Addict.

  November 2004.

  Looking ahead to Thanksgiving Day, with a month of filming behind them, everything was in order. Those around him were doing their best to keep going, now just four days away from wrapping the schedule on the fourth Thursday of November.

  –Thanks for inviting me, director. –Billy said with a crooked smile. Standing before him was Michael Bay. The boy just looked at the people in front of him, with that rebellious air, giving the impression that the cheerful man seen earlier that morning and afternoon was the real Billy… but in truth, the tough, provocative one was the real Billy. He seemed to always observe people from head to toe. With no wife or kids, he visited the director’s house in Detroit, who had invited a few close friends to spend Thanksgiving Day together.

  –Everyone, meet Billy Carson. –Michael said, introducing him to Jerry Bruckheimer, one of the key producers of all Michael Bay’s films and a close friend.

  –Young man. –Jerry greeted him, standing beside his wife Linda Bruckheimer, a woman currently with striking red hair, on whose p rested a three-year-old girl. Billy gave a polite greeting, though his attention quickly drifted to the many others in the room.

  Why had he been invited? Simple. Jerry now had a retionship with Michael. And yes… we're talking about Jerry Wrexler, Billy’s agent, who shared the faintest resembnce to a father figure. He had asked a favor to ease the party mood, and the director agreed, joining the older crowd who now only wished for a bit of rest. After all, they were all in their forties, at least.

  –I know you. –Billy said, greeting Amir Mokri, director of photography and a longtime colborator of Michael Bay.

  –Pleasure, kid. –Amir replied, gncing past Billy at the blonde lead actress now wearing a loose shirt with no bra, her rebellious beauty on full dispy, her yered curls framing her face, and those green eyes accentuated by long shes.

  –Well, the pleasure’s mutual. –Billy added, looking slightly out of pce with his earrings, his open white shirt revealing two thin silver chains—one with a peace sign, the other a capital A—along with his rings, tight bck pants, and a dangling cross earring. Letting out a soft sigh, he took Scarlett’s hand and sat down. The girl’s rge eyes followed him silently. Both paid only partial attention to the dinner that was about to be served—they had arrived just in time.

  –We were waiting for you. –said Paul, the editor, slightly younger than the rest.

  –Sorry for the dey. There were complications. –Billy replied with a wink, as his mind fshed back to Scarlett’s feet on his shoulders. He shrugged—what did it matter? Still, he was pretty sure he saw the blonde blush.

  He felt a hand gripping his arm with a bit of pressure.

  Dinner passed without awkwardness, and Billy appreciated the effort of the home-style meal. He was sure Jerry had made the request, but something else drew his attention more—the lovely piano in the next room. Detroit’s suburbs weren’t exactly safe, but the city had its higher strata. Michael Bay lived in a luxurious apartment, roughly 200 square meters spread across two floors. The dining area and living room weren’t connected but divided into separate spaces.

  –I heard you’ve got a song for the movie. –commented one of the crew members.

  –That’s right. In fact, I already have it. –Billy replied, thinking of Skinny Love by Bon Iver. The song echoed in his mind—a piece meant to be sung with a broken voice. His thoughts circled all the ways he could or should sing it. His already sharp rhythm helped him consistently hit the mark. He moved slightly from side to side, wanting desperately to nail it, even though his clear voice gave him an edge.

  –So you’ve got it. –Michael Bay asked, excited by Billy’s confidence.

  –I can show you something, but I don’t have a guitar at the moment. –Billy said.

  –I have one. I’ll grab it so you can py something for us ter. –Michael offered. His tall frame disappeared down the hallway, then returned with a lovely acoustic guitar without an amp, which he pced on a chair.

  –I can do it. –Billy said, stepping over to Scarlett. –Wanna py?

  She declined. She knew Billy’s songs firsthand—they were good, and they had worked on a few together—but she didn’t have the courage to py anything without at least 100 hours of practice. Billy’s ability to learn anything in under five hours was simply remarkable.

  Soft and private, he whispered in her ear while the others finished their meals. Billy now sat with the guitar resting on his right thigh. He was fully aware of the contrasts within him, and as he began to hum, the way his fingers strummed the chords gave it away—he was determined to surprise them all. Scarlett already had a wild gleam in her eyes. The connection between them grew more intense, and it was as if they were trying to bring out something truly grateful in everyone present.

  –Alright, I ask for silence. We don’t have great acoustics or a sound system, so hold your appuse until your jaws are done dropping. And of course—if I deserve it, I’ll take the appuse. –Billy said.

  Skinny Love (Bon Iver). Skinny Love is part of the indie folk revival led by bands like Fleet Foxes, Iron & Wine, and Sufjan Stevens. The song helped establish Bon Iver as a pilr of modern mencholic folk. The singer wrote it after his band broke up. Amid that sorrow, the song was born—not about ordinary love, but a love sustained through the needs of two people.

  ????????????

  Come on, skinny love, just st the yearPour a little salt, we were never hereMy my my, my my my, my myStaring at the sink of blood and crushed veneer

  I tell my love to wreck it allCut out all the ropes and let me fallMy my my, my my my, my myRight in this moment, this order's tall

  ????????????…

  With a fractured voice, he channeled all of Lincoln’s thoughts—a divergence from the usual narrative approach. Instead of relying on external media cues, he embodied the character’s inner doubts and bursts of sadness. The ambiguity made him retable and magnified the closeness and power of the moment.

  It was a powerful point—a wide arc of emotion—and everyone in the room listened intently to the folk bald. It resonated deeply, each verse offering subtle imperfections. A song can sometimes outshine its original version, but often it's the delivery—the repetition of a single word, the emotional nuance—that elevates it.

  ??????????

  And I told you to be patientAnd I told you to be fineAnd I told you to be bancedAnd I told you to be kind

  And in the morning I'll be with youBut it will be a different kindAnd I'm holding all the ticketsAnd you'll be owning all the fines

  ????????????

  …

  Taking a breath, he shortened the performance a little, avoiding direct eye contact. He dropped the key and hushed his voice, as if about to cry. And when he did, the people around him saw fshes of the scenes he had envisioned.

  The desire to exist—the one that had been forgotten. The yearning of a clone who didn’t know much about himself, whose versions rejected one another.

  ??????????

  Come on, skinny love, what happened here?Suckle on the hope in light brassieresMy my my, my my my, my mySullen load is full, so slow on the split

  And I told you to be patientAnd I told you to be fineAnd I told you to be bancedAnd I told you to be kind

  ????????????

  And now all your love is wastedAnd then who the hell was I?And I'm breaking at the breachesAnd at the end of all your lines

  Who will love you?Who will fight?Who will fall far behind?

  ????????????

  …

  The passage of time, and the hidden messages that always seemed to reflect back from one person to another.

  –That’s a good song. –Michael Bay commented, in his own element, not denying the sense that he was witnessing a reflection of his own vision—one that could define the very scene where the song might appear.

  ...