The Unpredictability of Fate
Or An Open Letter to Billy Zane
A wiser man than I once said that fate was a monkey. I’m inclined to agree. I read a news article the other day about a local man who died of a hatchet chop to the throat last week while on “a journey of self-discovery.” I don’t think there’s a person among us who thought at any time moment in their lives… yeah, it’ll probably be a tomahawk to the neck while I’m traveling west mourning the still birth of my first child that will end the story of this life. I’m thinking it will be high cholesterol that will end me, but, hell, the possibilities are limitless, though I’m pretty sure still birth is off the table, a hatchet always remains an option.
I’ve been thinking about the strange twists of fate lately. You know, as many times as I’ve watched Back to the Future during my youth, there could be no predicting almost forty years later, I would become bitter enemies with Biff’s third in line lackey, Billy Zane.
For the many, many actors unfamiliar with the name Billy Zane, it belongs to a man of mediocre talent and above average good looks. He played the schmuck engaged to Rose in the movie Titanic. He also beat out Bruce Campbell for the title role in The Titanic, a role that would propel Billy Zane to greatness, allowing him to act in such classics as Scorpion King 3 and Holmes & Watson, while relegating Bruce Campbell to the dustbin of cinematic history where nobody heard from him again.
I’d seen Billy Zane before at a booth at the Scarefest convention in Lexington, Kentucky where he was charging rubes a hundred dollars for the privilege of an autograph and a selfie. I noted his style of dress, the hipster glasses, the loose scarf around his neck as a fashion accessory, the bebop cap. Was Jeff Goldblum aware he had raided his closet? The lines were extravagantly long for someone who’d built his legacy on a long line of Sniper sequels, those cinematic treasures that ran concurrently with the Mission Impossible series except the Sniper movies lacked a little in budget, story, A-list actors and theatrical releases.
I kept my distance that convention. I only had so much money to throw around and Clive Barker demanded most of it.
Fast forward eight months, I attended the pop culture convention closer to home. I’d just experienced a strained interaction with Frank Grillo who, while signing a 8×10 picture to me, almost spelled my name with a “C.”
“It’s Karl with a K, Frank. C’mon, man, I need you to concentrate. Carl with a C is a completely different, most would say lesser cat.”
Frank Grillo flashed a fairly personable smile you don’t get to see too much of when Captain America is whipping his ass.
“Guys get offended when you replace “C” with a “K?”
“Well, Frank, would you like it if someone spelled your name with a ‘C’ instead of an ‘F’?”
“Eh, I’d only have to set them straight once. What’s your problem with it?”
“I work with a guy named Carl with a ‘C.’ It’d feel like you were signing it to him instead of me.”
“How do you differentiate between you two at work? They just call you Karl with a K and Carl with a C?”
“Hell, no, Frank. This is Alabama. Half these guys don’t even know what the fucking alphabet is. They can’t get past that capital A. Nah, it’s just Karl for me and Slightly Less Cool Carl for the other jackass.”
When we took the selfie together, he insisted on raising his fist like he was a tough guy or something.
“Don’t point that fist at me, Frank. You’ll only wish it was Chris Evans whipping your ass in that elevator.”
“I ain’t pointing it at you, I’m pointing it at the ceiling.”
“Okay, Frank. Keep it that way.”
I kept an eye on that fist making sure he wasn’t changing the angle at the last moment while his handler snapped the pictures.
So, I admit my blood was up a bit when I found myself standing in front of Billy Zane’s booth. He was still looking hipsterish in Goldblum’s hand-me-downs, except now he had grown out an impeccable beard. I’d recently shaved my beard off.
Now, some of you may question why I’d throw a Franklin down for an autograph and selfie with a guy who got replaced on Dirty Dancing by Patrick Swayze cause he couldn’t dance a lick. Well, against all odds, he had actually delivered an outstanding performance in a movie I’ve watched at least once a year since I first saw it in theaters thirty years ago. I’m talking, of course, about that masterpiece Tales from the Crypt Demon Knight. Some people claim Braveheart or Toy Story or Heat or Seven was the defining film of 1995, but the correct answer is Demon Knight and it’s due in large part to Billy Zane’s delightfully unhinged performance. He’d not replicated that sort of performance since, not even in that single season of the MacGruber television series.
“So, Billy Zane,” I said, “you’ve finally gotten the chance to meet the Polish Hammer.”
“Who’s the Polish Hammer?”
“Me.”
“I thought Polish Hammer was a wrestler…”
“That’s some other Polish Hammer. This one’s a poet.”
“Oh, really? I’m actually a painter, myself. I’ve had gallery showings…”
“Eh, you’re hardly a painter, Billy Zane. Abstraction painting, that’s not really being a painter. That’s like me painting my son’s bedroom wall and fucking up and my wife getting mad at me. That’s abstract painting.”
By the set of his chiseled, hairy jaw, I could tell my opinion did not set well with him.
I continued, “It’s a good thing I recently shaved my beard. Otherwise, you’d only be the second handsomest bald, bearded man in Huntsville today.”
“Who’d be first?”
“Well, it wouldn’t be the wrestling Polish Hammer, I can tell you that.”
Now, his brow furrowed in confusion. There was a weird energy developing between us. I’m not entirely sure it didn’t stem from the way he treated Jack in the Titanic movie. He signed the Demon Knight 8×10. Then, it was time for the photograph. He had a raised platform set up, and he invited me to lean my elbow upon it next to him.
“You want me to lean on the table so I don’t tower over you,” I said.
“You hardly tower over me,” Billy Zane said. “If you’re taller than me, it’s only by a hair that neither one of us has.”
“Billy Zane, I’ve got at least three inches on you.”
“Not where it counts. Now, quit acting like a weirdo and lean on the table. It’ll look great, two guys just casually getting their pictures taken.”
“Okay, Billy Zane, but do me a favor and suck that gut in. My wife’s gonna be seeing these pictures later on, and I don’t want her to be disappointed.”
“I’ve got a feeling she’s going to be disappointed, tonight, regardless.”
“Nah, she knows you’ve gotten older since Titanic.”
“Man, what the fuck’s up with you?”
“What?”
“What do you mean ‘what?’ You’ve been nothing but insulting since you walked up here.”
“I’ve been pleasant the entire time! I almost had to choke out Frank Grillo five minutes ago. If anybody should be butthurt, it’s him.”
I stared at him. He stared at me. I felt myself being strangely seduced.
“Okay, maybe I was a little bit out of line, Billy Zane.”
“A little?”
“Yeah, kinda like how you’re only a little famous, now.”
“Okay, you’re done here, Polishing Crackers. Go harass Lou Diamond Phillips. I’m tired of looking at you.”
The fact that he would order me to go inconvenience such a sweet-natured soul as Lou Diamond Phillips tells you everything you need to know about Billy Zane’s character. I walked away mostly because there was an entire line of man-children clutching The Phantom Funko Pops needing to be signed, all of them grumbling and belly-aching to their elderly mothers offering emotional support.
So, that’s one more example of the unpredictability of fate, you know. Nobody got their neck chopped with a hatchet, but, perhaps even more tragically, Billy Zane has found himself directly aligned against me. Surely, when he first donned that silly, purple Phantom costume, the last thing he expected was to run afoul thirty years later of the Polish Hammer while signing his name on toys for a little canvas money so he could continue creating abstract art.
Karl Koweski is a displaced Region Rat now living in rural Alabama. He writes when his pen allows it. He’s a husband to a lovely wife and father to some fantastic kids. He collects pop culture ephemera. On most days he prefers Flash Gordon to Luke Skywalker and Neil Diamond to Elvis Presley.
THE POLISH HAMMER POETRY CORNER is a weekly column, posted each Tuesday morning.
