Fiction/Reality Emotion Phenomenon

WARNING: The following article contains spoilers from the movie U.S. Marshals.  If you haven’t seen it and you want to, don’t read!

            I believe very strongly in the reality of Star Wars and Harry Potter.  I can tell you who my favorite DC and Marvel heroes and villains are (I usually prefer the villains).  I will fight you if you say Prince Caspian never lived.  Fictional characters have had a profound impact on my life; I would not be me if I hadn’t lost Archie Kennedy in the eighth episode of Horatio Hornblower.

            The first Robert Downey Jr. movie I ever saw was U.S. Marshals (1998), with Tommy Lee Jones—the sequel to The Fugitive (1993).  My very favorite character in both movies is Deputy Marshal Noah Newman, played by Tom Wood—not a hugely major character, but one of Tommy Lee Jones’s henchmen, and a wonderful man.  He’s the “kid” of the bunch, but we see him mature quite a bit between the two movies.  I loved him; halfway through U.S. Marshals, I was planning our wedding.  It came as a heartbreaking shock to me, then, when he rushes into the room to help his supposed “friend,” played by Robert Downey Jr., and Robert Downey Jr. just turns and shoots him.  Noah Woodrow Newman, age 32, died on the way to the hospital.  I could not get over it—either Robert Downey Jr.’s character’s treachery, or the fact that my favorite character had died!  After the movie was over, I had to walk around outside for twenty minutes just to cool off.

            Ever since then, I have not been able to have the same enthusiasm for Robert Downey Jr. that my friends have.  When we went to the movie theatre to buy our tickets for the midnight premiere of The Avengers, I could hardly look at his face on all the posters and displays.  It’s a good thing I root for Loki¸ I thought, because I’m pretty sure I could never like Robert Downey Jr.  My friends thought I was insane.  They told me he was a fabulous actor, and how could I not think he was wildly attractive?  They said I just needed to see Sherlock Holmes and I would feel different, and how on earth could I have never seen Iron Man?  But it just didn’t work.

            After I had my ticket in my hot little hand and the deal was sealed—I would indeed be seeing Robert Downey Jr. in another movie—I decided it would be a good thing if I learned to like Robert Downey Jr.  So I watched interviews and movie clips; I learned about his personal life, about his children, Indio and Exton.  I looked at pictures of him on Pinterest.  Sure, he looks great with his shirt off.  I even repinned a picture of him with the caption, “Fine.  I admit it.  He’s good-looking.”  But all it took was one glimpse of him young and clean-shaven, and I wanted to puke.  No matter how much effort I put into it, I still associate him with his character in U.S. Marshals!  I see him as a traitor and a murderer.  I see him as the man who shot and killed my beloved Noah Newman. 

            Isn’t it interesting what an impact fiction has on reality?  If I were ever to meet Robert Downey Jr., who knows how long it would take me to get over this dislike of him?  It’s not his fault his character was a git—worse than that, a murderer of perfectly wonderful men—or at least, one.  But still I hold it against him.  Is this some sort of certifiable mental illness?  Nerd Syndrome, or something?

Paranormal Experience

He glances at me from across the room

Our eyes meet

His are as blue as the sky on a crisp winter day

His stare is like a hypnotist

I’m caught in a web

I can’t decide if I like this or not

Do I want him to look at me?

Ought I to flee?

I’m aware of the world around me

Like I’m an eavesdropper

Like I’m not really here

I’m in his eyes, the porthole to the mind

I feel his thoughts

Who is this guy?

Suddenly I’m released

I’m back again

Slightly afraid to look, but I do

He’s gone

Look all around

He never was there

A Book and Its Cover

            She had neon green spikes through her ears, bright purple skinny jeans, black hair falling over her face, and heavy eyeliner.  How can she wake up in the morning, look in the mirror, and think that looks nice? I thought.  Well, I guess there’s one way to find out.  She was just chilling, leaning against a building, so I figured she could spare a minute to talk to me.

            “Excuse me,” I said.  “Can I ask you a question?”  She turned toward me slowly, took me in—me and all my “normalcy”—and replied, “Sure.”  I was somewhat surprised to find her voice of a similar tone to mine—not particularly low—and her expression pleasant.

            “Why do you dress like that?” I asked, glancing down at her outfit.

            “Why do you dress like that?” she responded, looking at my jeans and sweatshirt.

            “Because it looks good,” I said, “and it is considered by most people to be normal.”

            “So?” she replied.  “I and my friend prefer this style.  That’s what matters, right?  I don’t really care about pleasing you.”

            I was slightly offended, but I understood her point.  I had kind of thought people who dressed like she did really preferred my own style, but sacrificed looking nice for the purpose of making a point.

            “But…aren’t there universal standards for life?”

            “Of course there are,” she answered.  “Not many people would take too kindly to me killing you right now.”  I took a step back.  “But who cares if my jeans are purple and yours are blue?”

            “I prefer blue jeans,” I said.  “I don’t want to dress like you.”

            “Then don’t,” she replied.  “Don’t you see?  That’s the point!  When it comes to style of clothes, or style of music, or dialect of language—things that aren’t dictated by a higher power—it’s up to the individual.”

            I gave that a moment of thought.

            “But by dressing that way, you’re being rebellious,” I said.

            “Rebellious?” she echoed.  “Who am I rebelling against?  People like you—people who think they’re normal.  But by dressing like that, maybe you’re rebelling against people like me.  I have no authority over you and you have no authority over me.  Some people do have authority over us, but there’s no law about clothing styles, as long as you wear clothes!” 

            “So it’s the government who decides what’s normal or what’s right and wrong?  The government has the authority to dictate color of jeans?”

            “No, that wouldn’t be the government’s place.  That is outside the realm of its authority.”

            “But…”  There was still something I wasn’t getting here.  “But who gives the government its authority?  The people?”

            “No.”

            “Then who?”

            “God.”

            Now, this really surprised me.

            “You believe in God?”

            “Sure,” she answered.  “Surprised?”

            “Are you a Christian?”

            “Yes,” she replied.

            “Then why do you dress like that?”

            “Because I want to, and the Bible doesn’t have a preference.  God, apparently, doesn’t have a preference.  So the government shouldn’t either.  That is not the responsibility of the government.” 

            “So you’re saying God has ultimate power.”  This conversation was getting weirder and weirder.  I always figured these punks only thought about drugs, booze, and sex.  This girl not only claimed to be a Christian, but appeared to be a philosopher.

            “Yes, God has ultimate power.”

            “What gives him the right to ultimate power?”

            “No one.  He doesn’t need anyone to give him authority, because he is the authority.  He was before all things.  No one delegated him to rule the universe.  He created the universe, and he created life the way it is: with him in charge.  He gives power to other people—like government authorities—but he’s up there watching out to make sure they don’t abuse the power he gave them.”

            “Hm,” I said.  “Well…thank you very much.”  As I walked away, I had a lot to think about, and I appreciated my own style so much more, knowing that it was my own.

Spying on Dignity

          The house looked like the Coliseum to me—the Coliseum with a huge, green lawn in front.  The house was mammoth—much larger than it appeared from the highway.  But now that I was there, walking up the white driveway, I could hardly believe my eyes.

            And there they were: beautiful women clad in shimmery evening gowns, gentlemen in tuxedos, sipping champagne.  A mini orchestra swayed the dancers like a breeze on a field of tall grass.

            I hung back in the trees, watching the people on the patio.  They were like shadows, slitting before my eyes and blending into a unified mass of wealth.  Gold, glitz, and glamour… it was all here, and it made my heart pound just to be so near it.  There was a difference between the society column in the newspaper and the real-life party on the patio of the Great House.

            Now I had seen it.  Now I was done.  I slid away into the park, leaving the aristocracy to itself.

A Life in a Slum

           I could either work in a factory or work on the streets.  I could work all day or all night.  I had to risk my life either way.  Did I want to die in a fire, or be killed by an abusive man?

            What were my options?  I had no money, no education, and no connections.  I couldn’t even afford to leave the island.  I was stuck.

            Standing at the river.  The water looks cool and relaxing.  If I could get beneath the water, so that it shut out the dark world, then maybe I could escape.  I stare into the water.  Dreaming.  Imagining.  Longing for escape.

The Last Andrew

Note: if you’re familiar with Twelfth Night, this story will be more entertaining.
  
        Whether it was a movie or a play, she always fell in love with the actor playing Sir Andrew Aguecheek.  Twelfth Night was, in her opinion, Shakespeare’s masterpiece, and whenever she had the opportunity to see it, she did.  Since the first time she’d read the play in high school, she had been in love with Sir Andrew, and now she was smitten with actors who played him.

            For two weeks, she stalked Richard E. Grant, from the movie Twelfth Night, until she saw a production of the play at the local middle school.  That was awkward, since Sir Andrew was played by a 7^th grader, but only three days later, she saw a youtube video of a college production from 2001.  She moved to Pittsburg to be near Jake Collins, who was now a paralegal.  He was going to get a restraining order against her after she crashed his stag party, but she promised to leave him alone.  After that, she cultivated the art of disguise.

            Every few months, she encountered a new Sir Andrew and fell violently in love.  Though it grew tiresome, she simply couldn’t help it.  She even very nearly got married once, but three weeks before the wedding, her fiancé foolishly brought her to see a local production of Twelfth Night, probably trying to remind her of the night she met him.  But the new Sir Andrew, ugly and scrawny though he was, tore her heart away from her fiancé.

            And so her life continued for years, until she was so sick and tired of it all that she did her best not to go see Twelfth Night anymore.  But her intense love for the romantic comedy was not easy to keep down.

            One snowy evening, she was standing outside a movie theater.  A new version of Twelfth Night had come out, but she was a dollar short on cash.  A dollar!

            “Please, sir,” she said, approaching a rather hideous-looking young man standing there.  “Have you got a dollar?”

            “Sir?” he answered.  “Am I a sir?  No, I’m Andrew.”

            “Sir…” she began.

            “Andrew,” he corrected her.

            “Sir Andrew?!” she gasped.

            “Yes?” he said, confused but wanting to please the fresh face before him.

            “Sir Andrew Aguecheek?!”  She was smitten.  “Please,” she said.  “Marry me and take me away from all these productions!”  After all, she thought, when Olivia asked Sebastian to marry her, he agreed even though he’d never met her.  But then, she was beautiful…

            “Take you away where?” he asked, taking her hand.  Her heart fluttered.

            “Away,” she said, “away from all the other Andrews.”  This was enough for him.

            “I have a cabin in the mountains,” he said.  “We don’t even get radio.  And the City Hall is just down the street.  We could get married now!”

            “Oh, Andrew!”

            “I suppose I ought to know your name,” he said as they set off.

            “Call me…Viola.”

            And they lived happily ever after.

A Disadvantageous Marriage

            “My dear sir!  You must see how disadvantageous such a marriage would be!  She is a working girl.”

            “She is a hard-working girl, with true strength of the character.”

            “Her uncle is in trade.  And who knows who her father was?  Probably she is illegitimate.”

            “That’s ridiculous.  Her mother is too respectable for that.  She may not be the daughter of a gentleman, but she is respectable.”

            “Your son is a gentleman.  Sir, you are a gentleman.  How can you allow this?”

            “Mr. Riggs, I am a gentleman and I love my son.  My son loves her.  She is a fine girl, and—"

            “A fine girl?  A fine girl?  She is so unrefined.”

            “She is honest, and gentle, and polite.  My son loves her and I will not deny him his happiness because of questionable birth.”

            His opponent heaved a sigh.

            “Do as you will.  But my dear sir, do not say I didn’t warn you.”

            “Good-bye, Mr. Riggs.”

            “Good-bye, sir.”

Cat and Mouse

            A young, twig of a girl with blond hair and a serene expression was taking a stroll by the wall.  He looked down at her from a second-story window, studying every movement she made.  He watched the way the wind blew her hair, the way her hands rested on her hips, the way her body moved with each step.  My, but she was a pretty girl!  He walked into the next room and continued to watch her out the window.  His breath fogged up the glass.

            He was on her mind, too, though not before her eyes.  But his face was in her head, and his voice, and his expressions.  Her lips moved silently; her eyebrows quivered.

            Suddenly, her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the grass.  He wiped the glass clean and watched her lie there, his forehead wrinkling.