in San Francisco. Bring copies of your 2005 taxes, current bank statements. I’ll set you up with a prosperous future. Elwood, don’t laugh when you see me. Wait, how much do you have to invest?”
“My great grandmother died last summer. She left me two million.”
Martin thought Elwood played him. “Don’t forget to bring your check book, my services aren’t cheap. I’m not interested in money. I just want to be wonderful.”
“She said that, Martin. Stop quoting Marilyn it’s annoying. Perhaps we can exchange the Marilyn Encyclopedia for your services.”
“It’s your choice, Elwood. I’ll see you at my place at three. No laughing when you see me.”
Martin closed the phone. He looked at the photo of Marilyn sitting by his desk, the one given to him by Celeste at Bloomingdale’s. Marilyn’s eyes gawked at him. Did she wink at me? She winked at me! He put the phone on the desk.
He picked up the photo. Scrutinized Marilyn’s fixed eyes. Neither eye blinked nor a flicker of life was present. He turned the photo face down on the desk then ran into the bathroom.
In the mirror he edged his eyelids wider open, inspecting the brown eyes. Marilyn’s eyes. With both palms he smashed his hair flat on top of his head. The locks popped up after he let it go. Marilyn’s hairstyle was impossible. He messed the hair up shoving the bouffant left then right. The hair straightened itself. He stepped back from the mirror, slapping his face. He slapped harder. He used both hands, slapping his face one cheek after the other. They turned tomato red.
His face was Marilyn’s face. His hair was Marilyn’s hair. He wasn’t a rendition of Marilyn. He was Marilyn in full color, in full animation. He was Marilyn from the neck up but she wasn’t mentally present, she wasn’t mentally active, she was dormant, an anomaly much like many co-stars in her movies. He was still Martin, a man with whiskers.
What am I going to do? I can’t be Marilyn at work. I can’t be Marilyn with my parents. My sister will kill me. She’s against all things celebrity. We’re twins. I just can’t be Marilyn for Marilyn’s sake.
He stepped closer to the mirror. Speak to me, Marilyn, tell my why you are here.
The brilliance of the bathroom light revealed Marilyn’s head in the mirror, all else was blurry. A moment of spiritual vice strangled Martin. Reckoning time was now, a point of departure, a positioning of recognition. The moment was a schism, a silent eventful rapture.
Martin needed an answer, an epiphany, a sign of recognition, explaining the alteration. None came. His new face was Marilyn’s famous expression of desire. The look summonsed, induced him to submerge into her domain. Martin didn’t know how to enter her life. He glared wide eyes with opened mouth, panting. He was a dog bewitched about what to do next. Thirty seconds later the phone rang.
He stumbled out of the bathroom, afraid that Marilyn would overtake him. He ran to the desk, grabbed the phone, flipping it open. His voice rose an octave, speaking faster than normal.
“Okay, Elwood, bring the encyclopedia with you. I’ll buy it.”
“Martin, its Lorie. Who is Elwood? Why do you want to buy an encyclopedia?”
“Sorry, Lorie. I’ll explain later. What can I do for you?”
“Give me an explanation why your voice sounds like a woman’s. You’re thirty minutes late for work. Dr. Henry will be here in fifteen minutes for his monthly account review.”
Martin stuttered, tilted his chin into his chest then forced his voice two octaves lower. “I don’t know about my voice. You will have to comfort Dr. Henry this time. His file is on Carrie’s desk. Kill him with your wonderful smile and muscular legs. Tell him the percentage growth of Starbucks has surpassed Microsoft. Brush against his arm with your bosoms. Bid him happy investing.”
“Martin?”
“Yes, Lorie.”
“Dr. Henry is gay. I’m saving my smile, legs and bosoms for you.”
“Thanks, Lorie.” Martin started to sweat. “I won’t be in today. If I wasn’t Marilyn Monroe I’d love your smile, legs and bosoms.”
“You’re schizophrenic, Martin. Wake up! If you were Marilyn I wouldn’t mind brushing my bosoms against your arm. She was beautiful. Are you telling me that you’re not interested in me?”
“I’ll explain it to you later, Lorie.”
“I’m serious. I’m still saving my smile, legs and bosoms for you.”
“I know, you tell me that at least once a week. Goodbye, Lorie.”
Martin closed the phone, dumping it on the kitchen counter.
He hated dismissing Lorie Griffin like she was a pet dog. She was the most efficient, detailed associate he had worked with in five years. She joined their office as a secretary two years previous then worked her way into investment counseling with Martin. She helped Martin teach Carrie the ins and outs of investing in relationship to their future income wage increase percentages. Lorie Griffin and Carrie Stafford were compatible yet competitive…for Martin’s attention. Both were cognizant of his personal attention toward them.
Lorie was the firm’s creative mutual funds investigator. She put a hundred portfolios together last year that beat the S&P 500 Index in gain percentages.