Blaze Claymore in: The Unbearable Weight of Moderate Talent

Somewhere in Hollywood… Nathan Lake locks eyes with his reflection in a dirty mirror inside the basement bathroom of a church-slash-bowling alley off Willoughby Avenue, trying to choke down the pit slowly rising in his stomach.

The space is exactly what you imagine a lavatory in such a clearly thought out concept as this one would be. The floor tiles are uneven, some cracked, all discolored—grout that’s aged from white to nicotine-yellow to a mildew-slick black. The walls are a patchwork of old water stains and bad repaint jobs, the kind of beige that looks like it gave up halfway through drying.

Hanging on the wall are shattered plastic frames with the letters “O,” “A,” and “P” scratched out and replaced with the letters “H”, “I”, and “T.” A joke Nathan might find funny if he weren’t busy trying not to puke.

He barely registers the smell: something clearly dying in the pipes, masked by industrial-strength Glade, institutional bleach, and a thick layer of denial.

Held in Nathan’s shaking hand is a manila envelope. Inside it held three sheets of paper and a single glossy photo of himself. The starving actor’s starter kit and he hadn't eaten for months.

He bobs and weaves his head back and forth trying to catch glimpses of his hair and face in the parts of the mirror not covered in grease and grime until, finally, he’s at least somewhat satisfied with himself and takes in a breath.

Nathan Lake: You’ve got this. You’ve got this. You’ve-

There's a flushing sound from behind Nathan that sets his body rigid. He thought this bathroom was empty. How long had someone been in there? Had they heard him practicing... and crying?

Nathan stands straight, eyes locked forward, as the stall behind him opens and he hears the sound of dress shoes on the floor’s broken tile. If the mirror were any clearer he might be able to see who it is, instead all he can see is a suit out of the corner of his eye.

His body buzzes with stress as the suit joins him at the sink and begins to wash its hands. Brief images flash in his limited field of vision. Gold wedding ring. Manicured fingernails. Cufflinks in the shape of a cross.

A priest? A parishioner? An exorcist!?

Nathan tries to make himself look busy, reaching to pull a paper towel down from the roll, but just as quickly as the suit manifests itself, it evaporates through the swinging bathroom door, leaving Nathan to let out a whoosh of air from his tightly held breath as he looks around.

Running a hand through his freshly cut hair, he adjusts his too-tight tie and cinches a belt that barely holds. He swallows one last surge of bile, then steps out of the restroom.

The hallway greets him with three dozen folding chairs, each one occupied by a man who looks just like him: same height, same haircut, same nervous grip on the same three-page script.

In that moment Nathan promised himself that, if nothing else, he would never let himself be embarrassed like that in a bathroom ever again. Somewhere in Montreal Blaze sits with his head in his hands while Sophia rubs slow, careful circles across the soft cotton fabric of his hotel robe.

Sophia Cuchilla  (softly): It’s… not that bad. Really.

It was.

Really.

Blaze looks up, his normally minimal-pigment complexion now an angry crimson. Whether it’s residual shame or the fifth deep-cleanse shower he’s taken to scrub away blood, piss, and shit, the result is the same: raw. Only Sophia’s presence was enough to prevent himself from re-enacting the Ättestupa scene from Midsommar right off the balcony.

Sophia Cuchilla: Is there anything I can do?

Blaze couldn’t think straight… he could barely hear Sophia as his mind waged war upon itself on top of 100 thread count bedsheets. You idiot. You fool. This is exactly why you need me. Blaze clenches his fists.

Sophia Cuchilla (gently): Blaze, what is-

Blaze Claymore  (irritated): Christ almighty! Now I know why you got stuck doing shampoo commercials in Tokyo—‘cause all you had to do was stand there, smile, and hold the damn bottle!

Sophia recoils, her hand yanking back like she’s been burned.

Blaze is already on his feet, gripping the sides of his head like he could crush the noise inside. He grabs a hold of a nearby bottle - it doesn’t matter which one - and makes his way to the door of their hotel room.

Sophia stands up, her voice modulating from fear to anger to grief.

Sophia Cuchilla: We’ve got a train to catch to Toronto tomorrow morning. Where are you going!? Train. Fucking… TRAIN. We deserve a private jet and Cristal, not fucking VIA Rail and… Wayne Gretzky Sparking Brut? Are you serious right now!? Blaze doesn’t answer Sophia as he unlatches the lock on the door.

Sophia Cuchilla (pleading): Blaze, please. You’re not thinking straight. You’re overreact-

Blaze spins around and looks at Sophia.

Blaze Claymore (furious): Overacting? Overacting!?

She freezes, damned if she corrects Blaze and damned if she doesn’t. She simply watches as he looks down at the bottle of champagne and then holds his hand to his head again before stepping out into the hallway and slamming the door behind him.

Sophia clutches her chest and stands there, waiting… hoping to hear the door click open. Instead, she hears a muffled roar echoing from down the hall…

Blaze Claymore (through the door): GODDAMMIT!

Somewhere in Montevideo Nathan Lake: Goddammit.

I’ve got these out of order…

Nathan nervously taps his foot on the carpet lining Montevideo High School’s gymnasium stage – Go Thunder Hawks.

He holds a thick set of notecards in his hands behind a drab gray curtain as the sound of Principal Greene boomed over the PA system and reverberated off the thick cement walls framing the surprisingly large facility.

Principal Greene: Thank you, Josie, for that unique rendition of Three Blind Mice. I… think we’ve all learned quite a bit about ableism today, haven’t we students?

A polite clap fills the air as Nathan’s stomach begins to twist in knots as he realizes he’s up next – the “main event” of the high school talent show. Though, no one calls it that; it’s just the slot they always fill with the most senior senior of that year’s graduating class.

It almost made Nathan purposefully failing his junior year worth it… not to graduate with the students he knew for six years, sometimes longer. To have his mother so embarrassed and beside herself that she forced him to see a tutor over the entire summer. All bumps in the road to be the performance that gets him noticed and out of this god awful town.

Nathan Lake: Time to make them remember you… No. Time to make them see you for the first time.

Whatever voice was in his head, whatever fire had suddenly come to the fore was like a soothing blanket coating his fragile heart. In that moment he felt like he could take on the world, just as he heard his name - called out loud in public for the first time in his life.

Principal Greene: Now, for our final student tonight we have a young man who has for you a very special one-man performance. He calls it “Minnesota On Film” please welcome …. Nathan Lake!

Nathan shoves the cue cards in his pocket as he takes a breath, turns on the microphone and steps out from behind the curtain and onto the stage.

The brightness of the spotlight was immediately jarring and not at all what Nathan expected. As he looked out from the stage all he could see was this blinding light cutting through the otherwise dark abyss of the gymnasium.

The silence seemed deafening, every cough and wheeze amplified as Nathan struggled to get his first words out…

Nathan Lake (thick Minnesotan accent): So, that was Mrs. Lundegaard on the floor in there. And I guess that was your accomplice in the wood chipper. And those three people in Brainerd. And for what? For a little bit of money?

Nathan pauses. Nothing.

Nathan Lake (thick Minnesotan accent): There's more to life than a little money, you know. Don'tcha know that? And here ya are, and it's a beautiful day. Well. I just don't understand it.

Someone in the audience claps. Another coughs.

These rubes. These philistines.

Nathan Lake (normal voice): Thank you. That was Frances McDormand from Fargo… 1996. Coen Brothers.

Nathan smooths his hair before looking back up to the crowd.

Nathan Lake (earnest): You may make it. You may not, but that doesn't matter, Charlie. What matters is that we're here. Look around! Who ever thought we'd make it this far. 1, 2, 3. Triple Deke. Take your best shot. I believe in you, Charlie…. Win or lose.

He coughs, clearing his throat.

Nathan Lake (normal voice): 1992. Emilio Estevez. The Mighty Ducks. Thank you.

A solo “WOOOO GO DUCKS” from the audience. Nathan begins to get nervous as he shuffles from side to side, digging deep.

Nathan Lake (snarky and high pitched): Please don't talk to yourself.

You're losing them.

Nathan pauses a beat longer than he should, squeezing the microphone.

Nathan Lake (sassy): It's one of your more freakish Needy behaviors and it makes us both look like total gaylords. Fuck, you need a mani bad. You should find a Chinese chick to buff your situation.

Nathan looks up as the auditorium crowd gasps and laughs. A reaction. Finally. It isn't the only reaction, however. Nathan sees Principal Greene making a bee line for him and his microphone. Instead, he jumps off the stage platform, microphone in hand, and backs away cautiously while still leaning into his performance.

Nathan Lake (nervous energy): 2009. Megan Fox. Jennifer’s Body. Karyn Kusama. Thank you.

Some in the crowd begin to clap and hoot as others are clearly beginning to clear out. The principal is staring at Nathan, gesturing for the microphone back.

Looking around, finally out of the spotlight, Nathan sees every eye in the auditorium on him in that moment — and what he is going to say next.

An involuntary smirk rises on Nathan’s lips as if the fire that had been smouldering just minutes ago has become an inferno.

Nathan Lake (defiant): Why do I think Josie will win? You're talking about the richest family in a small town. It's front page news when one of them takes a shit!

That’s from Drop Dead Gorgeous. 1999. With a little Nathan Lake ad lib!

Principal Greene is done asking. He begins to bolt across the stage.

Nathan suddenly and literally drops the mic with a loud *pop* as he bolts from the gymnasium, suddenly realizing he will not be welcome at his high school graduation ceremonies after all, but as he bolts - as fast as he can from the gymnasium - he hears the hoots and hollers of his classmates echoing in the distance.

He shoves open the first door he can find - the men’s bathroom - and tumbles in and onto the floor.

With a sense of mania Nathan holds his head in his hands and lets out a hysterical laugh… until he realizes he doesn’t recognize that sound.

It’s his voice, but not his laugh.

Nathan pushes himself up off the floor and grabs the edges of the bathroom sink, but what he sees in the mirror is something else altogether. Those eyes. That energy. That smile… no longer slowly thawing.

They were ablaze.

Somewhere Somewhere The hallway is long, carpeted in some oppressive paisley, walls adorned with identical framed photos of fake landscapes. Blaze staggers through it, shirtless under his hotel robe, empty bottle of champagne in hand, the other gripping the wall.

He laughs. Blaze, that is, though seeing Mr. Thompson somewhere in the halls of wherever this is would certainly be the cherry on top of the evening.

Blaze Claymore (slurred): I was right in the middle of a fucking reptile zoo, and somebody was giving booze to these goddamn things. Won't be long now before they tear us to shreds.

I bet Hunter S. Thompson never got champagne delirious. Point Blaze.

The bottle catches the edge of an end table, making a high-pitched ding sound.

Blaze Claymore (slightly less slurred): Johnny Depp. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. 1998. Terry Gilliam.

Blaze walks into an elevator. Or a closet. Probably an elevator—it begins to move. Up? Or down? Which way does gravity work again?

You think you can drink me away? Fool. Idiot. I am you. Blaze takes a swig from the empty bottle before letting it fall to the floor of the elevator/closet.

Ding.

The doors open to a flight of stairs heading straight up. No. That can’t be right.

Look at you! You can’t even tell which way is up. This is why you could never hit your mark! One foot in front of the other. One step in front of the other.

Blaze Claymore (tired): You know what they don’t tell you when you start to audition for roles in Hollywood? It’s not how to get used to rejection; that’s clean… you expect that.

Who are you talking to? Who is he talking to?

Blaze Claymore: No, it’s the criticism. The critiques. Never being good enough, or fast enough, or the right age, or height, hair color, or vibe. A million different directors and producers can see you a million different ways and the only way to survive is to stand out.

One foot in front of the other. One step in front of the other.

Blaze Claymore: You ever get lit on fire for a turkey sandwich and a thumbs up for a chance to be on the big screen?

Why are you bringing that up? Blaze Claymore: Then, years later, realize that leap of faith in yourself was just you jumping into your own funeral pyre?

Where are we going? One foot in front of the other. One step in front of the other.

Blaze Claymore: Wiped out, covered in shit and blood on a bathroom floor should be my career low point, right? Not even close. It’s even my lowest point in a bathroom.

A door opens. A gust of air.

We’re outside. Why are we outside? We’re up. Why are we up?

One foot in front of the other. One step in front of the other.

Blaze Claymore (nervous): But what happens when a burnout gets burned out? What happens when you burn, and burn, and burn… and are left with nothing but ash?

Hey now. HEY NOW! Blaze Claymore (erratic): What happens when your mind - your energy - has gone into researching, embodying, and living in the world of every role possible to play? A hero. A villain. A goon. A sidekick. A cop. A criminal. A doctor. A patient—

Blaze Claymore (still erratic): A judge. A witness. A student. A teacher. A mentor. A father. A son. A brother. A cousin.

We hear Blaze get more frantic as he lists off the roles, his voice edging on the verge of mania, until… suddenly he’s not.

Blaze Claymore (calm): And yet you are still too scared to play yourself?

One foot in front of the other. One step—

Blaze’s toes curl around the edge of cold cement as he steps backwards and fastens his robe.

Silence. Then a laugh as Blaze’s vision begins to clear, taking in the Montreal skyline from 20 stories up.

Blaze Claymore (under his breath): Not today… not today…

He fumbles around in his pocket and finds his phone.

Missed call. Sophia.

Missed call. Sophia.

Missed call. Sophia.

On and on and on.

Blaze frowns and swipes up and begins typing, but not to Sophia…

Hey TAL 5000. I’d like to say I’m sorry for making you piss your pants in front of a supine Fred Dick and levitating Felix Mullen but I’m not. I’d also like to say that I enjoyed the look on your face, but there is only ever one look on your face, after all.

Instead what I’m going to do is ask a single question: What’s your excuse?

We all wear masks. I just don’t hide behind mine. What’s your excuse?

We all have dreams that we chase. I just didn’t start mine with a leg up because of my last name. What’s your excuse?

We all think about what it means to reach the top. I just haven’t been given that opportunity. What’s your excuse?

We all know that one day this will all be over and the only thing left will be what they say about us. I’m just getting started. What’s your excuse?

Or, perhaps, the more important question for you, TAL, after all you’ve been through, is does it even matter anymore?

Blaze raises his head from the phone and, after a beat, walks back to the edge of the rooftop and looks down.

Blaze Claymore (under his breath and to himself): Well? Does it?

Silence.

Blaze Claymore steps back from the edge and turns his back.

Blaze Claymore: Yeah. Thought so.

SEND. Somewhere in Hollywood Nathan’s leg shakes nervously with the manilla envelope in his death grip until he hears his name from somewhere down the hall.

He looks up as an older woman in a blouse and reading glasses waves him up off his seat.

Nathan looks around at the doppelgängers sitting in their folding chairs, heads down and staring at the same three sheets of paper. Him but not him. There but not there.

The woman pushes a rusted metal door open as Nathan steps through the threshold into a tiny 12 x 12 room with a figure seated at a black card table with photos of a dozen “Nathans” spread out across its length. A spotlight is immediately on him, blacking out everything else in the periphery except for the blinking red light of a video camera… and a glimmering pair of crucifix cufflinks.

The figure clears its throat with a rough cough and places Nathan’s photo neatly down on the table on top of all the others and gestures.

Voice: Whenever you’re ready.

Nathan nods and opens the manilla envelope to pull out three pieces of slightly-crinkled paper.

He takes a breath and looks down at the title page, neatly typed in Courier New, 12-point font, before setting the script down.

Nathan Lake (under his breath): You’ve got this. You’ve got this. You’ve got this. You’ve-

He hears the older woman’s voice from behind him.

Woman: Nathan Lake reading fo-

Nathan Lake: Sorry, there must have been a mistake.

The woman pauses.

Nathan Lake: That’s not my name.

The figure leans forward slightly as Nathan reaches into the envelope and produces his headshot, handing it to the woman who walks it over to the table and sets it down on top of the pile.

After a brief pause the voice behind the table chuckles.

Voice: Alright, then, Blaze, we're rolling.

After a short breath Blaze lifts his head and looks directly into the camera.

A pause.

Blaze Claymore: Are you lost and don't know where to turn? Are you missing meaning in your life? Or maybe you're just wondering what is waiting for you on the other side? We may not always have the answers, but at St. Florian's you will find a family. Join us today, just a short drive off the 101, Exit 8B, right next to Louie's Used Cars. You can't miss us... because we've already been missing you.

Blaze closes his eyes and sighs before flashing a smile.

Blaze Claymore: So. How'd I do?