John Malkovich

It’s still dark when I leave for work in the morning. I mean, it’s January…what do you expect?  Anyway, I’ve got this sensor light that’s motion activated.  All sorts of things set it off. A stray cat. A branch waving in the wind next to the garage. But this morning, it was John Malkovich.

“John?” I shout from the door while clutching my housecoat tightly around my neck.

“John Maklovich?” I ask. He stops mid-stride, a shovel in one hand and what appears to be a silk scarf around his head. He turns around slowly and dramatically, as if he’s in a movie.  Maybe he’s confused, I think.

“Did you know that you have an incestuous mischief of rodents living in that shed?” he asks. “It is absolutely abhorrent. Do you know what else I discovered?”

It’s cold outside and if I don’t close my door soon, the cat is going to escape. I wait.

“Well, do you?” he presses.

“John, what are you doing in my shed? Isn’t Hollywood looking for you?”

“For your information, I have a very good reason for being in your shed. You see, I’m in character right now. I’m going to be in a movie where the loving husband and father disappears into his own garage. For years!  Nobody can find him and the whole while he’s just living over his garage like a perfect vagrant.”

“John, the movie was already done. Bryan Cranston got the part.”


“Bryon Cranston.  You know? Breaking Bad? Say my name. Heisenburg. You’re goddamn right.”

John stands there looking at me as if I’ve lost my mind, then suddenly drops the shovel and rips the scarf from his head.

“Get in the car,” I tell him and toss him my keys. “Warm it up while I get dressed for work.”

He does what I ask and I pull on some pants and a blazer, boots, mittens, a parka, a toque, and a two-toned beige knitted scarf.

“This can’t keep happening John,” I tell him. “And you know damned well that I can’t bring you to work with me!”

He pouts in the way only John Malkovich can.

“You’re not going to drop me off at the police station are you?”

I sigh.  “Where else can I leave you?”

“Surely there’s a coffee shop in this mold-ensconced, seaweed smelling, shanty town?”

“Look, I’d bring you to the airport but it’s too far from where I work and I’m going to be late as it is.”

John sneers in that way that he does and says, “You’re always late for work.” I ignore that remark.

“I’m dropping you off here,” I say. “Wait until the car has come to a complete stop before you get out this time.”

John sighs loudly and sits in the car looking at me.

“Well? Get out!”

“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer,” he threatens.

“I’ve already heard from your nurse and she says if you don’t get back to the home in Hollywood by dinner she’s going to have to put you on 24 hour surveillance.”

John gets out.  I look in my rearview mirror as I drive away and see him trying to wave down a school bus as if it’s….I don’t know….some extended yellow cab full of miscreants and mischiefs.

It doesn’t stop for him.


the end.


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