This is probably my favorite piece that I wrote on the original mikeschramm.com website. Originally published back on February 14, 2005.
Godzilla was in America, and depressed.
His latest movie had opened and crashed within a weekend, and he had become the big, green laughingstock of Hollywood.
Godzilla sat in his hotel room and watched reruns of Miami Vice and The Commish and drank vodka until he passed out. In the morning, he would wake up, shower, and do it all over again.
Sometimes he would wander out to get something to eat at this diner down the road.
People would shout things at him as they passed.
“You suck, Godzilla!” is what they would say.
Sometimes they would throw things at him, sticks and beer bottles that they found on the side of the road.
And sometimes, they would stick their arms out in front and waddle back and forth slowly and say things like, “I’m Godzilla! Look at me! I’m Godzilla and I suck!”
Out of all the things they did, this hurt Godzilla the most.
At the diner, the waitress wasn’t ever friendly to him, and always brought his food late, and put it down without saying anything. Godzilla would pay his check and leave without talking to anyone. He heard snickers and whispers as he walked by the other patrons.
“‘Zilla, baby,” said his American agent, a fat man named Harvey (Godzilla didn’t know if it was his first name or his last name).
“‘Zilla,” he would say, “I gotta say– things don’t look good. I want to give it to you up front, I think you’re talented– you’ve got name recognition, and that’s good. But there isn’t a lot of call for big green lizards right now. Especially one that’s.. uh… iffy at the box office.”
Godzilla would sigh. Godzilla sighed a lot when he talked to Harvey.
“‘Zilla,” Harvey would say, “I’ll call you when something comes. I mean, don’t wait up or nothing. But I’ll call.” Godzilla sighed and hung the phone up, then opened another bottle of vodka.
Something was missing, he thought as he swallowed a gulp and the familiar warmth spread through his throat, stomach, tail, and scales.
Something was missing, and he didn’t know what it was.
One morning, he woke up and it was dark outside. It was probably evening, actually– he lost track of time, none of it ever mattered. He decided to walk to the diner and try to get some coffee and, maybe, perspective.
He walked down the street, which was empty.
It must have been very late at night. He made it to the diner, and looked in the lit windows, saw the ugly guy behind the bar that always stared at him, saw the mean waitress.
He decided maybe going to the diner wasn’t what he needed. But he didn’t want to go back to the hotel.
So Godzilla walked on, through the streets of Los Angeles. He walked past the video stores and all night doughnut shops and clubs.
He walked towards the beach, past the surf shops and clothing boutiques, all closed up, lifeless, and dark in the deep of night. He made it to the beach, and walked across the sidewalk, over the grass, out onto the sand.
Godzilla stopped and looked at the water, the sand, the sea, the sky.
The water splashed against the grains he stood in, and he dug in deeper to the solid wetness beneath him. Something is missing, he thought. Something I have to find. And Godzilla took a step toward the water.
And then another and another, until he was running through the tide, and jumped in and swam.
He swam away from the beach and America, from his terrible movie and the jerks who made fun of him and the man named Harvey who always told him things didn’t look good. Godzilla swam.
He swam for hours and then for hours more. The sun rose behind him, and he swam until it set in front of him. It looked beautiful, the red sky and clouds reflected in the water.
Godzilla knew this was right, that what he wanted was this way. He swam some more.
And then, maybe three or four days later, he saw something on the horizon.
It was a series of bumps rising from the line between the sea and the sky.
He swam harder and faster, and the bumps grew and defined themselves, turned into pillars, with shorter pillars around them.
He swam closer, and the pillars grew lights and shapes. They were buildings.
Godzilla swam closer.
It was Tokyo.
He reached shore, and the Japanese went crazy.
They didn’t throw bottles at him or make fun of him.
Instead, they were terrified.
Old men and schoolgirls pointed and ran around and screamed things like, “Gojira! Iz tan poko Gojira! AAAAAHHH!!”
Godzilla roared.
He knocked over a few buildings, stepped on some Hondas. He even knocked out a few planes with his radioactive breath.
And, from one of his lizard eyes, a tiny tear fell.
It was a tear of happiness.
Godzilla was home, and he had found love.