Maybe the Moon

movies where an intruder poses as a statue to keep from being seen. Nobody here but us pedestals . I cocked my head and listened, hearing only a distant, tinny siren and a blubbery snore from another bed, probably Mrs. Haywood’s. It was still dark in the room, but the big windows had begun to turn a pale and pearly blue. I lay still for a while, mimicking sleep, and soon enough the pedestal began to move again. After a moment or two, some part of it (those steps, I presume) struck the leg of the bed with a rude bonk, provoking its hijacker to emit a small, exasperated groan.
    I knew who it was before he came out. I caught a whiff of wet loam and wood smoke and stale sweat, with something sharply herbal at the core. It was odd to recognize him from the smell alone, because I’d never used that sense on him before. Like everyone else who claims to know him well, I’ve always been limited to what I could see and hear. The smell was right for him, I realized, and it somehow put me at ease. I stayed calm even when he abandoned his efforts at stealth and climbed onto the pedestal to grin at me.
    “What do you think you’re doing?” I asked in a stern whisper.
    He pointed to the pedestal, then to the door.
    “No way,” I said. “It stays.”
    He shook his head.
    “I’m calling the nurse.”
    This only made him cackle ecstatically. I gazed around to see if he’d woken any of the other patients, but the place was quiet. He climbed down from the pedestal, using those funny little steps of Neil’s, then sprang up onto the bed with enviable agility. I pulled the covers up under my chin and tried to stare him down, getting an eyeful in the process.
    He seemed several centuries older in real life. What made him so authentic was not so much those familiar Earth-blue eyes as the specks of crud encrusted in their corners. I could see liver spots at this distance, and the genuine crepiness of the skin on his neck. When he smiled, I saw a broken tooth, yellow as antique scrimshaw; when he turned his head for a moment, I glimpsed a blackhead in the folds of his pointy ear. Every new imperfection just made him more like the real thing.
    I remember thinking: This is incredible. What will Philip come up with next ?
    He just sat there for a moment, legs crossed, hands folded in his lap, letting me take him in.
    “You’re early,” I said.
    He widened his eyes and shrugged, then dug into the pocket of his tattered tweed trousers and produced a tarnished gold watch—obviously broken—which he consulted with grave ceremony, tapping its face and nodding, as if it explained everything.

Dear Di ,
    Gee, it was terrific to see you at the tribute last week. You and Roger both looked great, and it was good to hear the new screenplay is coming along so well. Tell Marty he’s a fool if he doesn’t shoot the third act as written .
    The enclosed notebooks are sent to you in strictest confidence for reasons you’ll understand as soon as you read them. They’re the diaries of Cady Roth, the dwarf we hired for the additional movement sequences in Mr. Woods. Remember? They were delivered to me, at her instruction, by one Jeff Kassabian, who turned up here several days ago in a T-shirt that depicted Clark Kent and Dick Tracy kissing each other. (All will be explained in the manuscript.) Cady’s very ill—in a coma at a hospital in the Valley—if she hasn’t already passed away .
    Bear with me. I’m sending you this because I value your opinion more than any other and because your own brilliant mythology looms large in the story that (I hope) you’re about to read. I could be way off the deep end here, but I think this material could be the basis for an important film. That may surprise you when you read it, since I’m cast as kind of a heavy, but I’m sure you’ll understand my excitement over the chance to reflect ironically on the ramifications of my own work—of our work. This could be a “small film” that would stand as a wise and elegant companion piece to a mainstream classic without detracting from it in any way. No director in my memory has ever done this, so I’d like to be the first to try. Of course, certain elements of the story would have to be altered for legal and dramatic purposes, but the central idea is extremely appealing to me. See what you think, anyway. Look at this as raw material and go from there. You’re obviously the only one to write the movie .
    Lucy would want me to send you her love