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Continuation of: Life is Murder in SF.
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Confronting Failure.
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The cinematic afterparty.
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We warned our friends, the place’ll be mobbed. The Doxie theater had limited parking. You may have to wind your way through the homeless encampments.
On the evening of the event, as I got out of my roommate’s beater car, the first thing I noticed was the lack of a line. There were no people waiting to buy movie tickets; at least no line out front.
The theater marquee said, “Suicide By Cop!” Had I made a mistake deciding on that title? I thought to myself.
A man, muttering to himself, midway between the entrance to the theater and the curb, wearing what once had to have been a fine suit, walked elliptically. It was as though he were between two worlds, shifting into one, then back to the first, and then stalling between, somewhere. His mind was on an unknown plane. It was unlikely he would buy a ticket, I thought to myself.
Was seeing this frazzled man, at this exact moment, a bad omen? Did it bode well for the success of the independent, small-budget film? I was feeling a twinge of doubt in the pit of my stomach. At this point I was over invested emotionally.
I looked for Candie, who would have taken the bus if she had intended to show up at the movie premiere. So she would have been early. Her stage name was Candice Bordeaux.
Well, at least the sidewalks were clean, I noticed just then, perhaps as a result of the afternoon’s light rain. The day drew into evening, the departing clouds edged with gold along their linings.
I heard Rusty, my roommate, who was my ride to the theater, pulling away; the car’s engine screeching, an invocation to the underworld. I turned away from the departing boxlike four-door and looked up toward the theatre’s façade, its grandeur battered by time, all the while avoiding eye contact with the peripatetic man. Had I looked, I would have found him engaged in an emphatic conversation with empty space.
No worries.
With no friends, fans, actors, or stagehands there to greet me, I walked into the theater. The lobby was cavernous and empty; its old carpet was dank and worn, held together in places with duct tape.
I couldn’t believe how quiet it was.
It then occurred to me that the ticket gross would probably amount to little more than a small charitable donation, if this empty theater were any guide. Originally, I had projected a modest profit. We had spreadsheets and projections. I had even hired an experienced bookkeeper.
The underwriter would not be pleased if this turnout were any indication of future gross revenues. I involuntarily thought of my investors—who also happened to be friends—and of one in particular.
Perhaps Candie was already seated inside the theater. No point in trying to find her in the darkness, I thought. As both producer and director of the film, I did not have to buy a ticket; they simply waved me into one of the better seats. Yes, this was San Francisco. The movie would simultaneously premiere at the now-running Palm Springs Gay Film Festival, which had overtaken the San Francisco GLBTQ Film Festival in both importance and revenue several years earlier.
If only the right people—those powerful and influential enough to prevent it—had realized at the time how unkind time would be to the City by the Bay, both culturally and economically.
I settled into my seat, disturbed by the darkness, despite being in a theater. Any moment now, the curtain would rise, I thought. Still, it all felt rather creepy; I could hear my own heartbeat. The wait for the curtain to rise seemed interminable—the first moments, the opening credits, the mysterious, hypnotic music—even though I knew exactly what would happen.
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*** UPDATED 8-9-2026 ***
After leaving the Doxie Theatre, I took a bus to Golden Gate Park. Walking along Stanyan Street, I saw that Mad for Medusa, a coffee-and-pizza place, was apparently still open; one patron sat at a small bistro table on its front patio. As I drew closer, a waitress stepped onto the patio and served an athletic man wearing gym shorts, a ratty T-shirt, and an expensive-looking watch. She set before him what appeared to be a five-dollar bottle of water. When I came nearer, I saw that the man was Marcus.
Then I noticed a used book on the table. It had no dust jacket, and I was unable to read the title. It lay near the bottle, in front of him. Apparently, he had been reading when he noticed me approaching and set it down. He pushed the opposite chair out with his leg, making it easy for me to sit down, and gestured welcomingly with his arm.
As I sat, I noticed the bookmark; apparently, it had been set absentmindedly on the book. The book’s pages were dog-eared; it looked as though someone had read it thoroughly. I thought to myself, I don’t recall ever seeing so much as a magazine on the coffee table in Marcus’s Zen-like, sparse apartment, and I had no idea he even read.
The bookmark, however, read: “Blight’s Books: Forever New.” It came from a new bookstore that sold used books—the classics, anything important.
The waitress had gone, leaving the two of us entirely alone. I looked around. There was no vehicular traffic. The city was quiet—unnaturally so. Other than Marcus and me, no one remained on the sidewalk. Mad for Medusa was apparently getting ready to close. I became aware of the enveloping darkness; it was like an ephemeral veil.
“Wasn’t there another bookstore on Columbus Avenue where Blight’s Books now stands?” I asked, dimly remembering the hollowed-out structure that had become a haven for the homeless and ne’er-do-wells: crack pipes in use, people too stoned to ask for money.
I pictured how it had looked before the extensive architectural remodel. That stretch of Columbus Avenue, winding uphill toward the church, had badly needed an upgrade. Soon afterward, foreign investors brought in new money. The old building was completely demolished, and a new two-story structure rose in its place, with plate-glass windows and a postmodern design. Displays filled an interior that was both cozy and vast. It was now a welcoming bookstore, honoring male authors, Beat literature, and poetry. The store carried all the important names from the first half of the twentieth century.
“They lost their soul when they went bankrupt,” Marcus said of the bookstore’s previous incarnation. For the life of me, I couldn’t even remember its name.
Marcus then looked at me, his soulful eyes reminding me of a puppy’s. Instinctively, I checked the ring finger of his left hand. There was never a wedding band, I thought, hoping to be discreet.
“You’ve been in a sorry state since the cinematic release.”
I had not shared this failure with him, I realized.
“Stop complaining and be grateful.” He always seemed to know more about me than I ever personally revealed to him.
Although I had experienced a real failure, there was still a silver lining, I thought to myself.
I had completed the art-house film project, Suicide by Cop!, pouring my very soul into it. I had even quit my day job, although it had hardly offered a career.
It turned out to be a flop: gross receipts deplorable, and critical reviews, unflinching. “Incredibly bad taste,” one writer lamented. And another, “I’d write, ‘Someone please take the audience out of their misery,’ but, thank God word got out about how terrible this film is, so there’s hardly anyone here besides myself.”
That last bit was especially creative—and it stung.
It was beginning to dawn on me that both of my careers were over. How many stages were there in the Kübler-Ross model? Was I at the bargaining stage now?
“You’ll make your blockbuster someday.” This assurance came with his usual angelic smile. Over time, I had come to expect from Marcus a blend of validation and gentle direction.
It was then that a loud Muni bus rumbled by. Accustomed as I was to this element of the traffic, I was not startled, however, thought was impossible until it diminished. Consequently, there was an involuntary pause in our conversation.
I noticed twilight spreading further, like spilled black ink. The outline of a nearby rooftop—one of the newer, uglier condominium buildings—grew less distinct and, thereby, less offensive.
Less distinctive. – I thought to myself.
We were across the street from a very famous stone bridge that spanned a pond frequented by lovely white cranes. They came and went mysteriously—I knew this from experience. At that moment, darkness concealed the wondrous mystery of the birds and the contemplative water. I imagined the ever-present parked bicycles.
The rumbling continued further down Stanyan before disappearing entirely.
“You shot that crazy movie with a cast who couldn’t act to save their own lives for the sheer and utter love of it!” – he said between taking expensive sips from his water bottle.
I wondered how he knew this; he had never been present on our makeshift set.
“Don’t let your enthusiasm destroy your career before it’s even begun.”
“You’ve hit a wall, that’s all.”
“Creative people are temperamental.”
“Hey, Anthony!” – he snapped his fingers. I noticed the bottle was almost finished. It was too late for me to order one.
“Wake up!” -Marcus’ loud command shook me back to the growing twilight.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have quit your day job.” – He added, out of the blue.
I could hear vacuuming inside Mad for Medusa and the clatter of dishes, presumably from the kitchen. I imagined the soapy water being applied; the brown skin of a Mexican national. He would not be a student overstaying his visa, I imagined, but someone who had braved the deadly desert-crossing and the abuse at the hands of his smugglers, all for a shot at a better life. It struck me how much we had in common—the Mexican man and I—as I coveted the water remaining in the bottle before Marcus and his book.
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Later in the conversation, I was surprised when Marcus mentioned that he had seen Suicide by Cop! In his view, it was a mistake to introduce the protagonist and his partner—two police officers on patrol—right off the bat. He found it implausible that the city would devote the resources to having two officers in a car “watch” Union Square Plaza. He also questioned the scene in which a man with schizophrenia suddenly threatened Christmas shoppers with a gun, arguing that it felt unmotivated rather than psychologically convincing. Finally, he said that Beau was not a name I should use for the protagonist—or for any other character in the film—even though it would later be revealed as short for Beauregard.
*** UPDATED 8-9-2026 ***
Patient Zero: Schizophrenic.
Schizophrenic – adjective – a person with schizophrenia.
John, practical in the extreme, had an intense horror of all superstition. Still, he tried to keep his feelings to himself. Already, the cold metal stool on which he sat was making him uncomfortable, while the white lab coat made him rather hot, what with the lack of air conditioning in the inner-city hospital. He puzzled over Patient Zero as his left hand checked boxes on the intake form clipped to the metal clipboard.
“I am absolutely forbidden to ‘work,’” Zero said. “I have to be so sly about writing in my journal.”
“So, how long have you felt this way?” John asked.
At that, Zero thought for a moment. Though he had not been admitted to the hospital and would probably be released back onto the street, the care he had received so far had been genuine and professional.
“I feel like a ghost, and I can move through walls,” he replied after a moment’s sincere thought.
“Well, thank God I didn’t have to live in that room long!” Zero added, imagining the SRO with horror.
“Where is your journal now?” John asked.
“My what?” Zero asked, genuinely confused.
“Your journal.”
Zero’s face contorted with a special kind of concentration. Then he had an epiphany. “The trash can ate it!” At that, he began staring into a corner of the room with stark intensity.
John checked more boxes after hearing the answer. He tried not to be distracted by the clock on the opposite wall, but he could not ignore its display: 3:33—three threes in a row. The number made him think of something.
“Would you like a bottle of water? Are you thirsty?” John asked, hoping that meeting this basic need might somehow ground Zero’s scattered thinking. There was always that hope.
Without taking his eyes off the corner, Zero looked as though he were seeing the fires of Hades. “Hell no—never here, never here. They will never hear!”
-by James Legare
*** UPDATED 8-9-2026 ***
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Special thanks and acknowledgement.
link2-gutenberg – The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman – a short story published in January 1892. Landmark work of feminist literature. Horror Fiction. – link2-plain-text –
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The goal of this publication is to inform humanity. Nothing in this publication should be interpreted as investment advice. – james.legare@texan-gold.com. Remember to always do your due diligence. Do not rely on my misinformed opinion(s). Be careful with your money and time, especially in this new, new economy! Make all decisions with caution! *
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Fair Use – Disclaimer – United States Copyright laws; — Title 17, Section 107 – of the United States Code * Factors may be considered in weighing a fair use question – link – Transformative uses are those that add something new. * copyright DOT gov – fair use *
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Thanks for reading: The Expansive Horizon – Part 2
Continuation of: Life is Murder in SF.
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*** NOT INVESTMENT ADVICE ***
Do your own due diligence.
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