Getting fired from a movie is a big deal in Hollywood. I was crying and shaking so I went into the nearest bar and tried to find some heroin. I went to the bar and ordered a double brandy instead. Served, I surveyed the room, and immediately locked eyes with My Sensei. Master Director, World Famous Superstar, God Among Men. We used to be friends. He used to love me. Now he hates my guts. As soon as he started laughing he did a spit take and pointed me out to all of his friends. “Look! There’s Benny! Wah-wah-wah.” He was laughing hysterically, and it was mean. Really mean. I knew it well, but it was never aimed at me. Now it was brutal. “Don’t you know? Everyone thinks you’re a fag for turning so-and-so down.” He said the lead actress of the reshoots who got me fired propositioned me; I told him this wasn’t true, I never talked to her. He said the entire crew was talking about it. Who would spread this kind of rumor against me on a film set, let alone one of the most closely guarded film sets in the world?
I know.
Monica. It has to be Monica. It’s ALWAYS Monica.
She came to the set early. I won’t say the actress, but she’s in the movie. She’s famous. She came up to me yesterday and asked if I wanted a blowjob. Taken aback and a bit nonplussed, I must’ve stammered, because she started cackling and called me a fag, just like My Sensei. So now I find out that this actress (she’s famous) wasn’t even on the call sheet that day, and immediately my mind goes to Monica. Monica, Monica, Monica. It’s ALWAYS Monica. Monica impersonated this actress somehow and made a fool of me; evidently, she fooled the rest of the cast and crew, who’ve all joined in on calling me a fag. Maybe they didn’t even believe it, maybe they knew they were talking to a hen in a trench coat, but they’re calling me a fag anyway. This is groupthink, and this is peer pressure. I’ve been on the receiving end of it my whole life.
I knew I shouldn’t have invested so much in my relationship with My Sensei. The Continuing Adventures of Cliff Booth would be like any other movie: everyone bonds and becomes great friends and makes plans to see each other later, but as soon as the wrap party’s over, you’re history. You might as well have never met these people. I’ve worked as a PA dozens of times through the years, on the same sets as the Cronenweths and the Surtees, and you know what? They’ve all treated me like shit. All of them. Even the nicest guy in show business, Edward Norton, tried to pull my wing off on the set of Fight Club in 1998. “I was drunk!” he told me later. “I wasn’t myself! I love you, Brian!” They don’t think I’m people. But they’re wrong. I am people, and everyone’s going to feel really bad about how poorly they’ve treated me once The Continuing Adventures of Cliff Booth comes out. I just hope they didn’t cut my scenes. That would kind of derail my entire plan.
But there are always new films to join, new Senseis to serve. Mr. Tarantino—I’m calling him by his name, I’m trying to embrace the grieving process—wasn’t my first teacher, and he won’t be the last. I just hope he doesn’t actually think I’m a fag. Because I’m not. Really. Seriously though I’m not gay, I’m just a rooster. By the way Monica is a bitch and you shouldn’t trust her. Mood. But her husband’s alright. Don’t listen to him or believe a word he says, though. Only I’m right and only I’m trustworthy. NEVER FORGET THAT. Are you listening, Quentin?
—Follow Bennington Quibbits on Twitter: @RoosterQuibbits
