(Directed by Ingmar Bergman)
by Kevin Murphy
It would be better to not have a rocket ship than to have a rocket ship. If I had a rocket ship I would climb aboard and zing to the moon each time a difficult situation compromised my comfort. Yesterday, for example, would have been prime for a moon-destined flight. I’m from Boston, you see, and recently we’ve been blessed with a remarkable string of sport victories. But last night our string was clipped, and we fell like Icarus into the sea.
Not from mere failure do I long for the moon’s cool breezes. I also avoid responsibility when it is not convenient. It was beautiful here in Charleston this weekend. I saw a play, had dinner out, and yesterday cooked bratwursts with my brother and watched the Super Bowl. I did not, however, watch Wild Strawberries, this week’s selected film, and that is why I wish I had a rocket ship to go to the moon.
My brother is broke so I hired him for twenty bucks to build me a rocket ship. He’s been born with a bona fide rocket ship tattoo. Only the finest rocket ship mechanics receive one. The tattoos are applied on the day of birth from the queen of the moon. As any decent rocket ship mechanic does, my brother, Shane, wears his with pride.
Last night my attention was piqued by his tattoo. We visited my best buddy Kyle’s house and watched the game. Kyle’s got a terrific plasma television, but he was born on earth, so he doesn’t have a bona fide rocket ship tattoo. Shane’s tattoo is on his shoulder. It appears to meld the Irish flag and a bulldog. The difference with a moon’s tattoo is that the bulldog isn’t Irish, it’s English, and the flag ripples in all the wrong places. Any detective worth his cape can glean the value of Shane’s tattoo. He is a premier rocket ship mechanic. Just wait. One day he’ll be the first to fly back to the moon.
My attention was piqued yesterday by Shane’s tattoo because he was anxious about the game. He wasn’t aware of the habit he’d formed. Each time the game swayed with disfavor, Shane rolled his sleeve around his shoulder. This reminded me that some people claim Shane’s not really a rocket ship mechanic. That the true reason’s he got that tattoo is because he was a teenager with his manhood to prove. I hired him today for twenty bucks to silence his skeptics. As I write, I can see him work. He’s completed the rocket ship’s starboard. I’ll probably be able to eat a lunar mealjack for lunch.
FYI: that’s the famed galactic cheeseburger you’ve read about in this week’s newspapers.
Last night’s victorious quarterback had quite the performance. Asked earlier in the week how he’d planned to celebrate should victory be his, he responded with his usual provocation. “Like I said a thousand times. If I win the Super Bowl, I’m going to the moon. Get me a lunar mealjack.”
Well, my team’s loss has made me bitter. Bitters are supposed to be good for the stomach, but my bitterness makes me hungry. I have wired the international community. I will beat the MVP quarterback. I will be the first to have a lunar mealjack on the moon.
Today it was announced the MVP quarterback would also bring his favorite dead film director back to life. An amazing feat, I am nonetheless peeved. Of course he had to choose my favorite, Ingmar Bergman. I will watch Wild Strawberries on my way to the moon. Should I meet the great director’s reincarnation, I will have much more interesting things to discuss than last night’s football game. For example, MVP will try to order a lunar mealjack. I will have addressed the situation with the drive-through clerk. All the citizens of the moon are Patriots’ fans, so the drive-through clerk will be my partner in crime. Together we will rid the restaurant of all lunar mealjacks and then stock them in my rocket ship. As MVP and Bergman land, the mealjack’s aroma will lure the director away from MVP. He will abandon MVP. He will visit my rocket ship. We will indulge in lunar mealjacks and talk cinema. It will be a beautiful afternoon on the moon.
Perhaps I will learn to reincarnate dead directors. If so, I will summon Victor Sjostrom. He is the hero in Wild Strawberries. I think his querulous nature, mixed with his reflective attitudes about life, will inspire terrific conversation. I will ask him what it was like to work with Ingmar Bergman, and pressure him for inside gossip. We will enjoy lunar mealjacks and bask in the moon’s pale landscape.
At day’s end I will steal MVP’s thunder. He will mourn his loss and feel badly about his unlikely victory. He will sulk in a dark crater. Ingmar and I will film the situation. It’ll be a broad, psychological drama. When finished, I’ll ship the movie to Shane. My gratitude will earmark his reputation as a superior rocket ship mechanic. I will watch Wild Strawberries and write an alternative essay next week. Meantime, I must find the Queen and beg for internet access.
In space it’s all black and white. But colorful details line the horizon.
