The room was a bombed-out mess. Every day Sasha groaned over what had happened to her once-nice TV room, and I kept promising to clean it but hadn't. Books, notes, videotapes, clothes. Small mountains of "I don't need it now but I might any minute, so leave it there." The other great slob I knew was Max Hampson. He used to joke about how he could get away with it because –

"Max!"

Where was that tape? I looked and looked, frenzied, hysterical, finally laughing because I wanted to find it so goddam much.

"It's on the fucking TV, asshole!"

One of the three I'd seen up there before; it was even marked with his name. My hands were in such a hurry to get it out of its box that they tried to jiggle and pull it at the same time. I realized I was saying "Oh, yay! Yay! Yay!" while I worked it out and plugged it in.

The dinner party. Fast forward. Greetings. Fast forward. More. People talking. Eating. Camera on Sasha putting a forkful of brown cake in her mouth. That's it. Question: "What do you think is in Poodle Cake?" She shrugs and goes on eating. Cut to Dominic Scanlan. ". . . and Blow Dry!" Everyone laughs. Camera pans to Max, and it takes only a moment to see something's broken in him and he's collapsing.

I don't know why I kept the film in the first place, but there it was. I ran it back and watched again, marking the number on the counter to zero at the point where Max appears and we see the metamorphosis.

How long did I sit there, watching that one– or two-minute sequence, again and again? How many times? When did the quiet, familiar voice inside say, "We want this scene. We need it."

I don't know the answer to those questions, but the more troubling one was why none of those other inner voices protested. We were unanimous. Use Max Hampson's agony to make this picture better? Okay.

What shall I give for my reasons? What would be an impressive excuse? Max was still in the hospital but getting better every day. If Pinsleepe could be trusted, filming his attack might even result in saving him. She'd said not to feel bad because it had been for the project, and if I could pull that all together in the end, my sick friends would be healed.

That sounds reasonable and fair, doesn't it? A little utilitarianism never hurt anyone, especially if no one gets hurt in the end.

We spend our lives learning how to rationalize our imperfect behavior, but let me tell you something: It all boils down to the three sizes of guilt.

When it's small, we can slip it into our pocket and not think about it the rest of the day. Didn't do your exercises? Write the letter to your mother? Make the call? Fix the nice soup you planned? Screw it – the day was hard enough and you did your bit.

Medium-size guilt doesn't fit into the pocket and must be carried awkwardly in the hand like an iron barbell or, when it's really bad, a squirming live animal. We know it's there every minute, yet still find ways to lessen or shift our discomfort. Having an affair and aren't so nice to your spouse because you're spending too much energy on this new love? Then buy that old love some obscenely expensive, thoughtful gift and, what time you do spend together, be so passionate and concerned that you glow in the dark.

Large-size guilt either crushes you or bends you so far to the ground that, either way, you're immobilized. No shifting this weight. No way of getting out from under it.

Phil had it, I'm sure. Particularly after defying Pinsleepe's advice and making the scene that resulted in the death of Matthew Portland and the others.

I didn't feel that crushing guilt about including the Max scene because I hadn't defied anyone and my intentions were 90 percent honorable. Yes, I wanted to do this work with originality and vision, but hadn't that always been my goal in anything I did? What was new or changed for the worse? It wasn't like finding treasure and, ignoring the friends who'd helped, deciding to keep it all for myself.

Besides, doing a good job had been Pinsleepe's mandate. After what happened to Strayhorn, I was pretty wary of defying her!

I'd thought so much about Pinsleepe. Was she real? Good, bad, an angel? She was powerful magic, that was the only sure thing. The memory of her hands on her swollen stomach and that milky light beginning to emanate from it a moment later was an image I would take to my grave. Then all of her appearing and disappearing, the cryptic adult remarks followed by a childish naivete that was almost beautiful in its innocence – if that's what it was.

I did conclude that if she were some kind of evil she would have told me specifically how to make this scene, because it was logical she'd want it precisely so, to be right. But there'd never been any directions on what to do, which was why I leaned toward believing she was good, or at least . . . neutral.

People have often been surprised by the way I work. Usually when I find the idea I'm looking for, I put everything down and leave the desk. Obviously not on a movie set, but when I was writing poetry or scripts, once I'd found the right metaphor or solution to a problem, I'd get up and leave the room instead of putting the answer down and moving on. Maybe it's superstition – don't ask the gods for more than that – or just self-indulgence, I don't know.

That day too, when I had what I wanted and knew the order, I left the house with an empty head but an excited heart. What would Wyatt and Sasha say when I told them these ideas? Or should I just go ahead and make what I had in mind and show them when it was finished?

It was early evening. The delicious peach light and calm air said, Come, take a stroll and enjoy us. The white stone sidewalk was still radiating the day's warmth, and for a moment it reminded me of the time I'd worked for the Forest Service in Oregon, fighting forest fires. The first thing they'd told us to do was go buy a pair of very thick natural-rubber boots. Forest floors got so hot during a fire, if you didn't have good protection –

"Hey, dude."

I'd been enjoying my dream of hot floors in Oregon and hadn't paid attention to who'd come up in front of me.

4

It was the bike riders from the park that afternoon – what looked like all of them, including Gambado in the lead with little Walter again sitting crossways on the other's black-and-yellow BMX.

"Hey, hello! Do you guys live around here?"

The kids looked at each other slyly. No, they didn't, but who was going to be the first to volunteer that information?

Gambado. "No, man, we followed you home before, but you didn't even see us!" That brought on a bunch of snickers and nods; either they were good tails or I was completely out of it.

"You followed me and've been waiting here since? What for?"

Gambado had a nice face, friendly and open, but some of the other kids, both black and white, looked sneaky and dishonest. If you made eye contact they either looked away fast or gave you one of those wise-guy "fuck you" smirks kids are so good at.

"I guess we want you to go with us."

"You guess? Go where?"

"Just down a couple of blocks. We want to show you something."

"What?"

He had on a black RUN DMC baseball cap, turned backward. "Aw, man, chill out. We ain't gonna rob you. We got something to show you, okay?"

"I don't think so."

A car drove by slowly. No one watched it.

"Walter'll show you something. Maybe that'll make you want to come. Go ahead, Walter."

The boy with the tragically round, marked face slid off the bike and clumped down the street. Ten feet away, he lifted off the sidewalk and rose into the air. Imagine those Renaissance religious paintings of any of the saints ascending, and that is what it looked like. We could hear Walter ascending through the leaves of the trees until he was a large silhouette against the California sky. A child across the sky.