Marlee and Me: A Marlee Matlin Fan Fiction
by Timothy Charles Browne
Chapter One: I have No Mouth, and I must scream.
Owen Wilson was bummed.
“Geez, I’m bummed,” Owen Wilson wondered aloud, to no one in particular, since no one else was around to hear him. His words coincided with the dull thud of earth dropping upon the tiny shoebox. Owen stood above a small hole in his back yard, shovel in hand. He wiped his brow of the beads of sweat that were a natural result of opening up, to say nothing of also immediately filling in, a grave in the backyard for his dearly departed corgi. Owen paused and reflected on the life of said corgi, identifiable, to those so inclined to look, which was nobody, as “Skuppers,” a name scrawled in a barely legible hand on the side of the Green and White New Balance Sneaker box in black permanent marker.
If it had occurred to Owen that writing in permanent marker on a biodegradable cardboard box was an effort in supreme futility, he did not show it.
Owen Wilson was stunned. Not only by the mute’s beauty, but also by her “voice.” It was something he had never heard before, a sound that, to the most trained ear, might be said to resemble that of a constipated swan, and those who occupy the lowest end of the intellectual scale.
“OH HAI YOU WANNA DOG MISSER WE GOT DOGS.”
Her blond hair tumbled down over her shoulders in tight curls, a beaming-if-slightly- stupid smile on her countenance. On the name tag pinned rakishly to her green apron appeared the words: “Petco” and “Marlee Matlin.”
Owen smiled his own beaming-if-slightly-stupid smile at the woman.
“Hey, ma’am, no need to yell.” He said with a simpish good cheer, “I’m standing right here.”
“I NO GONNA HEER GOOD CUZ I’S DEFF.” Marlee charitably explained.
Owen paused. He had come for a new dog. But now…now, he, thought, he was going to leave with a real bitch.
“I must train you,” He said. Taking Marlee’s hand, the two walked off into the southern California sun.
It was Tuesday. It must have been Tuesday, because Marlee’s face was once again covered in her own feces.
“LOOK WHAT YOU DID!” Owen screamed at her, though of course, she could not hear his charged words. “LOOK AT WHAT YOU FUCKING DID!” Owen pushed Marlee’s face down into her own dung again. She sniffed it. Carrots and peas, that’s what crossed the silent plain that was her mind. She knew it was wrong. But what could Marlee do? She was deaf. She couldn’t control when - or heaven’s to Betsy, certainly not where - she would deaf-acate.
“I’S SO SOWWY MISSER WILSON, I DUNNA MEANNA MAKE THE BROWN MESS!”
Owen hit her across her flaxen locks.
“I’m sorry, Marlee, but I can’t understand a thing that comes out of your stupid mouth. I love you, I love rubbing your belly, I love it when you get me the paper, but come on!! It’s been three weeks!”
Marlee cried and bit at Owen’s hand ferociously. Her teeth caught the ball of his wrist, and Owen howled, recoiling. Marlee scampered into the corner and reared up on her hind legs, a threatening pose. She growled and snapped. Tears filled her eyes, streaking her shit-stained cheeks.
Owen looked at her, his anger instantly melting into something much like regret. He went to her, and Marlee whimpered. She was scared. Of course she was scared, Owen thought. I’ve been a fucking douchebag to this poor mute beast. Owen trepidatiously reached his hand out, waiting for Marlee to
snap. She whimpered again as his hand came down on her, gently this time, to rub her hair.
Marlee loved it when Owen rubbed her hair.
There was one thing Marlee loved more than Owen rubbing her hair, and that was peanut butter.
There was one thing Owen loved more than rubbing Marlee’s hair, and that was slathering his scrotum in peanut butter.
There was one thing Owen loved more than slathering his scrotum in peanut butter, and that was the sensation of Marlee licking his butter-covered balls clean.
At first, Marlee was hesitant to do this, because in her mind, it was pretty awful. Never mind that it was probably something that approached rape. But god damn it. Marlee loved balls. And Marlee loved peanut butter. Also, whenever Marlee licked Owen Wilson’s peanut butter-covered scrotum, he gave her a treat. Sometimes, it was a piece of bacon. Other times, it was a facial.
She secretly hoped it would be a facial this time.
It was bacon.
Followed by a faical.
“MISSUH WILSIN A’S A LOT A FACE JUICE AN BACON,” Marlee said, with inappropriate loudness.
Marlee had a problem, you see. Being deaf, she couldn’t hear.
This was a problem when Owen Wilson called her. Sure, she was Oscar nominated, had appeared in dozens of films, hundreds of television shows, and was an idol to millions of handicapable people around the globe.
But fetching the slippers? Well, yeah she could do it. But knowing Owen wanted them? Golly gee-whillikers, that was the tricky part.
Marlee tried to impress upon Owen that she was deaf. This was harder than one might think.
“OWEN IM DEF IT MEAN I CAN’T HEAR NO GOOD THINGS.” Marlee barked out, sounding like a seal being kicked in the throat.
“Marlee, you sound like an asshole.” Owen said, with infinite kindness.
“NO HEAR GOOD, THINGS SOUND LIKE THE OCEAN.”
Owen Wilson sighed. Marlee had caught him in an awkward position, which involved him trying to slit his wrists, again, because he had starred in “Drillbit Taylor: Budget Bodyguard.”
Owen’s blood spilled onto the white tile floor of the kitchen. Marlee had to pause for a moment, as her first instinct was to lap it up. However, the lessons she had learned on the set of Alex Cox’s “Walker,” in which she played Ed Harris’ deaf Civil War wife, had taken hold, after the incident in which Harris had bitten part of Peter Boyle’s face off in a cocaine- induced hate crime spree, and Marlee deftly punched the phone off the wall. Then, it hit her: How could a deaf person use the phone? It had literally never been done before, ever. Marlee cradled the phone and sighed. It was go time. She had almost got a Oscar. How hard could a phone call be?
She dialed 911 and bellowed into the receiver, “IS ME MAWLEE MATLIN THE DEF ACTWESS, I AT THE OWNE WILSON HAWS, HES ALL CUT UP AND GONNA DIE COME GET IM.”
Owen Wilson breathed a heavy sigh.
He was alive.
Thank God, he was alive.
No, not God.
Thank Marlee Matlin he was alive.
Alive. It made him feel alive to say it.
Marlee, of course, was not. She had succumbed to heart worms during his arduous recuperation from suicide, and it pained Owen that he couldn’t be by her sweet, deaf side when Marlee passed.
Owen muttered a prayer as he dumped a shovelful of dirt onto the shoebox in the back yard that contained Marlee’s remains. It was a very big showbox.
“Well, Marlee… I’m gonna miss you girl. You were there for me when I needed you. When I was hurt. When I was happy. When I needed my peanut butter covered nut sack licked. I couldn’t understand you, Marlee. But I always knew you loved me.”
And from Heaven, Marlee Matlin bellowed, “I THINK YOU PRETTY SPECIAL TOO OWEN WILSON, YOU MY BOYFWEND.”