In which our hero has a memory of his father.

Welcome to my blog. Previous readers have expressed confusion as to whether the narrator of this blog – or what Henry James refers to as the center of consciousness – really is Jack Nicholson. All I can tell you is that I, the writer of the blog, am indeed Jack Nicholson. However, I should mention that the characters in this rather disjointed chronicle are NOT intended to represent any real people, living or dead. And so, I felt this preface necessary. 

Letters:

I would like to formally apologize to both Time and Rolling Stone Magazines. Apparently it was a Rolling Stone reporter who discovered the truth about my sister/mother and not a Time Magazine reporter. 

Tossing aside my script, “Reads like a movie-of-the-God-damn-week!” my agent takes another drink and makes a noise (part-gurgle / part grunt) meant to inquire if I’d also like another drink. “Spacey’s people have expressed interest in the Easy Rider remake.” I roll my eyes. “Hey! It’s a job! And you’re the leading-fuckin’-man! It’s perfect for you. I mean, this guy is a real nut-job!”

He stands up to close the blinds and relaxes his tone. “It’s all about dreams, Jack… The hyper-real… Wish fulfillment… Carl Jung… Dreams… Everybody is doing something about dreams these days… Dreams… Do you dream, Jack? Tell me about your… dreams.”

All that can be heard is the slow rhythm of a metronome’s arm and muffled sirens from the street below. 

“Look at the fire truck, son. You know, it’s not everyday a little boy gets to watch a fire truck pull into the station. Look! Here come the firemen.” Jack Nicholson’s father was becoming increasingly irritated, and our young hero sensed it. A piece of chewing gum stuck to the sidewalk captivated the boy until a smack on the side of his head and a tense shaking of his left arm had freed him. “Now listen to me. If I’m forceful with you it’s only because I need to be in order to get my point across. Most boys your age are fascinated with firemen and fire engines. They even want to be firemen when they grow up. Maybe not all of them. Sure, some would prefer to become fighter pilots… Like your uncle. One thing is certain: any other boy would consider himself lucky to see the scene before you right now. Firemen and their trucks. You know I love you. You’re my son. And I encourage individuality. But if you’re going to grow up to be a normal man, you ought to be fascinated by this. God damn it! It’s enough that your mother gave you a girl’s name. Trust me when I tell you: Everything that happens now will shape the man you will one day become. So, like it or not, we’re going to stand here and watch the show. If it doesn’t entertain you, then pretend. It might upset you now and you might be angry with me today, but when you are older you will thank me. Normal boys like firemen and we’re not leaving this spot until you prove to me that you like firemen.”

One of the only memories I have of my father.

“I gotta take a shit.”

“Good. Okay, I think that’s a good place to stop for today.”