dotinthesky | And the Beat Goes On

Yesterday, Dilva took off. It was the show's final season. She took off just like that - a snapping of twigs. She'd had enough. The coffee was flat, the computer wouldn't work, all her co-workers spoke in whispers - she kept daydreaming of Johnny, lost in the Nevada desert, lost on purpose because it was required of him for Jackass. She cornered an executive producer from MTV who was visiting Toronto; he told her where to find him. Audiences were low, ratings were dropping, and advertisers were flying off to better soil. She knew that the Johnny Knoxville cult was almost dead. Only she could save him.

Rewind the tape. Season 3. Dilva and Mike lay in bed, a skateboard between them. The sun hit a corner of the room where piles of burnt CDs grew. The camera was hooked to the computer; the computer delved with the web's netherworld. A tiny voice crackled: "Action!" Dilva and Mike were naked. They looked at each other, excited.

Rewind further. The 1st season was by now almost forgotten. She didn't know Johnny Knoxville then, didn't know she was destined to cross America on a Greyhound, lust in her backpack, mental forms building a connection between her hero and herself. Those early days of the show were a lament, an indie song on repeat. She saw The Wonder Stuff come alive in Canada, tore holes into any map that displayed Quebec, sat in the commuter trains re-reading lines from Trainspotting like an actress rehearsing for a scene. The season ended happily, Mike sitting across from her in a diner, a skateboard nested beside him. It was their first date. "Do you go everywhere with him?" She asked, pointing a finger at the wheeled-thing. He nodded.

The Greyhound took her through small American towns, endless roads littered with ex-con hitchhikers and failed mannequins. She kept her Discman on - Jackass' soundtrack. She kept the album's cover sleeve, with Johnny's face, inside her bra. She hoped Johnny felt comfortable so close to her nipple. At night, she heard other passengers discussing AM radio talk shows, going over the latest conspiracy theory. When she took off her glasses, she could look at the jailbird beside her and imagine it was Johnny, arm broken because of a faulty supermarket trolley and not because of prison misconduct.

The seasons kept getting better and better. Everybody was hooked on the show. It was too good to be true and underneath the audience's high feeling lay an abysmal expectation: a grand finale was sure to come.

Each episode was dissected. The musical episode for example, had everyone humming as she stood on her balcony singing Guns and Roses songs into the night. Or the episode set in the backstreets of a Toronto suburb, where she was turned into Mike's mother and had to drag him home by the ears because it was past bedtime.

She replayed the seasons in her head. It helped pass the time in the Greyhound.

Johnny Saved From Desert. Johnny Back in L.A. The News of the World kept her updated with his whereabouts. The jailbird, her companion for a tiring day and a half, was called Terence. His favourite TV show was ending, so he was returning to L.A. and hoping to catch a glimpse of the vampire slayer - before she disappeared in a world of B-movies and commercials. He asked Dilva if she knew the Vampire Slayer TV show. She shook her head, saddened. It had completely missed her.

In a dusty Texaco stop, she called her flat in Toronto. Mike was home. He would wait for her - he understood she had a quest to complete. He knew Dilva would be his once she had stood face to face with Johnny. The seasons were changing and summer was almost gone.

She had decided to end the show before everyone got bored. When she lay in bed with Mike, the camera on, she wondered if the pleasure of performing sex to an invisible public was still there. When she took walks on her lunch break, the cameramen took their coffee breaks and left her alone. But Johnny changed everything. His eyes on the cinema screen encouraged her rebellion, his smile invited her to give up everything. When she'd been overlooked for another office get-together, she took off for Toronto's central bus station.

At her request, the Greyhound pulled up outside Johnny's mansion. "Three minutes" the driver warned. She climbed the gates, rushed to the swimming pool where he lay like a pleased lizard, and handed him the cover sleeve for the Jackass movie soundtrack.

"Can you sign it, please?