Hey, It’s That Movie You Always Find Channel-Flipping at a Hotel

by Elliot Alpern

3 A.M.

 

Fade-in from commercial purveying pizza or luxury sedans or all of the beaches in Tampa bay. Yeah you’ve definitely, uh, seen whatever this is—or, wait, have you? It was five years ago at least, but, yeah, this part feels familiar. It’s that dude who played the superhero—if you try to guess which dude or superhero, you’ll be wrong and feel stupid—but yeah, he’s in this movie, you forgot. Look at him in his starch collar shirt, all pretty-boy and so-sarcastic-so-witty-oh-no-damn-he’s-just-an-asshole.

Hey, you need to know something right now. This dude could fuck anyone he wanted. Okay? You see that? You see that right? 

Gonna show you again real quick just in case. It’s important you are reminded of this. Hah, here’s a zinger that’s already offensive and this movie isn’t, that, old. 

Alright, well, you still can’t remember the name of this movie but you can remember the poster, the stupid shit-eating “who-me?” grin from what’s-his-face; the overbright palette and shouting block letters. 

By this point you can tell that you’re two-thirds of the way through the movie, or also maybe it just started. It’s tough to tell with these. Doofus is back home where he grew up, sort of. Yeah, he could fuck anyone he wanted back then. Now something’s up, you think maybe he was fired or his penis was hexed away, but, regardless: he’s gonna figure this out! 



Oh, hey, don’t look now, but… 

It’s that supermodel who also grew up here. 

Yeah, she tends bar these days and has two dogs and promptly never starred in another movie of clout again. Super casual though, just a hometown girl, you know? Hockey and jeans and perfect bangs, all that stuff. Here’s a drink Mr. Pretty Boy, but don’t you go fallin for me now. Have you ever heard of this obscure little band called Rusted Root?

Hey, look — Main Doofus could fuck her. Okay? He could fuck anyone he wanted, if only his penis weren’t hexed away! 

Main Doofus returns home with some early-2000s punk-rock on the radio. You’re pretty sure one of Main Doofus’s parents was nominated for an Oscar at some point. Oh god, and the parent just made a shock-value sex joke, this is so sad. Did the Academy see this? Were they cool with this? You pray the nomination came later — more of an aspirational tale, than a freefall. 

Hey, you need to know something else right now, okay? This dude, he likes to party, with some serious characters! Really wacky bros! You haven’t seen house-ragers like this ever! Smash Mouth could and probably will show up at any second! 

Who wants to do shots of beer y’all?

Wait —

Is that Jonah Hill? 

You’re 80% sure that’s Jonah Hill, but there are so many of those Jonah-Hill-lites, especially in these kinds of movies. And you realize there’s no way for you to verify — you don’t know the name of the movie, or who any of these people are; they’re just one homogenous blob of semi-Hollywood. 

That’s a little creepy, it dawns on you. This guy, he’s like some rando that approaches you at a party, and says, “Hey, I’m Jonah Hill,” but his voice is a little high, and there’s something off about his chin. How curly is Jonah Hill’s hair? Is it this curly? But you don’t want to walk away from Jonah Hill! 

You continue watching in spite of Faux-nah Hill. In spite of Main Doofus, who, for real, is a straight sociopath; in spite of the Bechdel-travesty script and the ominous lack of minority characters. 


You want to see how it ends, if only to realize you’ve seen this movie a dozen times. And then, to search the Rotten Tomato score, confirm your suspicions or rage against the taste of critics who’ve barely changed. 



But you won’t. 

Hotel beds are comfy, and you’ll wake up to CBS Sunday Morning, as if you dreamt the whole thing.


Elliot Alpern is an MFA candidate in fiction at Columbia University, and Print Fiction Editor of Columbia Journal Issue 58. He was born in Torrance, California, which apparently does not count as Los Angeles.

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