End Of Tweet: A James Caan Story

James Caan stares at twitter, while spread eagle over his California king. He has just finished posting another bullseye tweet comprised of a picture of himself from one of his iconic films and then his signature “end of tweet” catchphrase. While he doesn’t know what it means really, it feels finite and raw. A sexy, little catch me if you can act with his twitter fans that make them all flustered and sore.  Beverly Hills is cloudy and he is sipping from a luke warm can of coke at his bedside.  The white sky reminds him of his days smoking cigarettes outside Neighborhood Playhouse in New York City, sneaking glances from his scene partner, having just done a stage make out,  as they waited out the rain until they couldn’t anymore and ran towards Moonstruck diner for bad hamburgers and sweet laughter. 

To flirt with James Caan is it’s own art and you better know your timing.  He was a master of seduction long before his acting days: subtle and steady.  Somehow,  always able to intuit the next best gesture, a sexy fling of his wrist or adjustment of his belt buckle or a pick up line that would make you feel filthy and 12 years old at the same time or even better: his long drawn out stare, with his chin pushed out, and his arms stretched across the booth as though to say “You are already sucking my dick.” Women and men found his confidence insufferable until they were dating him, then they were in a dream, until it ended, spat out into a much colder Caan-less world. Sometimes it’s best to not know how good something can be.

 He reads the replies from from his repeated gold tweets, his panty dropper method, an instant flex that gives Caan an addictive shot of validation and nostalgia.  Though any high had quickly worn off and now he sends the tweets out of concern for his fans. He understands a hungry audience, had witnessed their ugly, desperate, flailing for decades. But nothing prepared him for the squealing, pathetic depravity of pandemic twitter.  He is willing to throw these poor internet mutants a  piece of himself, least he could do in a world that seemed too crazy to fix. May as well try to add some memory of beauty to the longest whirlpool flush of a dying culture.  

He slips his fresh baked Sourdough feet into his UGG slippers and let out a gnarly cough-fart.  Embroidered on his left slipper is “Caan”, and on the right one is “Can”. James had these words stitched on all his shoes. He explained in an interview to Matt Lauer: “So whenever I’m looking down at my feet, I can simply read “Caan  Can” and it makes me remember I am capable of anything!” To which Matt Lauer retorted “I am a terrible man, guilty of many hideous things. We’ll be right back, with actor, James Caan.” 

He breaths heavy through his nose, closing twitter and opening Tik Tok, the possible next  frontier? His nostrils, a little crusty from a cold, sung a little whistle as the air escaped into his dusty room. Caan loves dust, he always requested a trailer with “air so thick you can chew on it.”  Men from this era keep vestiges from their humble beginnings to keep themselves real and also probably a crack of ptsd. Keeping his room a bit dusty and his bathroom sink abhorrently riddled with shavings and old tooth paste, keeps his life feeling lived in. Anything too sterile or glamorous filled Caan with a strange hatred, a resentment towards himself for doing better than any patriarch before him. 

He reads the replies on twitter dead eyed. No matter how sweet and generous the replies were they dissolved from his brain as soon as they were read. Its not for him really, its for them. A sense of a connection, but he feels its wise not to engage. “If you put too much chum in the water, the sharks will start eating each other”, he always said, which although not technically true was a provocative metaphor.

He peers out his bedroom window to see a gorgeous, naked muscle man doing squats in his yard. James shakes his head indifferently. In the post pandemic era, Caan allowed for some friends of friends to stop by and use his grounds anyway he wanted. The only person he did not let on his grounds was Mickey Rourke who tried to eat his ear one time, while high on Canada Dry and Air Heads. While Mickey profusely apologized to Caan saying that he thought his ear was a Lunchable, their friendship never recovered. Caan felt Mickey was messing with him, trying to topple the granite sculpture of Caan’s career and the path he paved for sexy meat men like Rourke. Rourke just loved deli turkey.

Minus Rourke, Caan opens his doors to everyone.  He wants to create a Gatsby mystique, in this post pandemic period.Though he is never really part of the party these days, he does what he calls  “a stroll through” every night around 5 pm. During the stroll through, he walks around his house holding his favorite drink: gin and baking soda, and eye fucks everyone.  Magnetic nods and tilts of the head toward beautiful anonymous women and men from all walks of life who read the flyers Caan put up on the cork board at Bristol Farms Grocery store. “Come to James Caan’s House” with the address below it.

He is in a sour mood tonight because of his cold, but he puts on his starchiest pair of wranglers anyway and  hits the party. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror on his way down. “End of tweet.” He says, a bit surprised.  Why did he say that? Caan studies his eyes and takes a swig of his gin. 

He roams around the party where a bunch of folks from Bristol Farms wave and gawk at him. In return, he gives a cute, mousey woman a wink so hot that it makes the egg salad she is eating fall out her nose. Caan struts around with a smirk doling out his side eye and pursed lips like they’re hors d’oeuvres. This is his hour to entertain, to be seen by his people, and to feel that party intimacy that has been sucked dry from the world that makes everyone believe they’ve just gotten laid. An elderly woman accidentally falls into him. “End of Tweet?” James asks curiously. He meant to say “Are you alright?” The old woman looks at him confused and asks to see his hog. Caan helps her up and immediately runs into another person, a burly cowboy. “Howdy there, James! Would you mind taking a picture with me?” James, on autopilot, shrugs him off “End of tweet.” This is starting to get weird. 

Could his phrase be the only one he is cursed to say? He repeats it in the mirror on the stairs to his disappointment. But why? What would be the meaning of this. He is about to delete his twitter thinking that maybe that would put an end to it. When suddenly Mickey Rourke approaches him with a cheap bouquet of shitty, carnations. Caan turns toward him and points to the door “End of tweet.” Mickey doesn’t hear anything and holds out the flowers for him. “These are for you. Oh, James. I love you.” James stares at him harshly. Rourke looks down, defeated and spies Caan’s shoes that read “Caan Can”. Mickey starts to laugh and sings “Can-Can, Can Caan, Do the Can-Can...” This angers James and he throws his gin and baking soda in Rourkes face and winds up to clock him when Mickey says “WAIT! I’m so sorry, James. I love you. I love you more than any broad or bitch or dog or cat. You’re my brother. Please, forgive me about your ear.” Caan looks at Mickey who seems a bit pathetic in a tux and his  blonde mane is lookin more like Dog the Bounty Hunter and less like the lion from Wizard of Oz as Rourke had hoped.   Miraculously, Caan hears himself say “I forgive you.” 

End of Tweet.