"Mister Americana" Part 59
Content Warning: Suicidal Ideation
That feels cold.
It burns your nose too.
What is that, chlorine?
You open your eyes and see Julie.
You’re walking toward her, pushing through the flow of people.
She’s still talking to him, and he’s about to give her whatever’s in his hand.
Someone puts their hand against your chest and stops you. You see a puff of smoke and there’s Uncle David, holding a cigar in his other hand. He steps between you and Julie, blocking your view with his body.
“You don’t want to see this part, kid.”
“What do you mean?” you ask.
“Look, if you want to make it, you have to give things up. Give up your dignity. Give up your head,” he replies. “She’s just smart enough to realize that.”
You peek around his head and see what the man’s holding. You try to make sense of it, but the shape keeps changing.
“Evan,” Uncle David says. “Just come to the bathroom with me. Let’s do a couple lines.”
You push by him and keep going.
“Julie!” you call.
She doesn’t hear you, or maybe she does but she doesn’t look at you. You keep pushing forward but none of these people will move and now the twins are ahead of you.
“Can I have a Pepsi?” Hailey asks.
“We only have Fanta,” you answer.
“Why?”
“They sponsor us,” you reply.
“What does that mean?” Harry asks.
You try to get around them but they step to the left and block you again.
“Orange or purple?” you say. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Purple,” Hailey replies.
“Alright, one purple Fanta for Hailey and…Harry? What do you want? Purple?”
Harry nods.
"Alright, two purple Fantas!”
You step between them and keep moving.
Julie takes whatever the man’s holding and you keep calling her name but she won’t look at you. You’re almost there. You’re reaching for it before she can use it but now the man who gave it to her is standing in the way.
You look up to his face.
It’s your father.
“You need to stay away from that girl,” he says.
“Who? Laura?”
“She’s nuts, Evan. The sooner you learn to avoid girls like that, the less problems you’ll have when you get older, I promise you.”
“What do you care?”
“She threatened Henry’s life, Evan!”
“Maybe he had it coming!”
He slaps you.
Your head turns with the strike and you look down to the floor. When you look back up, you realize the crowd of drunk producers and stagehands have all formed a circle around you. The camera crew is scattered throughout the crowd, recording the altercation from every angle.
Julie’s standing next to your father. Her head is gone but she’s still holding the tool.
“There’s only one way out of here, Evan,” your dad says. “It won’t hurt.”
Julie’s body holds it out for you to take.
“We could hurt you if you’d like,” he says.
You stare down at the tool and consider taking it but when you look up, your dad’s sitting in a lazyboy, reading “The Great Gatsby.”
“It’s alright, but if I were you, I’d clean it up with another draft,” he says.
You turn and run down the center of the subway aisle. The car rattles, rocking side to side as it comes to a stop at the station, and outside you can see the camera crew recording you through the windows. You move from car to car and it’s all moving too fast and too slow.
Nine cars down and you reach the end.
You burst through the emergency exit and now you’re floating.
Or sinking.
Drowning.
Something like that.
The pool float squeaks beneath you as you reposition. David, Matt, Henry, your dad - they all stand at the edge of the pool, talking business.
Uncle David notices you watching. You wave and he gives you a wink, chewing his stogie all the while.
You lean back and stare up at the sky.
No stars.
No clouds.
Just an endless collage of advertisements, plastered over the roof of the world like the window of a gas station.
Instead of counting stars, you count brand names.
You smile.
You wish every night was like this.
The donut floats away. You watch your dad and his friends get smaller and smaller. Eventually, they disappear completely. The ads spiral into a pastel blur, swirling like the inside of a washing machine in slow-motion. You watch the sky fade to black, and for once it’s all quiet.
The bridge passes overhead as the river takes you away from the city. Soon it’s all so dark that you can’t even see your hands in front of your face, can’t free yourself from the branches you’re caught in.
What is that, chlorine?
You open your eyes. Above you, Pamela Bailey leans over the edge of the pool. She’s crying and saying,
“Somebody call 9-1-1!” she screams. “He’s not breathing!”
You try to swim up to get air but something is wrapped around your leg and it won’t let go, no matter how much you struggle.
It just pulls you deeper into the dark.
Deeper.
Deeper.
Your hands claw for something to hold onto but they come up empty. It’s too dark to see her. You don’t even know how far you’re sinking.
Deeper.
Deeper.
You grip onto something in the dark.
Hard plastic handle. Rusty serrated blade.
It might help, but you think you'd rather just let yourself sink.
Deeper.
Deeper.
Deeper.
You wake up in bed with a pounding headache.
“Fanta. The twins want purple Fanta,” you mumble.
You open your eyes and see ceiling tiles and fluorescent lights. Everything smells sterile, like bleach.
“Our vending machines only sell Pepsi products,” someone replies.
You turn your head and see a woman standing to your left. Your vision is blurry. It looks like there’s two of her.
“Tess?” you ask.
“No Evan, I’m Dr. Pine,” she says. “Is that the name of someone you were with last night?”
Your vision comes into focus and now you can make out the white coat and name tag.
“What happened?” you mutter.
“You’re in the hospital. Someone dumped you out in front of the entrance to the emergency ward around 3 AM. You suffered cardiac arrest. We resuscitated you with an AED,” she explains. “Do you remember taking anything last night?”
“What do you mean?”
“Any illicit substances? Narcotics? Psychedelics? Methamphetamines?”
“No,” you reply. “Just a few drinks.”
“Nothing else?” she asks. “I’m not a cop, Evan.”
“I swear,” you reply. “Scout’s honor.”
“Well we took a blood test and it came back positive for cocaine.”
You chuckle.
“Man… how’d that get in there?”
“If I were you, I’d ask whoever you were drinking with,” she replies. “We’re going to keep you under observation for another forty-eight hours. I’m going to let you rest for a while and when you wake up, we’ll talk about lifestyle changes and…payment. In the meantime, you can press the button on the left to call a nurse for refreshments.”
Dr. Pine leaves you alone. You lay there a while, staring at the ceiling, trying to ignore the discomfort of the IV in your arm.
You died and came back to life, and the first word out of your mouth was “Fanta.”
You wonder what your last words will be.
“Red bull gives you wings.”
“It’s finger-lickin’ good.”
The Oreily’s jingle.
‘God,’ you think. ‘Something needs to change.’
You’re sitting on the couch with the dealer Mama introduced you to when you were thirteen. He’s this greasy older guy with a mullet named Muskrat. You used to think it was a nickname until you caught a glimpse of his license one day while his wallet was out. It blew your mind when you saw it. A man named Muskrat. What loving mother would do that to a baby?
The whole house smells like old carpet, dirty laundry, and ammonia from his sister’s cat. You wonder if he can even smell it anymore but you doubt it. It’s always filthy when you come here, and he never seems to do anything about it.
Muskrat asks you if something’s wrong and you say,
“I’m tired of being treated like a circus freak.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like I’m just the punchline to a big joke.”
“Don’t say that, baby,” he says. “You really think that’s true?”
“You know, you’re real nosey for a dealer.”
“Oh, so I’m just a dealer now?” he says. “Like I wasn’t around before you started buying.”
You pull a wad of cash out of your bra and hold it up for him to see.
“Do you have it?” you ask. “Or are you gonna rip me off like you did when you said you’d get me ‘H’.”
He pulls the Smith & Wesson out of his waistband and sets it on the table. You place the cash next to it and pick it up.
“You worried about your PO finding out?”
“No,” you reply. “I won’t need it for long.”
You’re filming mid-season confessionals today.
Evan’s still in the hospital so the whole project is under your control. Matt’s been up your ass, trying to get you to wrap up the show, but neither Brahm nor Bailey will give it up.
In your hand is a nude picture of Pam. She must have been fucked up bad to bang a guy in a room rigged with cameras, or maybe she just didn’t care.
As you set your coffee on the desk in the video village, you pass the photograph to Vinnie and ask,
“You any good with photoshop?”
It used to seem like you could never get a moment of peace around here, but ever since Jared drove Evan to the hospital, it’s all been quiet on set. Anytime the crew or anyone else makes conversation with you, the words flow in and out of your head like white noise.
You just think about the gun.
It’s hidden in the night stand in the corner opposite of your bed. You checked the cameras in the video village the other day and there’s a blind spot there.
Mama Bear’s sitting on the bed next to you, folding laundry as you stare into space.
“What’s wrong baby?” she asks. “You worried about Evan?”
“No,” you reply. “I just don’t want to do the confessionals today.”
“C’mon hon. Think about the future. Don’t let that girl get in your head.”
“Y’know, I read an article the other day that said sleep deprivation is a kind of torture,” you say. “That’s what she’s doing to me. She’s torturing me.”
“Oh hush now, you’re being dramatic.”
You look down to the floor for a while, wishing a hole would open up in the earth beneath you and swallow you.
“You remember when I tried to kill myself,” you ask.
“Yeah, of course I do,” she replies. “You scared me half to death acting out like that. I don’t know what was going through your head.”
“I told you I didn’t want to do the show anymore and you said I had to. Then I tried to kill myself.”
“That’s just how you remember it,” she replies.
“Why wouldn’t you let me quit?”
“Because I knew you’d regret it,” she answers. “Why are you bringing this up?”
“You were just tellin’ me to think about the future and I remembered the last time you said that - when I told you I wanted to quit the show.”
“What are you trying to say?” she asks.
“I’m not trying to say anything, Mama,” you reply. “I just don’t want to do the confessionals today.”
“Then don’t,” she replies. “You’re an adult. What do you need my permission for?”
“Will you be mad at me?”
“No,” she says. “But I think it’s disappointing. All you have to do is sit there and answer questions. That’s it. I don’t see what’s so hard about that.”
You keep staring at the floor but nothing happens. No sink hole. No bottomless pit.
“You also said I’d be an actress someday," you say quietly.
“And you are, Pumpkin. It’s just a different kind of performance.”
You stare at her, then you look at the nightstand, then back to her.
You decide you’re going to do it on camera tomorrow.
It’s the best scenario for everyone.
The Press will get a meal. Danielle will get the mansion. Mama Bear will probably get her own show about overcoming grief and she’ll love milking the public attention.
Everybody wins.
“You’re right mom,” you say. “I’m sorry.”
Uncle Jared gave you an envelope and told you to stick it under Danielle’s door.
He told you not to look inside, but you couldn’t help yourself.
You made sure to get Mikey before you did so (it’s only fair since you drank the last grape Fanta the other night) and now you're both huddled in the bathroom, undoing the little metal tab and sliding out the photograph like it’s stolen art.
It takes you a second to process what you’re looking at.
Pamela Bailey’s fucking a guy in the spare bedroom.
You look closer at his face and you can't help but laugh.
“Oh my God,” Mikey mutters.
It’s Mark Brahm.
You’re sitting in a chair in the corner of the spare bedroom Evan overdosed in. Jared sits on the bed in front of you with a camera and a tripod. Tess stands next to him, shuffling through a stack of pages as he fiddles with a TV remote, scrolling through a catalogue of cut up footage taken over the last month.
It’s been an hour of watching videos of yourself fighting with Danielle and answering questions like,
“What was going through your head at that moment?”
“Did it upset you when she said that?”
“What are some things you dislike about Danielle?”
You’ve been filming these kinds of confessionals ever since you were in middle school, but that sick feeling in your stomach never goes away. It’s like being interrogated by police, or talking to a therapist. The only difference is that instead of trying to make yourself look rational, they want you to blow everything out of proportion.
Jared queues up a video taken in the kitchen three weeks ago.
You watch yourself walk over to the fridge and look inside. Danielle stands by the stove, cooking mac & cheese while her kids sit at the kitchen island with plates, fighting over a “Cutthroat 45” action figure.
“Danielle,” you say. She ignores you, so you repeat yourself. “Danielle.”
“What?” she replies, shortly.
“Did you eat my last slice of pizza?”
“Harry was hungry.”
“That’s fine, but I’m not his mom.”
“Are you really getting mad over this?” she asks.
“Why do you feel the right to take my food?”
“Please,” she laughs. “Like you’re starving.”
“That’s rude.”
“How is that rude?”
“You’re calling me fat.”
“Nobody’s calling you fat.”
You start to cry.
Jared pauses the video.
“Do you really think she was calling you fat?” he asks.
You stare at the little red light, blinking on the camera, and say,
“I absolutely think she’s calling me fat! Like why else would she say that?”
Repeat the question. Make it a statement. Speak in present tense.
You hear your mother in your head saying,
“That’s my girl.” She says, “Say it louder next time. Make them feel it”
Jared hits play on the TV.
“You don’t know what I go through, Danielle.”
“What you go through?” Danielle scoffs. “Try being a mother.”
“Why do you treat me like this!”
“Would you relax? It’s a slice of fucking pizza and my son was hungry! Get over it!”
“Why don’t you get another face lift you stringy bitch!”
Jared pauses the video.
“Elaborate on that.”
“What do you mean?” you ask.
“Do you really think Danielle got a face lift?”
“Oh I know Danielle got a face lift!” you reply. “That’s why her lips look like that! It’s probably because her man cheated on her and she’s scared he doesn’t think she’s pretty enough.”
Jared nods and hits play.
You watch as Danielle twists around and splashes you with the wine in her glass.
“Fat bitch!” she yells.
The camera cuts back to you, standing there soaked in her drink, your mouth hanging open in shock.
Jared pauses the video again.
“Why do you think she did that?”
“I think she was just mad cause I was telling the truth and she didn’t want to hear it.”
Jared nods, flips off the TV, and cuts the camera. Tess hands him the stack of papers she’s been holding onto.
“Alright, so now that we’ve gotten through confessionals, we want to try something new,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“Well we were thinking it would improve engagement if fans of the show had a way to talk to the stars, so we opened a P.O. Box for fan mail and posted it at the end of the pilot. We got a much bigger response than we were expecting so we’re gonna have you read them out loud and give a reaction, and we’ll just run that footage over the credits. It’ll be like an aftershow segment.”
“Oh…okay,” you reply.
Jared hands you the pages and starts rolling again.
“You can start whenever you’re ready,” he says.
You look down at the short message handwritten on a piece of notebook paper and read aloud,
“‘As a mother, I find your show abhorrent. I think you set a terrible example for girls in America and seeing you on TV makes me shudder for the future. You are a fat, rude, repugnant woman and I hope Danielle wins.’”
You look to Jared expecting some kind of direction, but he just nods at you so you look into the camera and reply,
“Come say that to my face!” You turn to Jared and ask, “Was that good?”
“Yeah, it was alright,” he replies. “Just keep reading.”
You nod and flip to the next page.
“‘You and your family are nothing but white trash and none of you deserve to be famous.’”
You look into the camera and say,
“You’re just jealous. I worked to get where I am. Who the hell are you?”
You look over and Jared gives you a thumbs up.
Suddenly, you hear someone scream something from across the house. It sounds like your name, but you can’t really tell. You glance between Jared and Tess to see if they heard it too, but they just nod for you to keep reading.
You flip to the next page.
“‘Pumpkin Pie’ is the ugliest bitch they ever put on TV. It’s no wonder she tried to kill herself when she was a teenager. If I had to look in the mirror everyday and see that face, I’d kill myself too,” You look up to Jared and say, “That’s just mean. Why would they say that?”
Jared shrugs.
The commotion is getting louder. Someone is definitely yelling, and it sounds like it might be Danielle. Mark is yelling too, but all you can make out is him telling her to calm down.
“Do you hear that?” you ask.
“Don’t worry about it,” Jared replies. “Just keep reading.”
You flip to the next page. They’re arguing right down the hall now, and it sounds like they’re getting closer.
“Really?” you mutter. “This one just says, ‘Oink, Oink.’”
Suddenly the door flies open.
Danielle’s already got her finger pointed at you and she’s screaming something about you fucking her husband. Mark’s behind her, trying to pull her away as two cameramen trail behind, recording the chaos. Jared and Tess try to step between you but Danielle gets to you first and now they’re trying to rip her off of you as she yanks your hair and bashes her palm against your head.
You stare at the ceiling tiles and wonder how much time has gone by.
One hour.
Three hours.
A day.
You’d like to chalk it up to the fact that there’s no clock in this room, or maybe the near-death experience, but it’s felt like this since the year began - like every day you spend at this job is spare change, only held for a momentary transaction and then shoved away and forgotten.
It’s felt like this since Laura left.
You hadn't thought about her for a while and it was nice, but now that you're sober and the only thing to distract yourself with is the DVD logo bouncing from side to side of TV screen, Laura's all you can think about.
You’d trade all the hours and days and spare change you’d ever given to this industry just to take it back.
You could have made it work, right?
Just you and her?
It sounds nice, but all that's gone now.
The register's closed. The transaction's complete.
It's too late for change.
Posted Jun 4, 2026, 1:00 AM UTC