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You Can Make It Up: Evi And Randy Quaid Are Hollywood Refugees

Randy Quaid stared out over the dusty tennis court and the fetid swimming pool filled with human feces. His permanently furrowed brow seemed to add creases by the day, and this day was no different. A shadow crossed his stormy, bottomless eyes, which continued to take in the horizon. A Bentley on fire. Two private masseurs fighting over a poodle carcass. A broken chocolate fountain on a bare buffet table under a stained tent. Randy Quaid mashed the heel of his palms into his eyes but it was impossible these days to get the grit out. A lone tear formed at the corner of each eye and rolled down his cheeks, leaving a pink trail in its wake until he smeared fresh dirt across his face with the back of his hand. Evi stood next to him for a few minutes before he even noticed. It was only a slight movement in his peripheral vision that he thought at first might be a caddy come to rob him that he turned and found his wife. She hitched her tattered skirts and sat next to him, placing an impossibly thin hand against the flat of his back. Through his unwashed tuxedo shirt, she could feel ribs.

“Storm’s coming,” Randy said, pointing out towards the overturned outdoor brick pizza oven made of stones imported from Naples. Evi just nodded. There was nothing to do with a storm but brave it. A feral production assistant had made off with their tarpaulin weeks ago.

A passing aid worker offered them emergency rations of cocaine, but Evi waved him off. “We’re not on drugs,” she explained. “And we are mentally stable.” The aid worker looked at her with genuine sadness, just shaking his head gently from side to side before heading deeper into the hills.

“You should have taken the cocaine,” Randy said, when the aid worker was gone. “Maybe it would help your cholera.”

Just then Evi died of cholera. Randy dug a hole in someone’s mangosteen patch with his bare fingers, wrapped her body in a Burberry trenchcoat, and buried her, with nothing but a simple jewel-encrusted Tiffany cross as a marker. Suddenly, he was overcome with a desire to say something in his dead wife’s honor. Naturally, he didn’t have anything good enough to toast her with, not anymore, but he would make do, and if she was watching from Heaven, she would understand. Randy Quaid fashioned a glass out of a champagne glass, and he poured mid-priced champagne into the glass and pretended it was expensive champagne.

“Evi, you were my wife. You were not on drugs, and you were not mentally unstable. Together we fled the Hollywood assassins. They led us here, to this Hollywood refugee camp where we were Hollywood refugees. Then you died of the cholera. I know that we had our differences on the subject, but through all of this turmoil, I choose to believe that God does exist, and that he had his reasons for taking everything away from us despite our sobriety and mental stability. I believe that He in His infinite wisdom took you home to Him with the cholera because it was your time. I miss you, my beautiful bride. And the international celebrity assassins will pay. I promise you this, I will find their headquarters, and I will infiltrate them and destroy them and their lasers before they can make anyone else who is so not on drugs and so not mentally unstable run for their lives ever again.”

Randy Quaid grimaced as he drank the meagre mid-priced champagne. Then he sat back down on the well-manicured lawn and watched in the distance as some fellow refugees played 9-holes with the polished bones of a dead gardener and a front propeller from a private jet. A wind kicked up and blew dust everywhere, like a bottle of Goldschlagger that’s been shaken too hard. The storm was coming.