We're Going to Need a Better Shark

It didn’t work. The crew had been trying all day, adjusting the connecting rig and flushing out the hoses and working the little mechanics incessantly until the repetition of the thing took on the pursuit of hell itself but it simply didn’t work. Men in frog suits would disappear unseen beneath the water for minutes then surface to convey further problems to engineers on a boat who would shout and wave their walkie-talkies like mad dictators orchestrating war while the frog men bobbed and listened, their slick suits burning like oil against the meringue sun.

He dropped his head and walked along the docks, his long hair blowing out against the ocean wave on wave like unkempt seaweed swirling in an unseen mire. People were yelling at him but if he heard them he gave little notice. He passed through a crowd all looking to him for answers and waiting for his direction. He turned to one of them and spoke softly.

Shut it down.

Sir?

Shut it down. We’re done today.

There’s a lot more on the schedule.

It’s not going to happen. Today’s wasted. Time for me to do the same.

I don’t understand.

I’m going to the bar and I’m getting very drunk and with any luck I’ll be able to forget about everything that’s happened here.

Well where will you be?

Whichever bar you can’t find me in.

He headed up the beach past awash debris and organisms existing beneath the dunes in secret society with little tufts of sand sprouting up behind his every step until he reached his car. The sun was going down and as he started the car he absentmindedly turned on the lights which bore before him droves of gawked workers staring at him in disbelief, their very existence tethered to his every move. Beyond them turning in the water like a dark harbinger was the source of his every anxiety, every doubt, every nightmare. That broken shark. He turned the lights back off and swung the car around and turned it towards the main road and didn’t reactivate the lights until he was down around a bend and far out of sight.

He found a bar that looked propped up by boards that had washed ashore from the wreckage of the sea. Neon signs lit the night air. He opened the shack door and entered. A few people looked up from their drinks then returned to them. No one would think to look for a Hollywood director here.

What’ll you have, a bartender asked?

A beer. And do you have a payphone?

The bartender pointed to the back of the bar. He went and dropped a coin into the slot and dialed a number from memory. It rang three times.

Hello?

John, it’s Steven. Are you at the hotel?

Yeah, got in this afternoon. Didn’t want to bother you during shooting. Where are you?

I’m at a bar. George here yet?

No, his flight isn’t until tomorrow.

Do you feel like having a drink?

When have I not?

It was an hour later and two beers deep for Steven when John pushed open the light shack door like in a western film of old. He was wearing a beret and smoking a cigar. He had taken to dressing like a militant and appeared as though he were a Dictator for life. Under his beige coat concealed in a holster was a pistol he claimed belonged to a soldier of some historical note. He took a seat at the bar like he was taking a trench in combat and slapped Steven hard on the shoulder spilling his beer.

How are you, man?

I’m miserable. How are you?

Not too bad. Putting a few things together at the studio. Nothing as big as what you’ve got going on out here.

What I’ve got going on is a sinking career. This damn shark is going to be my Waterloo.

The boys can’t get it to swim?

It sank the first time it touched the ocean.

Sank, eh?

Straight to the bottom.

Well let’s drink up and see if we can figure out some solutions.

Over the next several hours they downed all of the beer and shots the bartender would bring them and devised plans about the mechanical shark. At first they veered towards constructive solutions but as alcohol took senses they quickly became destructive.

I know a guy, John said. He can get us dynamite. Tonight. We can blow that bastard to hell and back. Maybe you can get it on film. Death by dynamite. Mechanical shark bits everywhere. Hey, maybe I can write that into the script. It was a mechanical shark the whole time. Sent over by the Russians or Germans. Post war technology designed to ruin our summer vacations and drive us mad.

It’s a good story, John. Steven’s speech was slurring now. I just don’t know how the studio will feel about it.

To hell with them! We will be our own studio. With George and Francis. Maybe even invite Martin.

At last call the bartender called them a cab. They staggered to the curb and waited. When the driver asked where their hotel was John interrupted.

No hotel. Take us out to where they’re filming that big fish movie.

You mean the shark?

Sure, sure. That’s the one.

Steven rested his head against the window and wondered about his career while John scared the driver with sounds of explosions and gunfire.

When they arrived at the beach Steven walked John down to the docks where they kept the equipment. There was a lone security guard present but Steven composed himself long enough to talk their way inside. They pulled back a huge wooden door and there it hung before them bound in chains like the catch of the day. John looked at it in awe. The sheer scope had eluded him.

No wonder it doesn’t work. It’s a beast. A real monster. I can’t imagine all the gears it must contain.

John walked around and prodded it. He ran his hand along the hull like a boat about to be christened. He stuck his head in the huge mouth and mocked a vile and grotesque death. Steven just looked on.

My entire career is tied to this hunk of junk. If this movie fails I’m done.

You can make it work. Hell, you’re the wonder kid.

I don’t know. It all feels like it’s sinking.

They sat down on the floor and hung their legs into the water where the shark would be lowered. John pulled two cans of beer from somewhere unseen in his coat. They popped the tabs.

This isn’t your end, my boy. You’ll find a way. You’ve got a good crew. Fine actors. I’m writing you one hell of a story about a tragedy at sea to put in. Just think.

Steven stared into the water where their feet rested. Dark and murky. The absolute unknown. They could both be taken under at any minute to the unfathomable depths. His body shuddered from his toes to the prickle on his neck. He looked at the shark and felt eerily calm.

What if I don’t show it?

Huh? John was sipping his beer. Don’t show what?

The shark.

He laughed. Well that’ll be a hell of a thing. A shark movie with no shark.

No, I mean, it’s all about the lingering possibility. The unseen terror. Use a lot of point of view. Do it like Hitchcock would.

John seemed to have lost interest and began to walk back out towards the beach.

It’s a way to go, he said as he downed the last of his beer.

Steven stood and ran his hand along the shark.

You will not sink me. I will not be killed. Not by the likes of you.

He walked out and stood on the beach next to John and touched his shoulder.

Thank you for coming.

Of course. This adventure belongs to all of us. What do you think you’ll do next? Once this is all done?

I don’t know. I’m finished with the damn ocean, that’s for sure.

He made a gesture towards space. The stars winked down and back off of the ocean surface.

Just look at those night skies, he said.