DEMIURGE
At the time I was eleven years of age, I had been writing and illustrating my own comic books for three years. Sometimes it was the most enjoyable thing in the world to do. And someday, I hoped to work for Marvel Comics. My intuition told me that one day comics would light up the Silver-screen—when technology became amiable and viable to Marvel, and I wanted to be a part of that.
On my way home from a friend's house, I noticed a gathering of people outside an apartment complex—they were the film-crew and actors, that were doing an inside shooting of the Amityville Horror. I loved acting, sometimes more than I loved writing and illustrating my own comic books. I had been in all the plays at school. And I saw Star Wars twenty-seven times, without a vcr, and could recite the movie verbatim. I sensed what was going on in the apartment complex, and if I could, I wanted to somehow be a part of it. So I singled-out the one that seemed the most important on the site, and I walked up to the tall, dark, and slender man, and thinking nothing of it, I said, "Excuse me sir, my name is Timothy Goodwin, and I want to know how to become an actor."
"Oh—you do, do you?" he replied.
"Yes sir, I do." I said excitedly. "I have been in all the school plays, and I have seen Star Wars twenty-seven times."
"Wow that is a lot. Are you planning on being Luke Skywalker when you grow up?"
"No," I said, smiling. "I know he is fictional. I know that Mark Hamil is just an actor—I saw him in Corvette Summer. But I would love to act in a movie like Star Wars."
"Well, let me see what I can do for you."
The man took out one of his cards and gave it to me.
"My name and number are on that card, have your folks give me a call, and we will see about getting you set up for a screen-test."
Whoohoo!...!!! I thought. I am going to be an actor!"
I ran the rest of the way home with wings on me feet. I burst through the front door, yelling, "Mom! Mom! You will never believe what happened."
She was lying on the couch, with a glass of vodka, smoking Salems. "I'm sure you are going to tell me." She said, emotionlessly.
"I am going to be an actor!" I said, enthusiastically. "A man gave me his card." I moved forward to put the man's card on the coffee table. "He must have been a film-producer; 'cause he told me to give you his card, so you could call him and set up a screen-test with him!"
"I wouldn't worry about that, too much." My mother said, again with little emotion,
"Why not?" I said, confusedly. My bubble—since running from the apartment complex had steadily been growing. Now it suddenly came to a halt.
"Because we are moving."
"Wha-wha-ah-uh-where?" I stammered.
"We're moving to Alaska."
A month before my sister, mother, and I were scheduled to move to Alaska, I heard the news that my best friend killed himself, putting a bullet to the brain-pan from his father's service revolver.
I didn't weep.
A month prior my friend had told me he was going to do it. I didn't believe him; I thought he was just talking big.
The girls at school told me that if I needed a shoulder to cry on, they would lend me theirs.
I didn't cry on a shoulder. Instead I kept it all inside.
My mother, sister, and I, moved to Alaska. Three years later, and my mother would kick me out of the house. From that moment on, things would snowball downhill.
