My Death
Aubrey Plaza parks her Prius in the parking lot of a strip mall in suburban New Jersey. She enters a grey storefront with $400 cash and purchases a used Glock 19, fifty rounds of .9mm hollowpoints and a 5-Hour Energy. She drops two Vicodin tabs into the 5-Hour Energy and drains the bottle. Minutes later she’s back on the turnpike headed toward the Holland Tunnel and New York City.
——————
Cole Moser is backstage at the Bowery Ballroom. His wife, comedic actress Lizzy Caplan, is seated on the couch attending to their infant daughter Fargo. His rock band, Cole Moser and The Poseurs, have just finished the second of two sold-out shows on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. Author Dave Eggers and comedian Patton Oswalt were in attendance tonight and moments earlier stopped by the green room to give their congratulations. Confirmed fan Tom Waits was spotted hanging around the bar earlier in the evening.
It was almost a two hour performance and Cole’s sinewy frame glistens with sweat. He towels off his biceps, underarms, traps, lats, delts and abdominal muscles. His two-day-old stubble belies his 32 years. His eyes are clear and relaxed; somehow he has maintained sobriety despite the rollercoaster of new fame. There would be plenty of reason to turn to speedballs. The constant pressure to deliver humorous tweets to his 75,000 twitter followers, for instance.
In the past eight months Cole has released a book, sold a screenplay and finished recording an album. The book is a collection of fiction based on his youth growing up in an Illinois farm town. The LA Times called it “David Sedaris with pickup trucks.” The screenplay is a satirical science fiction dramedy set in 2076; Lizzy has already been cast as the female lead. And the album, the band’s sophomore release, is being heralded as one of the best of 2016. SPIN raves “like the best parts of Jonathan Richman, Cheap Trick, and The Replacements filtered through a young Elvis Presley.” Cape Disappointment, Cole’s blog of absurdist musings on politics and culture receives almost three million monthly viewers. In a recent interview Woody Allen called the blog “one of the few remaining things that excites me about America.”
But instead of speedballs Cole relaxes on the couch with an ice cold Hamm’s. His old nemesis and new guitar tech Justin Vernon, formerly of the band Bon Iver, pokes his head into the dressing room.
“Hey, just wanted to say great show, man. That Prince cover was the tits.”
“Thanks, Justin. Appreciate it,” Cole replies.
“I’ve never heard a falsetto that pure.”
“I said ‘thanks,’ Justin. Can you have my ‘63 Jazzmaster fixed before Philadelphia?”
“Yeah, probably. I mean I’ll have to-“
“Good.”
“Bye, Justin,” calls Lizzy from behind Cole, annoyed.
“Yep, okay. Got it,” says Justin, hurriedly closing the door.
“Balding pussy,” mutters Lizzy under her breath.
Minutes pass as the gear gets loaded into trucks, the sounds of squeaking casters and grunting road crew fade down the hallway. With one hand Cole gives Lizzy a shoulder massage while cradling Fargo in the other. A phone buzzes on the counter.
“That’s probably somebody from SNL,” Cole says. He goes over to read the text. ”You feel like going to an afterparty?” he asks Lizzy.
Suddenly the door swings open and Aubrey Plaza stands in the threshold with a bloody VIP laminate dangling from her fist. She’s disturbed, a crumbling beauty. Her eyes are frenzied like she just did a couple speedballs.
“The fuck are you doing here?” Lizzy demands. Then, saucily she asks “In town filming VH1’s Another Top 100 Forest Fires?”
Aubrey winces.
“Easy,” Cole says and shoots Lizzy a stern glance that says Hey, Beautiful. I love you but now is not the time for your Emmy-nominated sarcasm.
“Lizzy, I have no issue with you,” says Aubrey, her voice shaking. She reaches into her purse and retrieves the Glock 19. She aims at Cole and fires.
The hollowpoint tears through his right shoulder, his strumming arm. He lets out a howl not unlike a wounded puma that, though severely injured, maintains its sense of dignity and power. Lizzy turns white and time slows down. Aubrey aims the gun again, this time squarely at his chest. Cole does not panic and attempts to shrug his bloody shoulder out of his infant daughter’s sight. Ever the considerate father, a spurting gunshot wound is not something he wants Fargo to witness. He glares cooly at Aubrey and says “Well, Aub. I guess you did say it would end like this.”
“I just want it be over,” Aubrey intones. She pulls the trigger. Another hollowpoint tears through Cole’s vintage Billy Joel concert tee and into his sternum. He slumps forward and his smoldering chestnut eyes release their focus.
“Noooooooooo!” screams Lizzy. “You fucking monster!”
She rushes to Cole’s side and cradles his face. Desperate kisses on his forehead. “Hold on,” she urges.
Aubrey begins crying and walks to the mirror. She turns the gun on herself. Her body knocks three guitars to the ground as it falls, striking a melancholic Emin7 chord. The baby wails.
——————
Tom Waits administers Last Rites, placing an antique Prussian coin and a guitar pick in Cole’s eyes.
“He’s gone,” Patton Oswalt says.
Dave Eggers scribbles in his moleskine. Justin the guitar tech weeps uncontrollably. He approaches the widowed Caplan for some comfort, his arms outstretched.
“Justin, don’t you fucking touch me,” says Lizzy, sexily as ever.
