Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
ON THE DIFFICULTIES OF PILOTING A SPACE SHUTTLE THROUGH AN ASTEROID SHOWER
Truth'S WINDSHIELD exploded into a puzzle of seemingly incompatible fragments. The cabin pressure plunged. The pilot took one last glance at his family photo on the control panel and was sucked out into the vacuum of space, where he suffocated as his body expanded. A space rock the size of a baseball hurtled through the flight deck and effortlessly perforated the face of the co-pilot, who was still strapped in. A deafening blast of air swept through the cabin. Objects became dangerous projectiles. Behind the cockpit, crew members had just enough time to secure their helmets to their suits. While this did little to calm them, at least they could breathe.
Through his headset, Michael could only make out a word here or there amid a stream of orphaned syllables.
"Tr ... Uston ... Pl ... Resp ... What ... Stat ... Tru ..."
The voice was insistent and panicked — far from reassuring. Michael's eyes were wide open, but it was hard to see through his foggy visor. The shuttle jackhammered and sent reverberations through his body. He felt sick to his stomach, but there was no time to indulge the thought. Around him, crew members not secured by seatbelts grasped for purchase as they fought the pull of the stars. Michael held fast to a colorful abstract painting with his left hand, preventing it from getting sucked up by the cosmos. His easel and brushes were already distant satellites in some unknown orbit.
Michael managed to turn to his right and saw Independence through the window. She was experiencing problems of her own. Debris from the asteroid hit one of the rear engines, which exploded into a fireball that was immediately extinguished by the void, as though someone had hit rewind. Independence was sent off course and into a tailspin.
Michael managed to pull the painting back toward him, stowed it in the compartment under his seat, and took out a video camera.
"Uth ... Here ... Pleas ... Spond ... Wh ... Stat ..."
Michael pressed the camera lens up to the window to capture a series of shaky but stunning images. Independence was flying erratically as she spun inside a comet's tail. Michael struggled to keep his shot in focus. Although the shooting schedule didn't account for such unique circumstances, Michael was determined to make the most of it. He'd find somewhere to fit in the spectacular shots — if he survived till postproduction.
Something hard hit the back of his seat. The camera flew out of his hand, shot forward, and got lodged in an orange nylon net near the cockpit. Michael's seatbelt was still in place but, behind him, the astrophysicist's had given way. The scientist tried to grip the back of the seat, but his thick gloves and limited strength made it difficult to hold on. Feet appeared to the right of Michael's head, then, with another lurch of the shuttle, legs, pelvis, and torso. The astrophysicist's head was now right beside Michael's, but at a 90degree angle. His body was straight as a board and he was clinging to the seatback with all his might, like a gymnast gripping a vertical bar, every muscle contracted, parallel to the ground. The two men locked eyes, then the scientist let go, flew across the shuttle, through the windshield, and became one with his object of study.
Michael tried to gather his wits. From the corner of his eye he could still see Independence on his right. There was something almost poetic about the distressed shuttle from afar. Her power and tragic beauty must clearly have been destined for his cinematic oeuvre. It would have been irresponsible to let the image slip away. Unable to reach the camera he'd dropped, Michael activated the hydraulic system and his seat moved on rails toward what was left of the main control panel. The buttons, controls, and displays still appeared to work.
"Tru ... This ... Respon ... What I ... Stat ..."
Truth seemed to have stabilized. Up front, a crew member had managed to climb into the pilot's seat and, firmly buckled in, was more or less in control of the shuttle. Michael pressed a series of buttons and the back of the spacecraft groaned as it opened up. An enormous robotic arm emerged with three cameras attached. Drops of condensation obstructed the filmmaker's view, but he continued to flip switches in a precise order. The monitors lit up. The cameras were on. Michael grabbed hold of the two controls and the robotic arm deftly extended. The first screen displayed an overhead shot of their shuttle's cockpit and nose, which looked like they'd been sprayed with bullets from guns of all calibers. The second panned out to follow Independence as she tailspinned and left a greyish trail behind her. On the third Freedom was clearly visible and seemingly intact. She slalomed in and out of the vapor trailing Truth. The mission's three vessels were in the frame. Without hesitating, Michael skillfully maneuvered the mechanical arm as it twirled and the shots came to life. Like his mind, the beautiful, frenetic images burst with kinetic energy.
Then the third monitor went to static. The asteroid fragments multiplied. The acting pilot seemed to have lost his composure. Michael looked up: the back of the seat had a gaping hole in it. The pilot's arms floated lifelessly. Another monitor lost its signal. Then an enormous shockwave rocked the shuttle, shunting it off course. Michael's neck whipped forward. His forehead hit the inside of his helmet. For a second everything was hazy, muffled. He didn't want to close his eyes. He didn't want to fall asleep. To his left, a man lay perfectly still, eyes contorted, mouth open, his beard frosted over, his visor shattered. Sparks flew from the control panel. Through the window, Michael watched part of the right wing float by.
"Uth ... Please Respond ... Rstat ... Truth ... Ouston ..."
It was Truth's turn to start spinning, first slowly, then faster and faster. Nobody seemed willing to take over the controls. The crew members still alive were petrified. Only Bruckheimer appeared stoic. Never one to give up easily, Michael took charge: he quickly scanned the space between him and the cockpit, and noted the potential obstacles and handholds. He checked his suit, closed his eyes, mentally embraced his beautiful PhD student, opened his eyes, then unclipped his belt. The pull was immediate. He crossed the length of the cabin in seconds, his body moving with the abandon of a rag doll thrown in front of a fighter-jet engine. He grabbed onto the orange nylon net as he passed it, slowing himself but, in the process, dislodging the camera, which flew out into the ether. The pilot's seat was a few feet away. The shuttle shook with increasing violence. Using his free hand, Michael grabbed one of the carabiners on his suit and clipped it to the net, praying it was firmly anchored to the wall. He leaned back and, his two hands now free, fixed a second carabiner to the seat back. He could see straight through the hole in the pilot's chest, which was covered with a thin film of frozen blood. Truth picked up speed as it rotated, like a bus rolling down a hill. Michael opened a pocket on his left thigh, pulled out a multipurpose blade and cut the length of rope attaching him to the orange net so that he could get closer to the coveted seat. At the sight of the two perforated corpses, he could barely suppress the nausea rising in his throat. He concentrated, slowed his breathing, thought "I won't forget you, Corporal Witwicky," then undid the spaceman's harness and watched him instantly vanish through the windshield.
At the command station, Michael turned on the built-in microphone in his helmet.
"Houston, this is Truth. This is a distress call. Mayday. We've lost control. This is Truth. Houston, come in. Mayday."
The control panel was half singed, but the shuttle still responded — albeit feebly — to the steering commands. A few displays were still functional, including the Flight Director Attitude Indicator. Michael struggled to slow Truth's spin and bring her nose up. An alarming number of rock fragments came into view. Farther out, to the right, he could see Independence. Her trajectory had changed dramatically. Their flight paths seemed set to cross and collision was imminent at their current speed. Michael pulled the controller toward him with all his might, but Truth barely responded. Amid millions of pieces of debris, the out-of-control shuttles zoomed toward each other. There seemed no way to avoid impact. Time seemed to have expanded, as if particularly sensitive to the laws of relativity. He stared at Independence as she continued to spin. Ten feet from the point of contact, one vessel was tail up and the other tail down. Their noses touched slightly. Michael and Ben Affleck exchanged a distressed look from their respective cockpits as the two shuttles brushed past one another at over twelve thousand miles per hour. A collision was narrowly avoided but, at that exact moment, an asteroid fragment struck Independence's only functioning thruster. Truth reverberated and Michael saw nothing but flames. Everything went fuzzy. Was this the end? No, it couldn't be, not yet. He still had to win Daphné back. He still had to find the strength to patch things up with his parents. He still had to unravel the mystery of meaning.
He still had to become known to all as the greatest mind of the century.
CHAPTER 2
ON THE DANGERS OF DRIVING A TANKER TRUCK THROUGH RUSH HOUR TRAFFIC
THE FIRST RECORDED FACTS on Michael Bay date back to one fateful day in California history — March 19, 1967 — dubbed "Fireball Sunday" by the following day's Los Angeles Times. At four in the afternoon, during a particularly grueling rush hour in the LA metropolitan area, a tanker transporting thirteen cubic feet of propane exploded out of the blue at the corner of East 1st Street and North Boyle Avenue, killing one hundred and seventy-two people instantly, wounding three hundred and fourteen, of whom one hundred and twenty-two subsequently succumbed to their burns, lacerations, and perforations. An enormously thick cloud of fire and smoke, which a number of veterans in the area confirmed not having "seen the likes of since Pearl Harbor," rose nine hundred and twenty-five feet up into the clear California spring sky, blasting away cars, passersby, windows, and debris — everything within a six hundred-foot radius. For the thirty seconds immediately following the explosion, nothing could be heard but the huge blazing ball's roar of victory and the piercing shrieks of car alarms. Then little by little yet growing more and more deafening, cries and angry shouts — some hoarse and high-pitched, others slick and muffled — sounded through the air, as the survivors who had not immediately lost consciousness suddenly, with the anesthetizing effect of the confusion wearing off, felt the full agony of their segmented limbs, their open wounds revealing organs burnt to a cinder, or finding their loved ones dead and beyond recognition. Those who escaped relatively unscathed were struck with waves of nausea at the sight of hundreds reduced to a vulgar pile of burnt corpses, coupled with the shock and revolting smell in the air (mostly propane, blood, smoke, and vomit, hitting the senses one at a time to form a whole that would forever be associated with chaos), giving way to numerous instances of regurgitation that left the scene completely devoid of poetic potential.
After the first confused minutes following the blast, which seemed unbearably long from the perspective of the crippled and widowers- and widows-to-be, the first emergency vehicles finally arrived at the scene. The Los Angeles Fire Department, assisted by numerous medics and city police officers, quickly realized it was woefully underequipped to handle the situation. All while the fire, which had first filled the sky with its majestic glow, now began spreading at ground level, devouring everything in its path, including objects no one would have thought flammable. Telephone poles weak from the blast collapsed one by one, their transformers exploding into fountains of sparks like Kerouac's roman candles. The gleam of the flames gradually became one with the immense orange sun setting over downtown in the City of Angels. On the horizon, a fleet of helicopters with blurred halos appeared against the smoldering sky, then landed on-site and emptied out marines, who were reassuring if only for their seemingly choreographed efficiency.
And amid it all, unharmed and observing the scene around him, a young boy stood all alone.
Laughing.
CHAPTER 3
ON PHILOSOPHY
AT THE AGE OF 12, Michael Bay discovered Plato on one of his many afternoons at the Los Angeles Public Library and knew at once that he was destined to one day be a philosopher. After reading a wide variety of writers — from Dickens and Wilde to Desnos, Faulkner, Borgès, Robbe-Grillet, Aquin, Proust, Césaire, and Moravia — young Michael felt it was time to expand his horizons. So far as he was concerned, acquiring knowledge from books was the best way to lend meaning to his existence which, due to the haziness of his own history, was cruelly lacking in it.
It was this notion of origin that led him to Plato's works, his curiosity piqued by an article in The Hollywood Reporter titled "A Return to Plato for an Understanding of Today? Thoughts on Origin and Truth" by guest columnist Jerry Bruckheimer. Michael began researching a field vaster than fiction, to which he had always been partial. Out of habit, he turned to an old edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica, whose odor of paste and paper still imbues his memories today, and read the pages dedicated to the Greek philosopher with puzzled interest. Then, he walked over to a shelf and pulled down Symposium for the first time, his choice no doubt subconsciously motivated by its subtitle, On Love.
CHAPTER 4
ON MEATLOAF
IN FEBRUARY 1993, following the release of the album Bat Out of Hell II: Back into Hell, Virgin Records contacted Michael Bay, at the request of Meat Loaf himself, to ask if he would meet with the musician in private to discuss a possible collaboration. Michael was enthusiastic about the idea, having played the role of Eddie in a theatrical homage to TheRocky Horror Picture Show and supervised its mise en scène in his freshman year at Wesleyan University. He accepted at once, if only out of curiosity. A meeting was set for cocktail hour in a trendy university bookstore-café where both men were regular customers. The cuisine was refined but not pretentious, and the décor understated and tasteful — particularly on the back patio, where thin slivers of light filtered through an elegant vine-covered trellis — and that same evening, the bookstore was set to host a round table discussion on destiny and metaphysics featuring Paul Auster, Jacques Derrida, Umberto Eco, and Hans-Georg Gadamer. Michael arrived early, hoping to leaf through the newly published translation of Lyotard's Lessons on the Analytic of the Sublime. He found a table and ordered a pastis, a carafe of water, and some marinated olives. He observed his surroundings listlessly and began to think — something he always found to provide a satisfying degree of suffering.
Michael was contemplating the possibility of dedicating his spare time to the structural analysis of Dasein when he heard, from far away at first, then growing more and more insistent, the virile growl of a Harley Davidson, its vibrations causing the surroundings to resonate as if by symbiosis, dragging the other customers out of their reverent concentration one by one. Fear and anticipation loomed in the air, interlacing like a couple of teenagers embracing for the first time to the sound of rock 'n' roll. As the noise reached an almost unbearable crescendo — the vibrations under foot suggesting unusual seismic activity along the San Andreas Fault — the restaurant's side wall smashed open, revealing amid the rubble and severed and swaying electrical wires the glorious silhouette of Meat Loaf on his motorcycle, riding through a cloud of smoke and carbon monoxide toward Michael's table as the customers looked on in admiration.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Explosions"
by .
Copyright © 2015 Les Éditions de Ta Mère.
Excerpted by permission of Baraka Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
