The Twilight Zane

It is the middle ground between fame and obscurity, between sandwiches and salads, and it lies between the audition tape and the casting call. It encompasses a man’s resume – the one on paper and the embellished one touted by a smart agent. It is an area, which we like to call, The Twilight Zane…

A small, nuclear family – son, daughter, father, mother – gather ‘round their kitchen table for a little morning chitchat. The coffee is lukewarm, the cereal is soggy, and the bacon is starting to lose its char.  

“I noticed that Titanic was on TV last night,” said the mother.

“It really holds up,” said the daughter.

“I still don’t understand how an iceberg can cause that much damage. Couldn’t they have just melted the thing? Something’s definitely fishy. I highly doubt we’re getting the real story, even after all these years,” said the son.

“What’s the point? We know the boat’s going down,” said the father.

But then something happened. Something almost imperceptible, though still unmistakable. 

“Although, I always liked that actor who played Winslet’s initial love interest. What was his name?," said the father.

The family stared at their patriarch, dumbfounded, stunned, confused, and appalled. 

“Who? Winslet and Leo are together from the first foghorn,” said the daughter.

“They are? Then where’s the conflict.”

The father knew something was up. He looked at each person sitting around the table in the eye, trying to read them, figure out if they were pulling one over on him. But this was not a family that enjoyed practical jokes. Or was it?

“The conflict, Daddy, is that there’s a massive iceberg that was sent by God or the Devil to disrupt their love affair,” said the daughter. 

“And disrupt it, it did,” said the mother. 

“Strange, isn’t it? We love ice. You’re in some swanky cocktail bar and the ice cubes are just so, perfectly balanced to complement your chosen beverage. In a way, we’re imbibing a murder weapon. How is that possible let alone legal?,” said the son. 

The son was always going off on tangents. Though his assertion was certainly correct. Gunpowder isn’t an aperitif and mustard gas isn’t sprayed on an unreasonably dry grilled cheese.  

“He wore a bow tie, he’s famously bald, I think he was from Chicago. Billy Zane, that’s it. Come on, guys, we love him,” said the father. 

Nothing. Not a blink. Not a grin. No reaction.

“Are you telling me you’ve never heard of Billy Zane? He was in Zoolander and The Phantom, among other films.”

The daughter gets up and feels her father’s forehead.

“He is a little warm.”

“I feel fine. You people are the ones who’ve lost it.” 

“We’ve been through this before. There’s no such person as “Billy Zane.” To begin with, that’s a ridiculous name.” 

“But I’ve seen him. Let me call a few friends. They’ll support me on this. I just know it.”

“It’s over, Dave. These nice men are here to take you away to get some help.” 

Three large men in white shirts and slacks approach. There’s no fighting them. It’s over.

“Bye dad, get better soon,” said the son.

“You’ve gotta believe me. There is a Billy Zane,” he shouted, as the three men dragged him off into a panel van parked out front. 

In a home for the mildly confused, the father sits peering out the window. He’s holding a book on the history of the RMS Titanic, leafing through every page in a desperate search for answers. On one page towards the back, there’s a black and white photo. It must’ve been taken prior to the sinking, when mirth was still onboard the ship. There, towards the center, plain as day, sat a man bearing the uncanny resemblance to one William George Zane, Jr. Only it was in 1912. It looked like such a good time, in those hours before disaster. They were having fun, getting to know each other. 

“This is Billy Zane. I found him, I found him,” screamed the father. 

Who? Billy Zane, that’s who. He was the icebreaker. He’s always been the icebreaker. The moment we forget about Billy Zane, we forget about our own humanity, all who’ve come before us and all those who are destined to follow us. But here, it’s different. In a little place, we call The Twilight Zane…