Bushido

Abstract

Bushido Lee Thomas (bio) They were halfway up the mountain when Sully grasped the coincidence: a father and son in the wilderness. He snorted. It cut uncomfortably close to the plot of Bushido. The whiff of a bad knock-off filled him with doubt, like he'd lost something important, though he couldn't lay hands on it. Bushido—the film that had made Sully—had given birth to it all, his whole damn life. Carmen, Conor, the house in the Hills, the sleek glass office. Twenty years ago, sitting across from the lean young Japanese director in the rental space off La Brea, Sully beheld the thing he lacked: vision. He spotted the genuine article and bet big, everything he'd had. Critical acclaim had led to one hit, then another. One success, or even two, might have been luck. No, what he did took skill, an opinion he'd turned to fact over drinks with fawning critics at the Polo Lounge. Takamori had the passion and energy to make it real; Sully had the money and a talent for backing a winner. Conor's grim face beside him on the trail appeared as irrefutable as Takamori all those years ago—bright with vision, terrible. As they hiked the dusty canyon together, their camping packs weighed heavily, as did the unspoken argument that dogged them up the mountain. Sully felt Conor's disdain crackling. "Mom would have brought enough," Conor said in reply to an off-camera remark about conserving their water. "Like hell she would have," said Sully. "Anyway, you're stuck with me. We'll ration what we have." They circled a larger dispute, feinting, weaving, and marshaling their strength. At 14, Conor wielded adolescent judgment; his [End Page 97] apparent remove was a ploy. A different sort of man might have felt sympathy for the boy, in over his head, trying to protect his mother against a father's monstrosity. Though Sully knew Conor could never match him, that it would always be an unfair fight. Out of principle he refused to spare him. He looked lazily out at the mountains and a hawk circling overhead—a classic scene-establishing pan. He could dodge the boy's blows indefinitely with hardly any effort. Carmen was another story. She bested him even in absence. He'd never seen her so furious. Her anger had massed for weeks until Nikki's call broke the storm. Emotion flooded Carmen's face. Her eyes filled with wrath. Shame turned her mouth to a ragged tear. Sully colorfully, horribly, imagined the hushed accusations Nikki had whispered into Carmen's ear. Carmen laid down the phone without so much as goodbye. They'd sent Conor from the room, more an announcement of the fight about to erupt than true protection; even whispers carried in the villa. Carmen brought her full weight to the ring. Sully knew what to watch out for, having gone similar rounds before. But knowledge hardly spared him. "You've done it now." Her restraint terrified him, something leashed that she might loose at any moment. "Carmen. It's fine. She's nobody." "A Wharton grad? You know better than to fuck a smart woman." Every word hit bone. "She's hired Bernhardt." "Bernhardt. How can she afford him?" Carmen splayed her hands on the counter, her tilted body holding all the suspense of a cocked hammer. "Pay attention, pay attention like your life depends on it. I'm only going to say this once." His mind played dead, dumb. "I want you out, Sully. Take Conor. I don't care where you go. I need time to think." "Carmen, I—" [End Page 98] She raised a hand to stop him. He stopped. He couldn't afford to cross her. ________ "Three miles to the campsite." "You really fucked up this time." Sully let it hang. Conor wasn't wrong, but the insolence burned. Sully would have never dared disrespect his father, not like that, not to his face. Letting Carmen raise him had been a mistake, he saw that now—too late for anything but regret. The work had seemed the only thing that would last. The path...