Crash Page #7

Because James and Helen are just in advance of the first wave of

spectators, they manage to link up with Vaughan as he helps haul a

still-groggy Seagrave off the road and into the woods. Helen takes

Seagrave's free arm.

HELEN:

(to Vaughan)

What's the matter with Seagrave?

VAUGHAN:

Hit his head, I think. His balance is off.

The police spread out through the crowd, collaring people at

random before they escape into the woods.

EXT. WOODS - NIGHT

James and Helen help Vaughan hustle Seagrave through the woods.

The din of the roadway fades away behind them.

JAMES:

Why are the police taking this all so

seriously?

VAUGHAN:

It's not the police. It's the Department

of Transport. Internal politics. It's a

joke. They have no idea who we really are

In the gathering darkness of the woods, it is apparent that James

doesn't really know who they are either.

INT. VAUGHAN'S LINCOLN - NIGHT

Vaughan drives the Lincoln through a scarred, bleak landscape. In

the front seat with him are Helen and James. Seagrave is lying

down in the back seat with his eyes closed.

VAUGHAN:

That was glib, wasn't it? James Dean died

of a broken neck and became immortal.. But

I couldn't resist.

Vaughan puts his hand between Helen's thighs. She sepal not to

notice, but her eyes close dreamily every once in a while. James

watches microscopically.

Sometimes, when the flow of traffic allows, Vaughan stares

intently at James while his hand works away in between Helen's

thighs, and James looks away, flushed, like a schoolgirl.

EXT. SEAGRAVE'S GARAGE - NIGHT

The Lincoln turns into the forecourt of Seagrave's garage and

showroom. His business, which has clearly seen better days, is

hot-rodding and customized cars. Behind the unwashed glass of the

show-room is a fiberglass replica of a 1930s Brooklands racer,

faded bunting stuffed into the seat.

They get out of the car, helping the now quite woozy Seagrave

through the door at the side of the showroom which leads to the

stairway up to the apartment shove the garage.

INT. SEAGRAVE APT. - NIGHT

The Seagrave apartment is dirty and depressing, featuring cheap,

cigarette-scarred leatherette furniture.

James watches Helen and Vaughan steer Seagrave into the living-

room, where two people sit on a couch watching television with the

sound turned off: Gabrielle, a sharp-faced young woman who is

rolling a hash joint; and Seagrave's wife, Vera, a handsome,

restless woman of about thirty.

Vera stands as they come in and rushes over to-the shaky Seagrave.

VERA:

Oh, God. What happened? Here, lie down.

Vera and Helen lay the confused Seagrave down on the three-seat

sofa, while Vaughan sits next to Gabrielle and helps her prepare

another hash joint. James, awkwardly left standing, notices long

scars on Vera's thighs and legs.

HELEN:

They did the James Dean crash. It seemed

to go perfectly. But he started to feel

nauseous on the way back. I'm sure it's

concussion.

VERA:

Ah, well... We're familiar enough with

that, then, aren't we?

James watches Gabrielle and Vaughan. As she rolls a small piece of

resin in a twist of silver foil, Vaughan brings a brass lighter

out of his hip pocket. Gabrielle cooks the resin, and shakes the

powder into the open cigarette waiting in the roller machine on

her lap.

On Gabrielle's legs are traces of what seem to be gas bacillus

scars, faint circular depressions on the kneecaps. She notices

James staring at her scars, but makes no effort to close her legs.

On the sofa beside her is a chromium metal cane, and as she shifts

her weight, James sees that the instep of each leg is held in the

steel clamp of a surgical support. It now becomes obvious from the

over-rigid posture of her waist that she is also wearing a back-

brace of some kind.

Gabrielle rolls another cigarette out of the machine, but does not

offer it to James. Instead, Vaughan gets up and takes it over to

Seagrave, who has managed to sit up.

VAUGHAN:

I'd really like to work out the details of

the Jayne Mansfield crash with you. We

could do the decapitation - her head

"bedded in the windshield - and the little

dead dog thing as well you know, the

Chihuahuas in the back seat. I've got it

figured out.

Seagrave takes the lit joint and draws heavily on it. He holds the

smoke in his lungs for a while, studies the grease on his hands

before he answers.

SEAGRAVE:

You know I'll be ready, Vaughan. But I'll

want to wear really big tits - out to here

- so the crowd can see them get cut up and

crushed on the dashboard.

James horns to go, leaving Helen to her conversation with Vera,

but Vaughan follows him through the door, holding his arm in a

powerful grip.

VAUGHAN:

Don't leave yet, Ballard. I want you to

help me.

INT. VAUGHAN'S WORKSHOP - NIGHT

James follows Vaughan down a cramped corridor to photographic

workshop formed out of a warren of small rooms. Vaughan eases

James into the first room and then carefully closes the door

behind them.

JAMES:

Do you live here? With Seagrave?

VAUGHAN:

(laughs)

I live in my car. This is my workshop.

Pinned to the walls and lying on the benches among the enamel

pails are hundreds of photographs. The floor around the enlarger

is littered with half-plate prints, developed and cast aside once

they have yielded their images. Vaughan makes a sweeping gesture

that takes in all the photographs.

VAUGHAN:

And this is the new project, Ballard.

As Vaughan hunts around the central table, turning the pages of a

leatherbound album, James looks down at the discarded prints below

his feet. Most of them are crude frontal pictures of motor-cars

and heavy vehicles involved in highway collisions, surrounded by

spectators and police, and closeups of impacted radiator grilles

and windshields.

Vaughan opens the album at random and hands it to James. He leans

back against the door and watches as James adjusts the desk lamp.

The first thirty pages record the crash, hospitalization, and

post-recuperative romance of the young woman Gabrielle a social

worker, the photos suggest - who is currently getting very stoned

in the next room.

By coincidence, her small sports car had collided with an airline

bus at the entry to the airport not far from the site of James's

own accident. Vaughan had obviously been there, shooting film,

moments after the crash. The incredibly detailed photos end with

her affair with her physical therapy instructor.

The remainder of the album d-scribes the course of James's own

accident and recovery, and includes his sexual encounters with

Renata, Helen Remington, and his own wife, Catherine. Vaughan

stands at James's shoulder, like an instructor ready to help a

promising pupil.

James closes the book.

JAMES:

What kind of help can I possibly be to

you? You seem to be everywhere at once as

it is.

At that moment, there is a knock at the door, and then Gabrielle

enters and takes a few stiff steps into the room on her shackled

legs. She holds out a couple of joints to Vaughan.

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