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Adaptation
Nicholas is better than Nicolas
Written by Nick on March 16th- 2004

I found myself sharing a restaurant table with a very important representative from Sony. It seems as though they have been following Progressive Boink now for several months, and they like what they have read. They have plans to make their hit movie "Adaptation" available in literature form, and are just now informing me that I have been bestowed the honor. Needless to say I was flattered at the opportunity and accepted immediately.

"Excellent, Nick, we look forward to reading your work," Ms. Adams said. She has been representing the people of Sony for several years now, and her experience shows. I could tell that she had other business to attend to, shown through the bluntness of the conversation she was now wrapping up.

"Let's just hope that I don't entangle myself in a crippling case of writer's block, as was the case in this film!" I replied quickly. We shared a half-hearted laugh together. The awkwardness of the silence that followed was matched only by her leaving without saying goodbye. I pretended to vomit as to avoid picking up the check.

I went home to my economically sized house and a cold bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. No new calls on the answering machine and my cell phone remained fixed in its previous position at the bottom of a dirty fish tank. Ah, the life of a socially-outcasted teenager. Times were never better. I walked from one empty room to the next where my twin brother lay sprawled on his back.

"Hey, Nick, how'd the meeting go?" he inquired.
"Just fine, Donald, I got the job"
"That's fantastic! We should go celebrate! There's a party at my friend Tim's house, you should come with me!"
"I don't know, Donald, I'm not really the party type. The last time I went to one of your friend's parties I got lost in the mudroom."
"Nonsense," he barked in bitter protest, "It'll be fun! Why don't you bring that girl you're dating?"
"Dona…what? I've told you we're not dating."
"Oh. Sorry."
"Anyway, I'd like to start writing this article while the ideas in my head are still fresh."
"Ok, cool. If you feel like stopping by you should, it'll be a good time."
"Fine."

I sat down two hours later in front of a blank computer screen, the blinking black bar of MSWord mocking the bareness of my page. Lines were written and erased almost as quickly as they had appeared, and the process continued for a seemingly infinite amount of time. I gave up, called my lady friend, and we were off to the ball.

Despite her blatant signs of interest my cowardice shined over my will, and I was left alone for the better part of the night. I made a desperate attempt to arrange a date for later in the week, but she was struck. She knew just how I ticked, and the rhythm of my pendulum was misbalanced and disturbing. Not so much of a "weird" disturbing as a "let go of my arm" disturbing. I knew this would be the last time I would see her for a long while, and in my last attempt to win her heart I dropped her off at her house and drove away. Chivalry had died in it's lowest of forms, leaving me crotch-stained and alone.

The house I returned to was less lonely than before, only because Donald had brought back a woman to have sex with. A greater shame could not have been set above my head. I turned up the volume on my discman to compensate for the echoes ringing through my walls. I cried to Black Eyed Peas that night.

I woke up early the next morning for coffee at my local diner. The waitress happened to notice a copy of "Adaptation" on top of my jacket, which sparked her interest.

"You're watching Adaptation."
"Huh? Oh, right. Yeah, I'm writing an article about it for Sony. It's really interesting."
"I love Adaptation! I must've seen it about ten times in the theatre."
"Really? Wow, that's a lot. It's a very interesting story, though. I love production of foil characters between Charlie and his brother."
"I thought they were the same person…"
"Nope, they actually wrote the script for the movie."
"I did not know that. So what can I get you?"
"Cup of coffee'll do just fine."
"Alright, one coffee for my Adaptation expert."

My heart was too focused on her walk back to the kitchen to remember how to beat properly, and that was just fine with me. Our conversation lingered in the back of my mind, replaying over and over with each successive viewing more sincere than the last. She returned with my cup of coffee and spilt it on my lap. I took back my 15% tip.

Me. Empty house. Blank Computer screen. This would become a most familiar scenario in the weeks to pass. Most of the time I would resort to childish games of "Polar Bowler" or flash animated cartoons of Osama Bin Laden being impaled by 375 American flags. When these simple amusements reached a new level of simplicity I directed my attention towards counting the pixels on my screen, which I have estimated around 20x20.

It was about two weeks after the assignment had been bequeathed upon me when I had finished my first page of material. What an achievement. It was also around this time that I decided to meet with the Sony representative for a second time. We talked over the same meals at the same restaurant, and would eventually arrive at the same situation.

"I don't think I can write your article, Ms. Adams."
"What? Why not, Nick? You're just the writer we want for this piece!"
"I went into this article thinking that I was going to create a thing of beauty, but instead I've found myself resorting to cheap Hollywood methods, like incorporating subtle tones of love and cheap violence."
"I love it!"
"You haven't read it yet."
"You think you have to pay attention to a movie just to enjoy seeing a helicopter blow up? Of course not, it's why Rambo has become the household term it is."
"I don't like Rambo."
"You must be a terrorist, then."
"Listen, maybe if I were allowed to meet with Charlie Kaufman I'd be able to focus on the ideas I'm trying to incorporate. I want to display this movie as the masterpiece it was, not some caption soaked Wacko Jacko bit."
"You can find him here," she said as she scribbled onto a random piece of paper she produced from her purse.
"Do…you always give out other people's addresses this easily?"
"I've had a lot to drink."
"That's not alcohol, it's Sweet & Low."
"I think my heart stopped pounding."
"Have fun paying your bill, faggot." I left.

The torn corner of a napkin led me to a large business office in New York. I've never been a fan of New York and this trip did nothing to change my opinion. I was mugged twice and I offended a police officer with my "This little piggy failed out of high school" joke. He shot me in the brain.

I had booked a hotel room earlier in the week two blocks from the building, and it was there that I would spend the next week. It took all the courage I could muster to even walk into Mr. Kaufman's workplace, let alone ask someone if I could speak to him. When I finally was granted to opportunity to speak with him, I ran away. Just when I'm handed the opportunity to unlock the secrets of this article, I ran. I don't know if it was because I was afraid or because I saw an ice cream truck driving down the street, but I broke for the doors without looking back.

My hotel room had a lot more items in it than I had at my house. There was a bible, numerous lamps, a TV remote, carpeting, the works, yet when I returned to this seemingly euphoric habitat I endured the most depressing night of my life.

"I have failed."

"I cannot write this article."

I decided to call my brother, Donald, who had just posted his first article ever on the acclaimed TheOnion.com. I swallowed the little pride I had left in myself and invited him to New York to help me with my article. I knew deep down that he would have no idea what to do with it, and would probably suggest I add Frankenstein hitting Yosemite Sam over the head with a sack full of coffee makers.

To my surprise, Donald took the high road, merely suggesting that I just have an orchestra of helicopter explosions mirage in the background of my article.
"This is a very sophisticated article, Donald, how would ever incorporate that into this piece?"
"Captions."
"No, y'see…forget it."

At this point I was at the bottom of my own bottle and was just about ready to cash in my chips and go back to Massachusetts. I lay sprawled out on the freshly washed comforter adorning my twin bed. I felt at whole with the apathy that was devouring my creative nature.

"That's it!" I scrambled for my tape recorder to take down my thoughts.

"We cut to Nick Dallamora; boring, lazy, untalented piece of garbage! He sits in front of his computer screen day and night without producing anything of quality! He's given the opportunity to actually make something of himself and he drowns in his own sea of stubbornness and self-pity, completely destroying any chance of success he might have had! No! We start in the beginning! Backwords.150m.com! We show the Mighty Ducks front-page layout, and then the old man joke, and finally the front-page layout that has been up for about 2 years now! Cut to Progressive Boink where Nick produces cock-tease length articles composed completely of masturbation references and poor attempts at double entendre! This is good! This is what I needed!"

I went to sleep that night for the first time in 4 days.

I woke up in deprived stupor, my mind completely dismantled from the previous night's wild epiphany. I searched for my tape recorder as to verify that I had actually thought long enough to make sure I took down this idea of mine. I found it and replayed the track.

I thought about what I had just heard, and replayed it again. The truth was still there.

"I've written myself into this article. That is the most pathetic thing I think I have ever heard of."
"What are you talking about?" Donald chimed in. He had been playing a rousing game of "slap your nuts with the toilet seat" in the bathroom, stopping only to offer his literary genius at my time of need.
"I wrote myself into this article. The epitome of my life has now taken my personal character. I'm a living example of Ouroboros."
"I don't know what that means," Donald admitted.
"Ouroboros is the symbolic image of a snake devouring itself."
"I don't think so."
It was at this point that I hit him square in the back with a burlap sack full of crock-pots.

Over the next few days Donald paid close attention to me as my mental stability went through the floor. He offered many suggestions as to how I could write this article, from Java codes that made letters chase the viewer's cursor, to having an MIDI of Green Day play in the background. This only added to my remorse.

We left the glimmer of New York on an Eastbound train to Boston. We hadn't been home two hours before Donald began placing our luggage into the trunk of his car.

"What are you doing?" I inquired.
"I'm taking you to California; I found out where this Charlie Kaufman guy lives."

I didn't even bother to put up a fight. I just stepped into the passengers seat and shook my head in disbelief. We were going to California.

We arrived the next day brandishing 5 o'clock shadows as tribute to the trip we had just made. We conquered the highway, but severe cases of blood clots would get the best of each of us in the end.

I sat patiently on the hood of Donald's Honda Civic as he fingered along the streets of California on his newly purchased map. Shortly thereafter I found myself trapped shotgun yet again as the man to my left navigated through what appeared to be highways with traffic lights. I threw my Black Eyed Peas CD out the window.

He pulled up in front of a humble estate to say the least.

"Here she is," he insisted. I still had trouble believing that Charlie Kaufman resided in this more than sub-standard style of living. It was a single-story house with what I imagined couldn't have encapsulated more than 4 rooms, bathroom included. We approached a window with open Venetian blinds to gather a closer look. What we saw appeared to be a very let-go depiction of the Charlie Kaufman I had seen before. He was semi-conscious, gripping the neck of a beer bottle with his right hand to the side of his fully extended armchair. It dropped to the ground.

"Oh my god, is he dead?" whispered Donald.
"No, he's not dead. He's just drunk off his ass. Come on, let's go, I've seen enough."
"Wait a minute, Nick. I didn't drag you the entire length of this country to get a peep show at a drunken screenwriter. Let's talk to this guy, see if he can help you write this article."

Cut to Nick and Donald being led to their execution by Charlie Kaufman and his large, white van. Music plays:

Imagine me and you, I do
I think about you day and night
It's only right
To think about the girl you love
And hold her tight

Donald weeps softly as he slowly comes to terms with his fast approaching death. I was always jealous of Donald's sense of self-deprivation. He had this knack to ignore the incredibly painful, only to focus on the joys he found within his life. Sure, it might set him back a few pegs, but he was happy, damnit, and I needed that in my life. I guess now the true stature of human nature was beginning to work its way outward from deep within my brother. It was at this moment that I, too, began to realize just how grave a situation I had been placed in. My knuckles whitened.

He took us into the swamp, holding us at gunpoint. He told us that he didn't want to do this to us, and that he had no choice. We earnestly explained to him that he had several choices, all of which made more sense than killing two perfectly innocent men, but he had made his mind. He cocked his gun and was eaten by an alligator. We stole his van.

On the way back to our own car I slammed into a gigantic alligator, sending Donald through the windshield and onto the dirt road. I attended his side, but it was too late. Donald, the brother I only now began to appreciate, was dead. Dead as dead can get. There really is no way to describe the pain that accompanies watching your own brother die before your own eyes, especially in such violent and traumatic fashion.

I called my mom and tried to tell her what had happened, but my own emotions burst like time bombs at the sound of her voice. She flew up for his funeral, the first time I had seen her since Christmas. I find it most ironic that a death should bring people together, as in this case. It's almost a way of destiny's saying, "NOW will you re-unite?"

As empty as I had thought my house a few months ago, it tripled in emptiness. The bedroom next to mine looked very unfamiliar without a woman strewn within the mess of blankets and clothes on the floor. The kitchen table's second chair was pushed in, unlike its usual position, which was right in the walking path to the living room. Life was too easy without Donald. It just wasn't interesting anymore.

-Nick
Nick@progressiveboink.com
AIM: WaterAndCoffee