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 lap 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 relationship with Michael. And yes… we're talking about Jerry Wrexler, Billy's agent, who shared the faintest resemblance 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 collaborator of Michael Bay.
–Pleasure, kid. –Amir replied, glancing past Billy at the blonde lead actress now wearing a loose shirt with no bra, her rebellious beauty on full display, her layered curls framing her face, and those green eyes accentuated by long lashes.
–Well, the pleasure's mutual. –Billy added, looking slightly out of place 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 black pants, and a dangling cross earring. Letting out a soft sigh, he took Scarlett's hand and sat down. The girl's large 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 delay. There were complications. –Billy replied with a wink, as his mind flashed 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 play something for us later. –Michael offered. His tall frame disappeared down the hallway, then returned with a lovely acoustic guitar without an amp, which he placed on a chair.
–I can do it. –Billy said, stepping over to Scarlett. –Wanna play?
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 play 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 applause until your jaws are done dropping. And of course—if I deserve it, I'll take the applause. –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 pillar of modern melancholic 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 last the year
Pour a little salt, we were never here
My my my, my my my, my my
Staring at the sink of blood and crushed veneer
I tell my love to wreck it all
Cut out all the ropes and let me fall
My my my, my my my, my my
Right 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 relatable 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 ballad. 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 patient
And I told you to be fine
And I told you to be balanced
And I told you to be kind
And in the morning I'll be with you
But it will be a different kind
And I'm holding all the tickets
And 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 flashes 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 brassieres
My my my, my my my, my my
Sullen load is full, so slow on the split
And I told you to be patient
And I told you to be fine
And I told you to be balanced
And I told you to be kind
🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎵🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎵
And now all your love is wasted
And then who the hell was I?
And I'm breaking at the breaches
And 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.
...