Beautiful Ruins

There would seem to be nothing more obvious,
more tangible and palpable than the present moment.
And yet it eludes us completely.
All the sadness of life lies in that fact.
—Milan Kundera

This is a love story, Michael Deane says.
But, really, what isn’t? Doesn’t the detective love the mystery, or the chase, or the nosy female reporter, who is even now being held against her wishes at an empty warehouse on the waterfront? Surely the serial murderer loves his victims, and the spy loves his gadgets or his country or the exotic counterspy. The ice trucker is torn between his love for ice and truck, and the competing chefs go crazy for scallops, and the pawnshop guys adore their junk, just as the

Housewives live for catching glimpses of their own Botoxed brows in gilded hall mirrors, and the rocked-out dude on ’roids totally wants to shred the ass of the tramp-tatted girl on Hookbook, and because this is reality, they are all in love—madly, truly—with the body mic clipped to their back buckle, and the producer casually suggesting just one more angle, one more Jell-O shot. And the robot loves his master, alien loves his saucer, Superman loves Lois, Lex, and Lana, Luke loves Leia (till he finds out she’s his sister), and the exorcist loves the demon even as he leaps out the window with it, in full soulful embrace, as Leo loves Kate and they both love the sinking ship, and the shark—God, the shark loves to eat, which is what the mafioso loves, too—eating and money and Paulie and omertà—the way the cowboy loves his horse, loves the corseted girl behind the piano bar, and sometimes loves the other cowboy, as the vampire loves night and neck, and the zombie—don’t even start with the zombie, sentimental fool; has anyone ever been more lovesick than a zombie, that pale, dull metaphor for love, all animal craving and lurching, outstretched arms, his very existence a sonnet about how much he wants those brains? This, too, is a love story.
And in the room, the Dutch financiers with the forty mil to kill wait for Michael Deane to elaborate, but he just sits with his index fingers steepled in front of his mouth. A love story. He’ll speak when he’s ready. This is his room, after all; he’s only sorry he won’t be able to attend his own funeral, because he’d leave that fucking room with a deal for a network pilot and a reality show set in hell. After the Donner! pitch (for thirty grand, that kid really sold it), Michael got out of his constraining deal with the studio. Now he’s producing on his own again—six unscripted shows already in some stage of production—surviving the post-studio world just fine, thank you, raking in more money than he ever thought pos