Grand Ghoulish (I-III)


A “stately manor” located in an expensive corner of a somehow even more expensive strip of Southern California coastline.

NARRATOR: (voice-over) A near-mint condition wood panel Ford station wagon creaked and wheezed to a stop outside what Harold would later describe to his grandmother as a “stately manor,” and Harold idled for another fifteen minutes.

Harold pilots a classic station wagon full of photography and lighting equipment to a stop in the driveway, idles there. He anxiously snacks and rolls a “marijuana cigarette” as the Narrator prattles on as if it farting matters.

It was an acceptable Sunday morning in an expensive corner of Southern California. The sun hungover in the sky, half-wrapped in a thin, frayed sheet of moisture that scattered the light like shards of broken glass into exposed flesh. The wind whipped at the eyes, and the salt stuck to everything. And far too many people dressed up for morning sermon but who were really just heading out for mojitos and brunch. A stark contrast to the thick, still air of that semi-converted garage where Harold stewed in his own juices all night, except for that hour or so when the air chilled and warm rain kicked up all the dirt. The sort of heat that wraps around you like a wool blanket and has you gasping for breath when the water of a cold shower hits your skin. Or has you sticking your head in the freezer until you realize how this is stupid and isn’t helping at all, taking your grandmother’s keys without asking, leaving Buena Park behind in the rear view mirror, and then cruising south along the 5 with the window cranked all the way down. Sure, you’ll get there a little earlier than planned. But you can just hangout by the beach for a bit, maybe grab some breakfast. Except there’s no parking, and there’s no way in Hell that you’re going to pay fifteen dollars for half a Cubano and some potato chips. So you drive around until you find a gas station with a restroom, and buy some donuts and an energy drink, even though that’ll just get you all wired up and shaky, and you’ll smoke a bunch of weed to calm yourself down.

Harold nods in agreement, lights and smokes joint.

But then you realize it’s almost time for your appointment, and now you have to not only drive up and through a gated community located somewhere on a hill looking out over a stretch of the Pacific, but also do so in a rickety car that handles like a rickety boat.

Sophia, a comfortable mess of hair in sweatpants and a tattered Bon Jovi tee, steps out, approaches the station wagon. Neither Harold nor the Narrator seem to notice…

And once you arrive, you’ll spend another fifteen minutes smoking even more marijuana in the hope of forgetting that you nearly hit a family walking their dog and most definitely hit someone’s latest model luxury vehicle, even if nobody noticed or–

SOPHIA: Harold?

Harold eventually turns to Sophia, lit joint in his hand. He rolls down a window that is very much already down.


Sophia takes the joint, takes a hit.

SOPHIA: Nice car.

Sophia returns the joint, Harold takes a hit.

HAROLD: Thanks. It’s my grandma’s.