LATE ENTRY FROM A WESTERN TIME ZONE!
The thing was, no one doubted him. He stood with the other men, and they had trusted him.
It had happened so quickly – the explosion, the rubble and the dust. The embassy was reduced to nothing. There were bodies, or parts of them, all around him. In the way that happens after big, definite disasters, everything seemed oddly quiet. He looked around, somehow not surprised that he had survived. He listened to himself breathing for a moment, almost as if to check that he was actually, in fact, alive. He was. He saw one of the guards, laying dead, and took the gun from the corpse’s holster, tucking it into his waist band, while untucking his shirt to conceal it He felt vaguely disturbed at how calm he was. Maybe it was because he was a stranger here. He had never been to this town, this country before. Everything was once removed in its way, and in the same sense, everything, anything, was possible. That he had survived fit within the old rules of being a stranger in an unknown land. It was the grand adventure of being anonymous, and therefore witness to infinite possibility, like how the women in the market had instantly assumed he was wealthy (no) and American (also no) and followed him down every isle, using their broken English to try and entice him. He felt at home with the strange, tilted perspective people had of him as an unknown foreigner, and didn’t bother to resist their random assumptions of him.
Now he heard a sound, looked down, and saw a serving woman, pinned under a large hunk of concrete. Much like the sellers who had dogged him in the market place, she wore a vibrant, draped sarong, only her clothing had been torn away some how, and one of her breasts was exposed. It was covered in dust, making it look cold, almost like stone. Her expressionless face, unfocused eyes, and faint, whistling breath indicated she was about to die. She spoke a few words in a language he could not speak. He nodded, not because he cared, but because it seemed like the thing to do at the time. He stood and watched her as she died. He felt nothing. Everything – everything about this world was alien to him, so why not exploding government buildings?
As the woman lay there, dying, partially nude, yet strangely inhuman to him, he couldn’t help but think of the ambassador’s wife. She had been so very human to him. It turned him on that she was one of the broken people. Her drinking had not been apparent to him at first. He had taken her bold honesty and bawdy laughter as flirtation until he saw her interacting with the other guests at the embassy dinner. When he saw that she was that way with everybody – the business men, the political types, and the helping staff – then he knew. That kind of freedom is too dangerous, too vulnerable for someone who’s lived in the world, and is only bought with liquid courage. He looked at her more closely then, saw that her hair had come unpinned on one side, not for style, but because she too was unfurling. Her eye make-up was ever so slightly smeared, not because it was fashionable, but because she had been unaware of herself, maybe crying, and smeared it without knowing. The ambassador coldly ignored his wife, smoothed the napkin in his lap, and spoke of some imaginary future that would never come to be. The staff continually replaced the wife’s drink just as she emptied it, and it seemed obvious that this was how she operated. He wondered what had caused her to collapse into this life. Was it being so far away from home? The loneliness? Her marriage to this asshole? He found her impossibly, irresistibly sexy. Not because he wanted to save her, but because he knew he couldn’t. The messiness of her, her finite, fatal flaw was something he could see his way into.
“We have a botanical garden behind the residency. Would you like to see it?” she asked. Her tone, the obvious underlying implications, shocked him. He glanced at the ambassador, who had either not noticed or not been bothered by his wife’s nearly blatant sexual invitation to a virtual stranger. None of the guests acknowledged it. The dignitaries, the business men… Had they really not noticed her? The way they all ignored this beautiful, tragic woman, made him hate them all intensely.
“I would be happy to join you in the garden, madam, thank you.” Their eyes locked, she smiled at him like a satisfied cat, he felt his cock stir, and was shocked again by her openness in such a public, formal forum. He felt like a stranger to himself. Who accepts a public invitation to fuck a total stranger, in front of her husband and the upper crust? Certainly he didn’t know anyone who would do such a thing, and would have never imagined himself in such a position. But here he was, and he was so far away from not only his home, but who he was when in it, that he saw no reason to resist.
The air was heavy, and perfumed with flowers as he stepped out into the garden. It was thickly humid, the moisture of it fell like a cloak over him. He stood, waiting for her to come out, when he heard the animal screeches and caws before he saw them. He stepped out further and saw how the garden was filled with cages, and was in fact, a make shift zoo. A cage full of parrots, another with a few monkeys, and a large enclosure made up to look like a rock cliff that contained a bear. Further off were other cages, and he was about to walk out further to explore when he felt her arm slip around his waist and grasp his cock firmly in her hand. Their lips locked, she pulled him with her toward a wall covered with vines. His pants were undone, her dress was lifted, and he was fucking her. She had pulled open the front of her dreass and he pressed his lips to her breast – it was incredibly soft and delicious in an entirely perfect way. Then their eyes were locked on one and other , and the intensity of the moment was written across both their faces as they thrust and sweated together. He heard a noise, thought maybe someone was coming, and jerked away as if to go. She grabbed at him, chanting urgently in his ear “don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.” So he didn’t. He hadn’t so much as touched another human being since his arrival several months ago, and giving way to his hunger was easy. He fucked her and fucked her, until the heat of the night and their bodies grinding made it impossible to continue. He looked at her as her head reeled backward: she was coming and drunk and impossible to look away from as she arced backward in ecstasy. Then he came too, so long and hard that his head was reeling and he couldn’t help by cry out. She smiled that smile again, and somehow he felt like she had won more than he had in this exchange, but he didn’t care.
He said “you’re so beautiful. Do you know that your beautiful?”
“Of course I do.” She said with absolute certainty as she stood, let her dress slide back down over her hips and legs, took out a cigarette, lit it, turned her back and walked away from him, back into the embassy. He watched her go, uncertain what to do next. Certainly it would be improper to go back in now. But had anything been proper since he got here in the first place? He waited, gazed up at the sky and the strange now unfamiliar stars, and all around him at the flowers whose names he did not know and the animals in their enclosures. The bear made a soft snuffling noise as it shifted in its sleep, and he took this as his cue to re-enter the embassy. One of the serving staff almost immediately appeared beside him with an intensely, almost impossibly cold local beer, which he drank down greedily while he stood back aloofly, scanning the party for her. Other than her, there were only a few women in the embassy, and they were all locals, and part of the staff. And she was no where in sight.
The bomb went off at exactly 11 pm. At first he thought everyone was dead, but as he stood there, after the serving woman had quietly died at his feet, four of the other men from the party emerged. He knew from earlier introductions that they were all strangers to each other.
“The ambassador is dead,” said one.
“The Minister is dead” said another.
“Who the hell did this?” asked another. All the other men looked at each other dumbfounded.
“Hey… does anyone know where the safe is?” asked the first.
“And what about his whore wife? If she’s still around, we should have some fun with her.” All the other men looked at each other with hunger painted across their faces. How had he come to this place where disaster instantly turned to greedy opportunism in a heartbeat? The men were all waiting for someone to decide.
“I know where the ambassador’s safe is,” he said with an easy confidence. All the men looked at him. Not a flicker of resistance on any of their faces. He thought of all the logical places a safe might be, and how to get to them with all the rubble. What an adventure it would be to find it, like a treasure chest in a book, and grab fistfuls of the imaginary gold he could dream might be inside.
“Alright, take us to it. I can get it opened if you can find it, and we’ll split what’s there among us” said a man with an accent that he couldn’t place.
“Follow me,” he said. He started walking, looking at the ruin around him. It looked like the apocalypse, like another planet, and he realised there was no chance in hell he would find the imaginary safe he had claimed he knew of. He was a tourist though, so any adventure would do. No point stopping. The men were following him, blindly as he searched the rubble. He stepped over piles of debris, broken furniture, pools of blood, and the men followed him. Then he saw her and he stopped. She was lying there, eyes opened, dead. Her face, without the animation of life and alcohol, looked haggard and ugly. He knew then that she too was another attraction, something he had experienced, but would not need to hold on to.
“Look at that bitch” said one of the men “too bad we lost our chance.”
He nodded, because it seemed like the thing to do, and stepped over her because he had spotted a stairwell, leading down into the basement.
“Is it down there?” asked one.
“Yes,” he said “follow me.”
So they did. Two of the men had had the forethought to find sources of light, which they carried with them. He had his own useful tool. And down the stairs they went.
The thing was, no one doubted him. He stood with the other men, and they had trusted him. He pulled out the gun and shot them, one by one, by one, by one. He saw them each fall, recorded each of their expressions in his memory: shock, fear, anger, fear. He was surprised at the amount of blood, but pleased that he had managed to avoid getting any notable amount on himself. As he walked away, out of the rubble and off into the streets beyond, he wondered who the ambassador and the other men were, who the ambassador’s wife was, if anyone would miss them all apart from the animals in the garden, and if it mattered. After all he was a tourist, and there were some things he would never know. He wondered about when he might buy a ticket home, but then day dreamed about what Southern Italy might be like at harvest time. It was too late at night for any travel plans, so instead he wondered where the closest hotel he could check into for the night was. He would worry about new clothes in the morning.
Showing posts with label week 2. Show all posts
Showing posts with label week 2. Show all posts
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Charlie's Business Trip
Charlie stepped off the plane clutching his briefcase in his left hand and a gray trenchcoat in his right. He walked quickly, trying to put some distance between himself and Howard, who was drunk.
Howard caught up to him. “Hay, Charlie,” he slurred, “Shomebuddy’s lookin’ fer ya.” Charlie looked around and noticed a well-dressed chauffeur holding a placard inscribed with the words “Mr. Babbage.”
Charlie walked up to the chauffeur. His gilded name tag read “Albert Hopping.” “Are you looking for me?” Charlie inquired hesitantly.
“Are you Babbage?” Albert was brusque, businesslike.
“Um, yes…” Charlie couldn’t believe the salesmen’s conference would send a shuttle. In past years, they had always had to split a cab.
“Then I’m your driver. Let’s do hurry, we’re late. I presume your…associate…will be riding as well?” Albert wrinkled his nose in Howard’s general direction.
“Uh, yes, sir,” Charlie stammered. Albert looked at him, shook his head inscrutably, and strode off at an incredible pace. By the time they reached the car, Charlie and Howard were both too breathless to speak. They collapsed into the limousine and Howard immediately checked the minibar.
By this time, Charlie was beginning to think that something wasn’t quite right. A shuttle would be one thing, but a limo seemed a bit much. Granted, he had been Swain and Clintock’s top salesman of the year, but somehow he couldn’t picture the Vice President of Sales Management Personnel shelling out for a stretch. No, Charlie thought. This must be some kind of mistake.
But it was his name on the sign, and how many Babbages could there be in the airport that day? At any rate, Charles rested his head on the back of the seat and closed his eyes, listening to Howard curse under his breath and try to uncork a bottle of wine with his house key.
Meanwhile, David Babbage was standing near the baggage claim, clutching his briefcase, silently cursing the idiot driver who jilted him and the whole damn limo company.
***
The limo door opened and Albert’s head appeared. “Mr. Babbage, your staff is waiting.”
Charles emerged into the sunlight and squinted at a tall blonde woman in a blue suit holding a clipboard. “Mr. Babbage, you…merciful heavens, you look…younger…in person. Did you get a hair cut? Look, never mind. You’ve got to get in there. I heard your flight was delayed, so I took the liberty of preparing your remarks…your office back East emailed them this afternoon. Here you go.” She stuffed a sheaf of papers into his hands and half-shoved, half-dragged him towards an impressive-looking building with a large imprint of the state seal on each of its six glass doors. His briefcase -- and Howard -- were still in the limo. He hoped they would both still be there when all this was over, whatever “this” turned out to be.
Charlie was good at taking orders. He did what he was told and tried not to say too much as he struggled to understand what exactly was going on. The blonde woman led him through the one of the big glass doors with the state seal. He looked at the seal as he shuffled through. He had never paid much attention before, but now he noticed a grizzly bear in the foreground, just in front of the shield. It seemed to turn and growl accusingly at him.
The blonde waved nonchalantly at the security guard, who nodded back as he was patting down a guy in a brown sport coat whose car keys had set off the metal detector. She led him though another door that she accessed with a keycard and down a long, long hallway with big oak doors on both sides. She stopped in front of a doors on the right about two-thirds of the way down, fished a key out of her cleavage, and opened it. She strode to the podium in the center, draped with red and blue crepe and yet another imprint of the state seal, and whispered in the ear of the man who was speaking to a small crowd of cameras and men with microphones. The man who was speaking stopped, looked towards Charlie, smiled, and turned back to the cameras. “Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, Assemblyman David Babbage!”
Charlie staggered to the podium, still clutching the sheaf of papers. He leaned towards the microphone. He looked at his papers. He leaned in again. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He looked back at his papers. He leaned towards the mic. “I…I have a speech prepared…” he began. The press corp chuckled, a monolithic media. He cleared his throat. His resolve strengthened. “I have a speech prepared, but I’m not going to deliver it.” The tall blonde woman and the man who had been speaking both gasped. “I’m not going to deliver it,” he continued, “because I’m not the man you think I am.”
A murmur overtook the gaggle of reporters, and a few flash bulbs went off. Charlie looked around, unsure how to continue. He searched the pages in his hand for clues. Isolated phrases spun together. Ten years in our state’s General assembly…pleased to announce my candidacy…United States House of Representatives…my opponent, the Incumbent…
Charlie stared into the cold, dead eye of the television camera, set his jaw, and announced, “I’m the new David Babbage, and I’d like to be your next Congressman.”
At the airport, David Babbage’s jaw dropped. He stood gaping at the television, which was muted, and read the scrolling text beneath the live feed of a younger, handsomer version of himself: Babbage announces candidacy, promises reform.
***
Charlie strode out of the room feeling taller than ever. He led the way now, back down the long corridor with solemn oak doors like sentries, through the keycard-access door, past the metal detectors and the brown-suited security detail, and out the tall glass doors with the state seal emblazoned upon them. The seal was in reverse from this side, and Charlie nodded at the grizzly bear as he passed. From this angle, it seemed to be smiling.
Reporters were already outside, pressing close to Charlie and tossing questions like rice at a wedding. “No comment, no comment,” barked the tall blonde, and held an outstretched palm between the cameras and Charlie. In truth, there were not as many reporters as it seemed, but to Charlie, who had never been on television before, it felt like the whole world was watching, and he enjoyed it.
They reached the limo and he piled in. His briefcase was still on the seat, and Howard was snoring loudly. “Take him to headquarters,” the blonde told the driver. “I’ll meet him there.” The limousine lurched and zoomed into the heavy downtown traffic of the state capital.
“Howard, wake up,” Charlie shook him. “You’re not going to believe what just happened.”
David Babbage yelled into his cell phone. “Get Allison on the phone. Get her now. I don’t care where she is; I need to talk to her. I’m glad you liked the speech. No, I didn’t get a haircut. Could you just get Allison on the line, please?”
***
“Ms. Janney, telephone for you.”
“I’ll take it later, Sarah.” The tall blonde was introducing Charlie to the staff members who would be working for his -- his! -- Congressional campaign. There was Sarah, the receptionist, and the man who had been speaking to the press in the other building. He was apparently the press secretary, and his name was Jim Dienes. Ms. Janney -- Charlie hadn’t been able to divine her first name yet -- was his campaign manager, and he had a graphics guy, a legal guy, a money guy, and a get-coffee-for-everybody guy. Charlie’s office had a copier and a neat machine that folded regular sheets of printer paper into thirds for mailing, and there were a couple of student volunteers sitting at folding tables stuffing envelopes.
Charlie looked around the two small rooms on the third floor of a building owned by the state Party and asked, “Is this it?”
The graphics guy stopped flirting with Sarah. The money guy looked up from his desk. The legal guy stood by the copier with a staple remover poised in mid-air. Jim put his hand over the telephone’s mouthpiece, and the coffee guy dripped steaming latte foam onto the carpet. The students stopped shuffling envelopes and all eyes turned towards Charlie. He felt his cheeks grow warm.
Ms. Janney started to explain, and he noticed that her cheeks were red, too. “Well, Mr. Babbage, Sir. We are…that is, your campaign has just begun recently, and we…um, well, we are waiting on…additional funding. From, that is, um. Non-Party sources.”
“This is all the Party will pay for?” Charlie’s voice rose; he couldn’t help it. “Isn’t this a national office we’re running for here? How do they expect us to win without more staff than this?”
The uncomfortable silence was broken by Howard’s emergence from the restroom. Inspiration came to Charlie like the final blaze of a dying light bulb, and he raised an outstretched hand towards his inebriated friend. “Today, ladies and gentlemen, we turn this campaign around. I’d like you to meet our newest staff member, speech writer Howard Shaw.”
A smattering of applause and a few nervous chuckles rose from the relieved staff, and Howard bowed awkwardly, stabilizing himself on a nearby coat rack. The telephone rang at Sarah’s desk, and the staff resumed their previous engagements, each pleased to avoid Charlie's gaze and hoping that somehow Ms. Janney would sort things out.
“Allison,” Sarah addressed Ms. Janney; aha! Charlie thought. “It’s Gladys, from the Eastern office. She says it’s urgent, and she won’t take no for an answer.”
Allison sighed, walked to her desk, and picked up the telephone. “Yes, Gladys? What?” She turned pale. “Are you sure? Yes. Yes. Put him through.” She turned away from Charlie. “Yes. Yes. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. He’s right here, sir.” She turned back towards Charlie and held the phone out to him with a shaking hand. “It’s for you.”
Charlie blanched. “Who is it?” he croaked. Allison lowered her voice to a barely audible whisper. “It’s…Mr. Babbage.”
***
"What exactly do you think you're up to?" David Babbage was more curious than accusatory, but Charlie was still speechless and terrified. "Are you there? Who is this?"
"It's...I'm...Charlie. Charles Gordon Babbage, sir. And I'm...I...apologize for the, uh, confusion."
"Confusion?" David's laugh roared in the receiver, and Charlie pulled it away from his ear. "Son, do you realize you could go to jail for what you did today?"
Charlie began to sweat. "Sir, I...I didn't mean any harm. I just..."
"No, no. I'm not going to call my lawyers just yet. So you're a Babbage. What's your father's name?"
"Benjamin, sir." Charlie's throat was dry.
"Benjamin, Benjamin..." David thought hard. "Is that...Frank's boy?"
"Frank's grandson. My father's a junior."
"Ah, yes. That makes more sense. By my calculations that makes us..." David counted up an invisible bracket. "Fourth cousins, once removed."
"How's that, sir?" Charles wasn't sure what David was getting at.
"Fourth cousins, once removed." David's mother had been rabid for geneology, and she had passed much of her knowledge (though not here interest) on to him. For once, he was glad.
"Oh, yes sir. I heard you. I just don't know how it works."
"Oh yes. Most people don't. But that's no matter now. Seems you and I have enough DNA in common that so long as nobody pays too much attention you can do a pretty nice job of passing for me. What are you, about thirty-five?"
"Thirty-seven, sir."
"Yeah, that's about right. Change the hair and update the clothes and you could be me fourteen years ago. I suppose everyone will think I dyed my hair, got Botox, whatever the kids do these days, when they think about it at all." David had stopped addressing Charlie and was now merely thinking aloud.
"Think about what, sir?"
"Why I look younger all of a sudden. When you take over my job."
"W..when I what?" Charles stammered.
“Do you have a family, son?”
“No, I…”
“Well, that’s fine. I’ll arrange for some actors to stand in when you have to make public appearances.”
"When I..no. Sir, with all due respect, sir, I...this is ludicrous. You have...you're a politician. You do things. You have a fantastic career. You have my dream life. Why would you give it to me?" Charlie pounded his fist on the desk in confused frustration. "What are you playing at?"
David took a deep breath. He hadn't been fair to the boy. Charlie was uninitiated, he couldn't know how such things work. "Charlie, listen. I have been a state assemblyman for over ten years. I'm sixteen months from the end of my term, and I can't complete it. I have cancer, Charlie, and I'm getting sicker. I want to spend my last year with my family, privately. Heaven knows I owe it to them, after ten years of forsaking them to pursue this 'fantastic career.' I accepted the nomination for a race that everybody knows I can't win so that I could resign from the assembly without telling the public about my illness. Have you ever heard the term, 'sacrificial lamb?'"
Charlie shook his head slowly, realized that David couldn't see him, and whispered, "No."
"When a people expect a politician to win by a really big margin -- seventy five percent or more -- sometimes the opposing party runs someone against him just for the sake of having a name on the ballot. They don't expect the other guy to win, so they don't give him much funding or a lot of support." As David spoke, Charlie looked with new eyes at the meager two-room office suite, the minimal staff, Howard snoring head-down at the table with the college students. "He's just there for the sake of the Party, like a lamb being led to slaughter. That's what this campaign is, Charlie." Charlie felt a sob rising in his chest as his illusions about democracy slipped away. But David continued. "You can turn this around, Charlie. You can change this from a runner to a winner. I saw you on television this morning, Charlie, and I believe you really are the new David Babbage."
“But, Mr. Babbage, sir. I don't know anything about politics! I mean...I’m just a salesman!”
David chuckled before responding. “Well, son," he laughed, "you'd better start selling."
Howard caught up to him. “Hay, Charlie,” he slurred, “Shomebuddy’s lookin’ fer ya.” Charlie looked around and noticed a well-dressed chauffeur holding a placard inscribed with the words “Mr. Babbage.”
Charlie walked up to the chauffeur. His gilded name tag read “Albert Hopping.” “Are you looking for me?” Charlie inquired hesitantly.
“Are you Babbage?” Albert was brusque, businesslike.
“Um, yes…” Charlie couldn’t believe the salesmen’s conference would send a shuttle. In past years, they had always had to split a cab.
“Then I’m your driver. Let’s do hurry, we’re late. I presume your…associate…will be riding as well?” Albert wrinkled his nose in Howard’s general direction.
“Uh, yes, sir,” Charlie stammered. Albert looked at him, shook his head inscrutably, and strode off at an incredible pace. By the time they reached the car, Charlie and Howard were both too breathless to speak. They collapsed into the limousine and Howard immediately checked the minibar.
By this time, Charlie was beginning to think that something wasn’t quite right. A shuttle would be one thing, but a limo seemed a bit much. Granted, he had been Swain and Clintock’s top salesman of the year, but somehow he couldn’t picture the Vice President of Sales Management Personnel shelling out for a stretch. No, Charlie thought. This must be some kind of mistake.
But it was his name on the sign, and how many Babbages could there be in the airport that day? At any rate, Charles rested his head on the back of the seat and closed his eyes, listening to Howard curse under his breath and try to uncork a bottle of wine with his house key.
Meanwhile, David Babbage was standing near the baggage claim, clutching his briefcase, silently cursing the idiot driver who jilted him and the whole damn limo company.
***
The limo door opened and Albert’s head appeared. “Mr. Babbage, your staff is waiting.”
Charles emerged into the sunlight and squinted at a tall blonde woman in a blue suit holding a clipboard. “Mr. Babbage, you…merciful heavens, you look…younger…in person. Did you get a hair cut? Look, never mind. You’ve got to get in there. I heard your flight was delayed, so I took the liberty of preparing your remarks…your office back East emailed them this afternoon. Here you go.” She stuffed a sheaf of papers into his hands and half-shoved, half-dragged him towards an impressive-looking building with a large imprint of the state seal on each of its six glass doors. His briefcase -- and Howard -- were still in the limo. He hoped they would both still be there when all this was over, whatever “this” turned out to be.
Charlie was good at taking orders. He did what he was told and tried not to say too much as he struggled to understand what exactly was going on. The blonde woman led him through the one of the big glass doors with the state seal. He looked at the seal as he shuffled through. He had never paid much attention before, but now he noticed a grizzly bear in the foreground, just in front of the shield. It seemed to turn and growl accusingly at him.
The blonde waved nonchalantly at the security guard, who nodded back as he was patting down a guy in a brown sport coat whose car keys had set off the metal detector. She led him though another door that she accessed with a keycard and down a long, long hallway with big oak doors on both sides. She stopped in front of a doors on the right about two-thirds of the way down, fished a key out of her cleavage, and opened it. She strode to the podium in the center, draped with red and blue crepe and yet another imprint of the state seal, and whispered in the ear of the man who was speaking to a small crowd of cameras and men with microphones. The man who was speaking stopped, looked towards Charlie, smiled, and turned back to the cameras. “Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, Assemblyman David Babbage!”
Charlie staggered to the podium, still clutching the sheaf of papers. He leaned towards the microphone. He looked at his papers. He leaned in again. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He looked back at his papers. He leaned towards the mic. “I…I have a speech prepared…” he began. The press corp chuckled, a monolithic media. He cleared his throat. His resolve strengthened. “I have a speech prepared, but I’m not going to deliver it.” The tall blonde woman and the man who had been speaking both gasped. “I’m not going to deliver it,” he continued, “because I’m not the man you think I am.”
A murmur overtook the gaggle of reporters, and a few flash bulbs went off. Charlie looked around, unsure how to continue. He searched the pages in his hand for clues. Isolated phrases spun together. Ten years in our state’s General assembly…pleased to announce my candidacy…United States House of Representatives…my opponent, the Incumbent…
Charlie stared into the cold, dead eye of the television camera, set his jaw, and announced, “I’m the new David Babbage, and I’d like to be your next Congressman.”
At the airport, David Babbage’s jaw dropped. He stood gaping at the television, which was muted, and read the scrolling text beneath the live feed of a younger, handsomer version of himself: Babbage announces candidacy, promises reform.
***
Charlie strode out of the room feeling taller than ever. He led the way now, back down the long corridor with solemn oak doors like sentries, through the keycard-access door, past the metal detectors and the brown-suited security detail, and out the tall glass doors with the state seal emblazoned upon them. The seal was in reverse from this side, and Charlie nodded at the grizzly bear as he passed. From this angle, it seemed to be smiling.
Reporters were already outside, pressing close to Charlie and tossing questions like rice at a wedding. “No comment, no comment,” barked the tall blonde, and held an outstretched palm between the cameras and Charlie. In truth, there were not as many reporters as it seemed, but to Charlie, who had never been on television before, it felt like the whole world was watching, and he enjoyed it.
They reached the limo and he piled in. His briefcase was still on the seat, and Howard was snoring loudly. “Take him to headquarters,” the blonde told the driver. “I’ll meet him there.” The limousine lurched and zoomed into the heavy downtown traffic of the state capital.
“Howard, wake up,” Charlie shook him. “You’re not going to believe what just happened.”
David Babbage yelled into his cell phone. “Get Allison on the phone. Get her now. I don’t care where she is; I need to talk to her. I’m glad you liked the speech. No, I didn’t get a haircut. Could you just get Allison on the line, please?”
***
“Ms. Janney, telephone for you.”
“I’ll take it later, Sarah.” The tall blonde was introducing Charlie to the staff members who would be working for his -- his! -- Congressional campaign. There was Sarah, the receptionist, and the man who had been speaking to the press in the other building. He was apparently the press secretary, and his name was Jim Dienes. Ms. Janney -- Charlie hadn’t been able to divine her first name yet -- was his campaign manager, and he had a graphics guy, a legal guy, a money guy, and a get-coffee-for-everybody guy. Charlie’s office had a copier and a neat machine that folded regular sheets of printer paper into thirds for mailing, and there were a couple of student volunteers sitting at folding tables stuffing envelopes.
Charlie looked around the two small rooms on the third floor of a building owned by the state Party and asked, “Is this it?”
The graphics guy stopped flirting with Sarah. The money guy looked up from his desk. The legal guy stood by the copier with a staple remover poised in mid-air. Jim put his hand over the telephone’s mouthpiece, and the coffee guy dripped steaming latte foam onto the carpet. The students stopped shuffling envelopes and all eyes turned towards Charlie. He felt his cheeks grow warm.
Ms. Janney started to explain, and he noticed that her cheeks were red, too. “Well, Mr. Babbage, Sir. We are…that is, your campaign has just begun recently, and we…um, well, we are waiting on…additional funding. From, that is, um. Non-Party sources.”
“This is all the Party will pay for?” Charlie’s voice rose; he couldn’t help it. “Isn’t this a national office we’re running for here? How do they expect us to win without more staff than this?”
The uncomfortable silence was broken by Howard’s emergence from the restroom. Inspiration came to Charlie like the final blaze of a dying light bulb, and he raised an outstretched hand towards his inebriated friend. “Today, ladies and gentlemen, we turn this campaign around. I’d like you to meet our newest staff member, speech writer Howard Shaw.”
A smattering of applause and a few nervous chuckles rose from the relieved staff, and Howard bowed awkwardly, stabilizing himself on a nearby coat rack. The telephone rang at Sarah’s desk, and the staff resumed their previous engagements, each pleased to avoid Charlie's gaze and hoping that somehow Ms. Janney would sort things out.
“Allison,” Sarah addressed Ms. Janney; aha! Charlie thought. “It’s Gladys, from the Eastern office. She says it’s urgent, and she won’t take no for an answer.”
Allison sighed, walked to her desk, and picked up the telephone. “Yes, Gladys? What?” She turned pale. “Are you sure? Yes. Yes. Put him through.” She turned away from Charlie. “Yes. Yes. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. He’s right here, sir.” She turned back towards Charlie and held the phone out to him with a shaking hand. “It’s for you.”
Charlie blanched. “Who is it?” he croaked. Allison lowered her voice to a barely audible whisper. “It’s…Mr. Babbage.”
***
"What exactly do you think you're up to?" David Babbage was more curious than accusatory, but Charlie was still speechless and terrified. "Are you there? Who is this?"
"It's...I'm...Charlie. Charles Gordon Babbage, sir. And I'm...I...apologize for the, uh, confusion."
"Confusion?" David's laugh roared in the receiver, and Charlie pulled it away from his ear. "Son, do you realize you could go to jail for what you did today?"
Charlie began to sweat. "Sir, I...I didn't mean any harm. I just..."
"No, no. I'm not going to call my lawyers just yet. So you're a Babbage. What's your father's name?"
"Benjamin, sir." Charlie's throat was dry.
"Benjamin, Benjamin..." David thought hard. "Is that...Frank's boy?"
"Frank's grandson. My father's a junior."
"Ah, yes. That makes more sense. By my calculations that makes us..." David counted up an invisible bracket. "Fourth cousins, once removed."
"How's that, sir?" Charles wasn't sure what David was getting at.
"Fourth cousins, once removed." David's mother had been rabid for geneology, and she had passed much of her knowledge (though not here interest) on to him. For once, he was glad.
"Oh, yes sir. I heard you. I just don't know how it works."
"Oh yes. Most people don't. But that's no matter now. Seems you and I have enough DNA in common that so long as nobody pays too much attention you can do a pretty nice job of passing for me. What are you, about thirty-five?"
"Thirty-seven, sir."
"Yeah, that's about right. Change the hair and update the clothes and you could be me fourteen years ago. I suppose everyone will think I dyed my hair, got Botox, whatever the kids do these days, when they think about it at all." David had stopped addressing Charlie and was now merely thinking aloud.
"Think about what, sir?"
"Why I look younger all of a sudden. When you take over my job."
"W..when I what?" Charles stammered.
“Do you have a family, son?”
“No, I…”
“Well, that’s fine. I’ll arrange for some actors to stand in when you have to make public appearances.”
"When I..no. Sir, with all due respect, sir, I...this is ludicrous. You have...you're a politician. You do things. You have a fantastic career. You have my dream life. Why would you give it to me?" Charlie pounded his fist on the desk in confused frustration. "What are you playing at?"
David took a deep breath. He hadn't been fair to the boy. Charlie was uninitiated, he couldn't know how such things work. "Charlie, listen. I have been a state assemblyman for over ten years. I'm sixteen months from the end of my term, and I can't complete it. I have cancer, Charlie, and I'm getting sicker. I want to spend my last year with my family, privately. Heaven knows I owe it to them, after ten years of forsaking them to pursue this 'fantastic career.' I accepted the nomination for a race that everybody knows I can't win so that I could resign from the assembly without telling the public about my illness. Have you ever heard the term, 'sacrificial lamb?'"
Charlie shook his head slowly, realized that David couldn't see him, and whispered, "No."
"When a people expect a politician to win by a really big margin -- seventy five percent or more -- sometimes the opposing party runs someone against him just for the sake of having a name on the ballot. They don't expect the other guy to win, so they don't give him much funding or a lot of support." As David spoke, Charlie looked with new eyes at the meager two-room office suite, the minimal staff, Howard snoring head-down at the table with the college students. "He's just there for the sake of the Party, like a lamb being led to slaughter. That's what this campaign is, Charlie." Charlie felt a sob rising in his chest as his illusions about democracy slipped away. But David continued. "You can turn this around, Charlie. You can change this from a runner to a winner. I saw you on television this morning, Charlie, and I believe you really are the new David Babbage."
“But, Mr. Babbage, sir. I don't know anything about politics! I mean...I’m just a salesman!”
David chuckled before responding. “Well, son," he laughed, "you'd better start selling."
Smoke on the Water
JEFF
Jeff Maltby picked up a guitar for the first time at summer camp during the summer after fourth grade. It was church camp, 1975 and his first encounter with an actual real live musical instrument other than the upright piano from the music room at school or the organ at church. Three of the counselors had brought them – big blond Martins and Yamahas – and, this being a liberal Protestant sort of place and it being the mid-70s, used them mainly for strumming John Denver, Dan Fogelburg and the occasional round of “Kum-ba-yah” at vespers.
When given the opportunity to hold one of the guitars during small group time on Tuesday, Jeff held it on his lap and made a few tenative exploratory strums. He pressed his other fingers on the strings, which hurt. His cabin-mate, John Hamm, who was a sixth-grader, took the guitar away from him after a really short time. Hamm showed him how to play “Smoke on the Water” on the top string. Jeff watched carefully – seemed simple enough. For the rest of the week, Jeff took every opportunity to play with the guitars, and by Friday evening was plunking out a passable, one-string version of “Smoke on the Water” for the talent show. Jeff knew it wasn’t great, but it certainly beat “Leaving on a Jet Plane.”
Jeff didn’t become a guitar player, really, although he did maintain his relationship with “Smoke on the Water.” For the next fifteen years, through a series of suburban bedrooms, rec-rooms, basements, cabins, tents, dorm-rooms, campsites, crappy apartments and slightly less crappy apartments, whenever a guitar showed up Jeff would unobtrusively pick up and play “Smoke on the Water.” It wasn’t that he really liked the song – he wasn’t a Deep Purple fan. It was just an odd little habit he’d picked up. He was barely even conscious of it anymore. Guitars and real guitar players were ubiquitous enough in his world that he’d eventually gotten rather good at it, with the help of various friends, roommates and passersby showing him exactly how to hold his hands so that his reproduction gradually became more accurate and complex. He never tried to play anything else and considered his odd ability as akin to bar bet fodder or being double jointed.
DMITRY
Dmitry Medvedev was a bear. A Russian brown bear trapped as a cub after his mother had been killed by hunters. Dmitry was trained to be one of the very last dancing bears. He was sold to a hairy fat man in a red coat. He was kept in a little shed. The man punched a hole through his muzzle and attached a chain to it. The man jerked on the chain and made him stand on two legs, over and over again. The man beat him with a stick. The man would beat on a bucket with his stick which made a noise that hurt Dmitry's ears. The man made him stand on hot iron plates. The man would yell at him. When the burning got bad, Dmitry would lift his feet. The man would yell some more. He would beat on the bucket some more. Dmitry did not like the man.
The yelling and clanging and beating and burning would go on for a long time, then the man would leave. A different smaller man would come and give Dmitry food. Dmitry like the little man. The little man carried a tiny box that made music. Dmitry liked to hear the music. The music sounded like his mother's heart beating. It made him feel better because it meant the clanging and beating and burning was over. He would rock his body back and forth with the music.
Dmitry joined the circus. The big man sold Dmitry to Sasha Yurikov. Sasha took Dmitry to many different places. Dmitry would stand up on two legs and move his feet the way he had when the big man was beating and burning him. Sasha did not beat him or burn him. Sasha did not hurt him and gave him food, but Dmitry had to stand on two legs and move his feet for many hours every day.
Dmitry and Sasha went many places with the circus. Every few days, Sasha would put Dmitry in his cage in the truck. They would drive to a new place and Sasha would let Dmitry out to dance for the people. Once, Dmitry had to stay in his cage for many days. Sasha only let him out of the cage for a short time every day. When he came out of the cage he was in a strange place with water all around. After many days of this they left the water place and Dmitry began to dance again.
MICKEY
Mickey Morris was just one of those guys. He could get you to do stuff you didn’t want to do. Anything from another round of tequila shots to driving the gang across the state to see a concert that you personally didn’t give a shit about seeing to “investing” the rent money in his plan to sell screen printed panties to college girls, Mickey could convince you to do it. Even if you knew you shouldn’t and you really didn’t want to and you really REALLY shouldn’t. It was something about how he was always smiling and about he always seemed to need your agreement on a deeply personal level and that turning him down would be a soul crushing blow and he was so sincere. So you usually ended up going along with a sigh, internally reassuring yourself that it wouldn’t end up so bad this time, despite the fact that giving in to Mickey’s wishes had resulted in a long string of blackouts, arrests, skin parasites and evictions or narrow escapes therefrom.
Mickey was the singer in a band called “Cougar Medicine”. Cougar Medicine played Post New-Wave Southern Techno-Funk well enough to fill the bigger bars in town, but not to go much farther. Mickey was excited because he had gotten the band a gig at The Santa Slam, which was a music festival over Labor Day weekend at Santa Claus Land. Santa Claus Land was a declining amusement park 150 miles away whose owners had hit upon the idea of a musical festival as a way to squeeze one more profitable weekend out of the season. The other members of Cougar Medicine thought it sounded cheesy and were dubious whether it would be truly rockin’ to play their unique brand of Post New-Wave Southern Techno-Funk at a place called “Santa Claus Land”. In the end, of course, Mickey convinced them.
Cougar Medicine practiced at the rented house shared by Fred, the lead guitarist and Jimmy O, who played the bass. Jeff’s girlfriend Carla, who was Jimmy O’s cousin, had the third bedroom, so it was there at the house that Jeff first met Mickey, about two weeks before Labor Day. Jeff was waiting for Carla to get ready – Jeff was taking her to a movie (her choice) and Tumbleweed for their three-month anniversary. Jeff was sitting on the couch finishing the last dozen or so bars of “Smoke on the Water” (Fred didn’t mind) when Mickey opened the front door, walked in and flumped down on the couch beside Jeff, who finished up the song with an odd little hammering-on flourish that Fred had showed him the week before.
Mickey said Jeff’s playing was “amaaazing” and introduced himself. Jeff was doing his best to tactfully demur and explain that he couldn’t really play when Carla came down the stairs, hungry and ready to go. Carla greeted Mickey with a smirk and a raised eyebrow and Jeff told him goodbye. Before they left, Mickey managed to extract a commitment that the two of them would be attending the Santa Slam.
APRIL
April Love (yes that was her real name, thank you very fucking much mom for a pole-dancing destiny) glared over her keyboard at D.K. the drummer, raising her palms and eyebrows in a gesture of exasperation and mock submission. Fucking Mickey had fucking done it again. It was bad enough to be playing at an amusement park, but now he was pulling yaps up onto the stage.
Not that it had turned out to be a bad gig. There were at least a couple hundred people in the audience, which was more than most of their bar shows. It just looked like less cause this fucking amphitheater (The North Pole Playhouse!) would hold ten times that many.
But Mickey was just so fucking impulsive. They had just finished “Plaid Flannel Blues” which went over pretty well, considering, when he starts jumping and flopping all over the place, pointing and hollering out into the crowd. Then he jumps down off the stage and is dragging this guy back up with him. Turns out to be Carla's boyfriend, Josh or Jeff or somefucking thing like that. She'd only met him a couple of times – didn't seem like a bad guy, maybe a little stiff.
None of which was so bad. But then Mickey and Jeff/Josh/Whatever stand there on the stage arguing for like five minutes. Fucking Mickey wants him to play guitar and he won't or can't. And they're going back and forth, Mickey pushing and pleading and the guy shaking his head. All this time the crowd's getting restless, so D.K., never one to miss a chance, starts out on a drum solo. This goes on for at least two and a half minutes, during which time all she and the rest of the band can do is smile and act like this is supposed to be happening. April swore that she would crack D.K.'s fucking skull with that crash cymbal after the show.
Finally Jeff/Josh shrugs and gives up, which seems to be how people usually end up reacting to Mickey. “Honest to God, it's the only thing I know,” April heard him say. So the guy comes over and grabs Fred's guitar and gets ready to play, which is a good thing because about this time not only is the crowd getting pretty damn restless and looking to see if there's a clear route to the nearest aisle, but all of a sudden there's some kind of disturbance at the very back of the hall. It looks like a guy in a bear suit is beating up Santa Claus, but she can't tell for sure. Anyway, Mickey comes over then and tells them they were going to play “Smoke on the Water” with Jeff/Josh.
Which just pissed April way the hell off because what was this some kind of 8th grade backyard three chord operation? What was next, Journey? But the crowd was really starting to lean toward the exits and she thought she saw rent-a-cops in the distance. Plus it was fucking pointless to argue with fucking Mickey.
And it turned out to be OK anyway, because Jeff/Josh could actually play, so he rocks out on some Deep Purple for five minutes or so, gives Fred his guitar back and sits back down. The audience likes it, cause he's one of theirs or something and he played a song they all knew which gets them back into the show. Santa Claus and the rent-a-cops seem to have disappeared – but the guy in the bear suit was still there doing some goofy-assed shuffling dance, which he continues to do for the rest of their set.
SASHA
Sasha and Dmitry stood where Andrei Alexey had told them to stand, near the stage where the rock bands played. It was not a good place for them to be. They could still see the Kharakov Brothers to their left, juggling in the entrance courtyard. And Boris Boris was swallowing flames just around the corner to his right. But Sasha was not comfortable, even with the close proximity of his friends. Sasha could tell that Dmitry did not like it there either. After 15 years traveling, living and working together, day after day, Dmitry was the closest thing Sasha had to a wife. Sasha cared about Dmitry. Plus, Dmitry was the last dancing bear there was. Without him Sasha had no way to make a living, much less travel away from the Soviet Union.
Dmitry didn't seem to like the some of the music, which was odd for a dancing bear. But this music was loud and discordant. Sasha didn't like it and neither did Dmitry. It drowned out their little cassette player with Dmitry's usual music on it. But Dmitry, bless him, was doing his best to dance to the music the rock bands played. He was a good bear.
What really disturbed Dmitry was the Santa Claus statue. It was big – taller than Dmitry. Every few minutes it would move back and forth, brandishing a stiff whip over the backs of eight little deers that floated in front of him. Every time it did this it emitted a spectral guffaw. Dmitry would flinch and jump. It was hot, and as the day wore on Sasha and Dmitry both became more and more uncomfortable in the unaccustomed heat. Dmitry kept edging away from the statue, but Andrei Alexey had said it was important to stay where he was. It was not good to trifle with Andrei Alexey.
Then the dog came and barked at Dmitry. Dmitry did not like dogs, but he was very well trained and the dog was only a little one. The dog stayed and barked at Dmitry for a long time though. It was very hot for Sasha and he knew that Dmitry was very hot too. He had the tired look in his eyes and he hung his shoulders. Sasha patted him and gave him his water bottle, but it did not help much.
Then the drums started. Dmitry did NOT like the drums. It was drums and only drums and they seemed to go playing by themselves forever. Dmitry became agitated and then more agitated. He growled and then bellowed and then roared. Still the drums played on. Sasha tried his best to soothe Dmitry and began trying to lead him away to a shady spot away from the drums, Andrei Alexey or no.
But just as he started to lead Dmitry away, the accursed Santa Claus statue started up. Dmitry froze. He was perfectly still for a long moment. Sasha did not recognize the look in his eyes. Then Dmitry roared again, reached up to the chain attached to his collar and snapped in two like a twig. He fell upon the statue in a frenzy, first battering it with swipes of his paws then lifting it bodily from it perch and dashing it to the ground, whereupon he wrenched Santa Claus's head from his body with a deft twist.
Sasha rushed to restrain Dmitry, but Dmitry gently brushed him aside, flinging Sasha to the pavement eight feet away. Sasha lifted himself from the ground in a panic and began edging around Dmitry toward his bag. There were hundred of people and many little children around. Dmitry began pounding the headless statue into the ground.
Sasha reached his bag and sadly opened the bottom compartment where he kept his revolver. He shook and wept as his hands closed around it. He could hear shouts and see uniformed men approaching.
Just then the drums stopped. Dmitry stopped too. The music started again. It was loud with a thumping beat. Dmitry dropped the statue and looked up. Sasha slid the pistol back into his bag. Dmitry stood and began dancing, heavily at first and then with a lightness and grace that Sasha had not seen for many years. He could swear that Dmitry was smiling.
Jeff Maltby picked up a guitar for the first time at summer camp during the summer after fourth grade. It was church camp, 1975 and his first encounter with an actual real live musical instrument other than the upright piano from the music room at school or the organ at church. Three of the counselors had brought them – big blond Martins and Yamahas – and, this being a liberal Protestant sort of place and it being the mid-70s, used them mainly for strumming John Denver, Dan Fogelburg and the occasional round of “Kum-ba-yah” at vespers.
When given the opportunity to hold one of the guitars during small group time on Tuesday, Jeff held it on his lap and made a few tenative exploratory strums. He pressed his other fingers on the strings, which hurt. His cabin-mate, John Hamm, who was a sixth-grader, took the guitar away from him after a really short time. Hamm showed him how to play “Smoke on the Water” on the top string. Jeff watched carefully – seemed simple enough. For the rest of the week, Jeff took every opportunity to play with the guitars, and by Friday evening was plunking out a passable, one-string version of “Smoke on the Water” for the talent show. Jeff knew it wasn’t great, but it certainly beat “Leaving on a Jet Plane.”
Jeff didn’t become a guitar player, really, although he did maintain his relationship with “Smoke on the Water.” For the next fifteen years, through a series of suburban bedrooms, rec-rooms, basements, cabins, tents, dorm-rooms, campsites, crappy apartments and slightly less crappy apartments, whenever a guitar showed up Jeff would unobtrusively pick up and play “Smoke on the Water.” It wasn’t that he really liked the song – he wasn’t a Deep Purple fan. It was just an odd little habit he’d picked up. He was barely even conscious of it anymore. Guitars and real guitar players were ubiquitous enough in his world that he’d eventually gotten rather good at it, with the help of various friends, roommates and passersby showing him exactly how to hold his hands so that his reproduction gradually became more accurate and complex. He never tried to play anything else and considered his odd ability as akin to bar bet fodder or being double jointed.
DMITRY
Dmitry Medvedev was a bear. A Russian brown bear trapped as a cub after his mother had been killed by hunters. Dmitry was trained to be one of the very last dancing bears. He was sold to a hairy fat man in a red coat. He was kept in a little shed. The man punched a hole through his muzzle and attached a chain to it. The man jerked on the chain and made him stand on two legs, over and over again. The man beat him with a stick. The man would beat on a bucket with his stick which made a noise that hurt Dmitry's ears. The man made him stand on hot iron plates. The man would yell at him. When the burning got bad, Dmitry would lift his feet. The man would yell some more. He would beat on the bucket some more. Dmitry did not like the man.
The yelling and clanging and beating and burning would go on for a long time, then the man would leave. A different smaller man would come and give Dmitry food. Dmitry like the little man. The little man carried a tiny box that made music. Dmitry liked to hear the music. The music sounded like his mother's heart beating. It made him feel better because it meant the clanging and beating and burning was over. He would rock his body back and forth with the music.
Dmitry joined the circus. The big man sold Dmitry to Sasha Yurikov. Sasha took Dmitry to many different places. Dmitry would stand up on two legs and move his feet the way he had when the big man was beating and burning him. Sasha did not beat him or burn him. Sasha did not hurt him and gave him food, but Dmitry had to stand on two legs and move his feet for many hours every day.
Dmitry and Sasha went many places with the circus. Every few days, Sasha would put Dmitry in his cage in the truck. They would drive to a new place and Sasha would let Dmitry out to dance for the people. Once, Dmitry had to stay in his cage for many days. Sasha only let him out of the cage for a short time every day. When he came out of the cage he was in a strange place with water all around. After many days of this they left the water place and Dmitry began to dance again.
MICKEY
Mickey Morris was just one of those guys. He could get you to do stuff you didn’t want to do. Anything from another round of tequila shots to driving the gang across the state to see a concert that you personally didn’t give a shit about seeing to “investing” the rent money in his plan to sell screen printed panties to college girls, Mickey could convince you to do it. Even if you knew you shouldn’t and you really didn’t want to and you really REALLY shouldn’t. It was something about how he was always smiling and about he always seemed to need your agreement on a deeply personal level and that turning him down would be a soul crushing blow and he was so sincere. So you usually ended up going along with a sigh, internally reassuring yourself that it wouldn’t end up so bad this time, despite the fact that giving in to Mickey’s wishes had resulted in a long string of blackouts, arrests, skin parasites and evictions or narrow escapes therefrom.
Mickey was the singer in a band called “Cougar Medicine”. Cougar Medicine played Post New-Wave Southern Techno-Funk well enough to fill the bigger bars in town, but not to go much farther. Mickey was excited because he had gotten the band a gig at The Santa Slam, which was a music festival over Labor Day weekend at Santa Claus Land. Santa Claus Land was a declining amusement park 150 miles away whose owners had hit upon the idea of a musical festival as a way to squeeze one more profitable weekend out of the season. The other members of Cougar Medicine thought it sounded cheesy and were dubious whether it would be truly rockin’ to play their unique brand of Post New-Wave Southern Techno-Funk at a place called “Santa Claus Land”. In the end, of course, Mickey convinced them.
Cougar Medicine practiced at the rented house shared by Fred, the lead guitarist and Jimmy O, who played the bass. Jeff’s girlfriend Carla, who was Jimmy O’s cousin, had the third bedroom, so it was there at the house that Jeff first met Mickey, about two weeks before Labor Day. Jeff was waiting for Carla to get ready – Jeff was taking her to a movie (her choice) and Tumbleweed for their three-month anniversary. Jeff was sitting on the couch finishing the last dozen or so bars of “Smoke on the Water” (Fred didn’t mind) when Mickey opened the front door, walked in and flumped down on the couch beside Jeff, who finished up the song with an odd little hammering-on flourish that Fred had showed him the week before.
Mickey said Jeff’s playing was “amaaazing” and introduced himself. Jeff was doing his best to tactfully demur and explain that he couldn’t really play when Carla came down the stairs, hungry and ready to go. Carla greeted Mickey with a smirk and a raised eyebrow and Jeff told him goodbye. Before they left, Mickey managed to extract a commitment that the two of them would be attending the Santa Slam.
APRIL
April Love (yes that was her real name, thank you very fucking much mom for a pole-dancing destiny) glared over her keyboard at D.K. the drummer, raising her palms and eyebrows in a gesture of exasperation and mock submission. Fucking Mickey had fucking done it again. It was bad enough to be playing at an amusement park, but now he was pulling yaps up onto the stage.
Not that it had turned out to be a bad gig. There were at least a couple hundred people in the audience, which was more than most of their bar shows. It just looked like less cause this fucking amphitheater (The North Pole Playhouse!) would hold ten times that many.
But Mickey was just so fucking impulsive. They had just finished “Plaid Flannel Blues” which went over pretty well, considering, when he starts jumping and flopping all over the place, pointing and hollering out into the crowd. Then he jumps down off the stage and is dragging this guy back up with him. Turns out to be Carla's boyfriend, Josh or Jeff or somefucking thing like that. She'd only met him a couple of times – didn't seem like a bad guy, maybe a little stiff.
None of which was so bad. But then Mickey and Jeff/Josh/Whatever stand there on the stage arguing for like five minutes. Fucking Mickey wants him to play guitar and he won't or can't. And they're going back and forth, Mickey pushing and pleading and the guy shaking his head. All this time the crowd's getting restless, so D.K., never one to miss a chance, starts out on a drum solo. This goes on for at least two and a half minutes, during which time all she and the rest of the band can do is smile and act like this is supposed to be happening. April swore that she would crack D.K.'s fucking skull with that crash cymbal after the show.
Finally Jeff/Josh shrugs and gives up, which seems to be how people usually end up reacting to Mickey. “Honest to God, it's the only thing I know,” April heard him say. So the guy comes over and grabs Fred's guitar and gets ready to play, which is a good thing because about this time not only is the crowd getting pretty damn restless and looking to see if there's a clear route to the nearest aisle, but all of a sudden there's some kind of disturbance at the very back of the hall. It looks like a guy in a bear suit is beating up Santa Claus, but she can't tell for sure. Anyway, Mickey comes over then and tells them they were going to play “Smoke on the Water” with Jeff/Josh.
Which just pissed April way the hell off because what was this some kind of 8th grade backyard three chord operation? What was next, Journey? But the crowd was really starting to lean toward the exits and she thought she saw rent-a-cops in the distance. Plus it was fucking pointless to argue with fucking Mickey.
And it turned out to be OK anyway, because Jeff/Josh could actually play, so he rocks out on some Deep Purple for five minutes or so, gives Fred his guitar back and sits back down. The audience likes it, cause he's one of theirs or something and he played a song they all knew which gets them back into the show. Santa Claus and the rent-a-cops seem to have disappeared – but the guy in the bear suit was still there doing some goofy-assed shuffling dance, which he continues to do for the rest of their set.
SASHA
Sasha and Dmitry stood where Andrei Alexey had told them to stand, near the stage where the rock bands played. It was not a good place for them to be. They could still see the Kharakov Brothers to their left, juggling in the entrance courtyard. And Boris Boris was swallowing flames just around the corner to his right. But Sasha was not comfortable, even with the close proximity of his friends. Sasha could tell that Dmitry did not like it there either. After 15 years traveling, living and working together, day after day, Dmitry was the closest thing Sasha had to a wife. Sasha cared about Dmitry. Plus, Dmitry was the last dancing bear there was. Without him Sasha had no way to make a living, much less travel away from the Soviet Union.
Dmitry didn't seem to like the some of the music, which was odd for a dancing bear. But this music was loud and discordant. Sasha didn't like it and neither did Dmitry. It drowned out their little cassette player with Dmitry's usual music on it. But Dmitry, bless him, was doing his best to dance to the music the rock bands played. He was a good bear.
What really disturbed Dmitry was the Santa Claus statue. It was big – taller than Dmitry. Every few minutes it would move back and forth, brandishing a stiff whip over the backs of eight little deers that floated in front of him. Every time it did this it emitted a spectral guffaw. Dmitry would flinch and jump. It was hot, and as the day wore on Sasha and Dmitry both became more and more uncomfortable in the unaccustomed heat. Dmitry kept edging away from the statue, but Andrei Alexey had said it was important to stay where he was. It was not good to trifle with Andrei Alexey.
Then the dog came and barked at Dmitry. Dmitry did not like dogs, but he was very well trained and the dog was only a little one. The dog stayed and barked at Dmitry for a long time though. It was very hot for Sasha and he knew that Dmitry was very hot too. He had the tired look in his eyes and he hung his shoulders. Sasha patted him and gave him his water bottle, but it did not help much.
Then the drums started. Dmitry did NOT like the drums. It was drums and only drums and they seemed to go playing by themselves forever. Dmitry became agitated and then more agitated. He growled and then bellowed and then roared. Still the drums played on. Sasha tried his best to soothe Dmitry and began trying to lead him away to a shady spot away from the drums, Andrei Alexey or no.
But just as he started to lead Dmitry away, the accursed Santa Claus statue started up. Dmitry froze. He was perfectly still for a long moment. Sasha did not recognize the look in his eyes. Then Dmitry roared again, reached up to the chain attached to his collar and snapped in two like a twig. He fell upon the statue in a frenzy, first battering it with swipes of his paws then lifting it bodily from it perch and dashing it to the ground, whereupon he wrenched Santa Claus's head from his body with a deft twist.
Sasha rushed to restrain Dmitry, but Dmitry gently brushed him aside, flinging Sasha to the pavement eight feet away. Sasha lifted himself from the ground in a panic and began edging around Dmitry toward his bag. There were hundred of people and many little children around. Dmitry began pounding the headless statue into the ground.
Sasha reached his bag and sadly opened the bottom compartment where he kept his revolver. He shook and wept as his hands closed around it. He could hear shouts and see uniformed men approaching.
Just then the drums stopped. Dmitry stopped too. The music started again. It was loud with a thumping beat. Dmitry dropped the statue and looked up. Sasha slid the pistol back into his bag. Dmitry stood and began dancing, heavily at first and then with a lightness and grace that Sasha had not seen for many years. He could swear that Dmitry was smiling.
Wombat
Now listen children, this is the story of Wombat.
Long, long ago in the Dreaming the most popular pastime among all the animals that walked the young land was to gather together and tell stories. Sometimes these stories were of important things, great battles and the forming of the world; sometimes they were little things, bits and pieces of news, for the world was vast and new happenings traveled slowly; other times the stories were just idle fancies made of a pinch of magic and red dust, neither of which were in short supply back then.
No matter what kind of story a body wanted to hear though, everyone knew the greatest storyteller was Wombat. She would sit with her head just poking outside her burrow or in the shade of a cool tree and in her low, slow tone (Wombat never did anything quickly if she could help it, this is true even today) she would weave fantastic tales. It was Wombat who first described the Rainbow Serpent battling the Sun and it was Wombat who first warned that sighting the Minka bird was an ill omen and told how those who saw it never had long to live.
Of course, talent always breeds jealousy and not all the other animals were content to simply enjoy Wombat's stories: they wanted to be the center of attention themselves. Kookaburra in particular was desperately consumed by a desire to be known as the greatest storyteller in the land. Try as he might though he could never weave a tale that would make the other animals laugh as hard or weep as painfully or love as deeply as Wombat's could.
Resolving that it must simply be a matter of practice Kookaburra told story after story in quick succession, in fact he began telling his stories so quickly that he became known for his characteristic staccato voice: 'kookoo-kahkah-kookoo-kahkah'.
After a while a strange thing started to happen: While everyone still acknowledged Wombat's stories as the best most chose to listen to Kookaburra instead. Kookaburra went through so many stories so quickly that all the other animals were afraid that if they took the time to listen to one of Wombat's slower tales they might be the only one to miss something exciting. So the crowds around Wombat's burrow grew smaller and smaller until one day she plodded out to see no one had come to listen to her stories at all, excepting Koala, who slept in a tree above Wombat's burrow anyway so no one could tell if he was ever listening.
'Koala, are you awake?' asked Wombat, after she was sure no one was coming.
Koala grumbled and groaned at Wombat (Koala always let his food stew and ferment for hours in his stomach so he was always sleepy and cranky, this is true even today) but Wombat patiently sat through his curses and eventually he turned his head down towards her and replied, 'am now, I think. What'cher want?'
'Do you know where everyone has gone?' Wombat enunciated slowly, as was best when Koala had been digesting for a long time.
'They uh, 'soff to listen to Kookaburra ehn't they?'
'Oh, I see.' said Wombat in a sad small voice, 'Koala?'
'Emph?'
'Have my stories become boring?'
'Nah 'course not, Wombatsalwaysgotthebesstories, 'swat I always say. Why you think I sleep 'ere?'
'But Kookaburra tells better stories now?'
But the only answer Wombat got was Koala's rough snoring
After some thought, Wombat decided that the best thing she could do was to go with the other animals and listen to Kookaburra's stories to see what she could learn. Before long the echo of Kookaburra's staccato call had drawn her to a tall, tall tree where Kookaburra sat and declaimed to the crowd gathered below. Since most of the other animals were larger than her and looking up at Kookaburra besides Wombat was able to move unnoticed to the front where she settled down to listen.
It didn't take long before she started to become unsettled by the way Kookaburra's stories were constructed: they all followed a very simple formula, at least to start with, but he seemed to constantly change his mind about what would happen next depending how interested his audience was. In fact Wombat was sure that several times the first part of a story was completely dropped in favor more exciting sequences that seemed to come out of nowhere but she couldn't be quite sure because of how quickly Kookaburra shifted from one tale to another.
Eventually she couldn't bear anymore and quietly dragged herself away from the crowd feeling dejected and confused. Kookaburra's stories were not as good as hers, she was sure of that. If she could only master the speaking style that Kookaburra used she'd be able to tell her stories as quickly as he did and people would want to listen to her again.
As she was thinking this she became aware of a persistent chirping noise coming from somewhere nearby, moving to investigate she found Frog sitting in some branches overhanging a pond apparently absorbed in repeating something over and over to himself.
Wombat smiled to see her old friend and called out to ask what he was doing.
'Practicing,' explained Frog after nearly falling out of his tree from surprise at the interruption, 'I'm learning to tell stories like Kookaburra. I'm getting better but I'm still not as fast as he is, see:' and he began rhythmically chirping a simple story of a frog far from home.
'Could you show me that again?' asked Wombat after Frog had finished his story.
'It's not to hard to start with,' replied Frog, demonstrating as he spoke, 'You start at your stomach and push up and forward till the sound gets to your mouth. The trick is to get your rhythm up so you can do it quickly.'
Wombat tried mimicking the movement, her front claws digging into the dirt with concentration.
'Well,' said Frog, 'It's a start.'
And so Wombat spent the rest of the day with Frog practicing, and then each night after that would pace in front of her burrow practicing telling this story or that story in the new style, claws digging into the earth with each new sound, trying to get faster and faster as Koala snored gently above her head. Then as the sun rose she would go with the other animals and watch Kookaburra give his daily performance and try to spot some new nuance of his technique before returning home to sleep before it got too hot. She became so wrapped up in forcing her normally slow languid tone to fit this new harsh style that as she would pace and practice her body would tense and twist with the effort, she spoke to no one, save Koala who would sometimes be waiting at the base of the tree when she got back from watching Kookaburra to compliment her the stories she had told the previous night.
Time wore on and while Wombat went to watch Kookaburra religiously his popularity among the other animals was waning and his crowds were steadily decreasing. It didn't seem that they were going anywhere else, they simply weren't going to see Kookaburra anymore. As Wombat was wandering home contemplating this new development, ready to fall asleep after a long night of practice and an interminable morning of Kookaburra's disjointed plots, when she passed some of the other animals heading away from her burrow. Frog was moving swiftly in the middle of the group but when he saw Wombat he slowed down, 'That was a great story today Wombat. I can't wait to finish it tomorrow.'
Before Wombat could ask what he meant Frog had hopped away again and started talking excitedly with the other animals, from what Wombat could overhear it sounded like they were talking about the seven sisters, which was one of the stories she had been practicing the night before.
Thoroughly confused Wombat returned to her burrow to see Koala sitting at the bottom of the tree bidding farewell to a few remaining animals. Suddenly everything fell into place.
'You've been telling my stories!' she confronted Koala angrily,
'Whatchoo mean Wombles?' Koala replied with with a fuzzy stare.
'You've been listening to me at night and then telling my stories like your own,' Wombat went on, barely listening, 'I never would have thought you'd do this to me, you know how hard I've been practicing and now you do this.'
'I.. I haven't bin telling any stories Womby, you know I can't keep track of the... thing.. words. I've just been showing everyone the stories you've been leaving for me.' a sloppy sadness creeping into his voice at Wombat's accusations of betrayal.
'What?'
As Wombat slowly teased the story out of Koala it became apparent that he had been watching and listening to her practice each night, but from his perspective at the top of the tree her practice looked quite different. As Wombat had twisted and scratched at the dirt in concentration each sound she tried to enunciate in Kookaburra's forced style had left a different mark in the dirt beneath her claws, even though his concentration wasn't the best it didn't take Koala long to link sounds to marks. Since he had a very straightforward and slightly self-centered view of the world he had decided that his friend Wombat was leaving the stories there on the dirt for him so he could look at them at his convenience. The ability to hear whichever story he wanted at his leisure had excited him so much that he had brought other animals round and taught them how to decipher the marks Wombat left behind.
'Oh.' said Wombat, as it finally all sunk in. Looking around with new eyes at her tracks back and forth and around the clearing near her burrow she was struck by all the stories just lying there in the dirt. Stories that would stay there until they were erased and not fade quickly on the air. She realized that telling her stories like this she could tell more stories to more people than Kookaburra ever could.
Turning back to Koala she asked, 'Could you teach me how to read them too?'
So that is how Wombat was the first animal to write down her stories, and soon other animals were writing there own as well as reading Wombat's and they stayed there for all to see (for as long as these things do) and people weren't forced to listen to only one story at a time or worry they might miss something exciting ever again. Even today, though people write in many more complex and permanent ways than Wombat's first scratchings a tracker in deep bush will always go out of their way if they spot a wombat trail and they say the stories are always worth the time.
Long, long ago in the Dreaming the most popular pastime among all the animals that walked the young land was to gather together and tell stories. Sometimes these stories were of important things, great battles and the forming of the world; sometimes they were little things, bits and pieces of news, for the world was vast and new happenings traveled slowly; other times the stories were just idle fancies made of a pinch of magic and red dust, neither of which were in short supply back then.
No matter what kind of story a body wanted to hear though, everyone knew the greatest storyteller was Wombat. She would sit with her head just poking outside her burrow or in the shade of a cool tree and in her low, slow tone (Wombat never did anything quickly if she could help it, this is true even today) she would weave fantastic tales. It was Wombat who first described the Rainbow Serpent battling the Sun and it was Wombat who first warned that sighting the Minka bird was an ill omen and told how those who saw it never had long to live.
Of course, talent always breeds jealousy and not all the other animals were content to simply enjoy Wombat's stories: they wanted to be the center of attention themselves. Kookaburra in particular was desperately consumed by a desire to be known as the greatest storyteller in the land. Try as he might though he could never weave a tale that would make the other animals laugh as hard or weep as painfully or love as deeply as Wombat's could.
Resolving that it must simply be a matter of practice Kookaburra told story after story in quick succession, in fact he began telling his stories so quickly that he became known for his characteristic staccato voice: 'kookoo-kahkah-kookoo-kahkah'.
After a while a strange thing started to happen: While everyone still acknowledged Wombat's stories as the best most chose to listen to Kookaburra instead. Kookaburra went through so many stories so quickly that all the other animals were afraid that if they took the time to listen to one of Wombat's slower tales they might be the only one to miss something exciting. So the crowds around Wombat's burrow grew smaller and smaller until one day she plodded out to see no one had come to listen to her stories at all, excepting Koala, who slept in a tree above Wombat's burrow anyway so no one could tell if he was ever listening.
'Koala, are you awake?' asked Wombat, after she was sure no one was coming.
Koala grumbled and groaned at Wombat (Koala always let his food stew and ferment for hours in his stomach so he was always sleepy and cranky, this is true even today) but Wombat patiently sat through his curses and eventually he turned his head down towards her and replied, 'am now, I think. What'cher want?'
'Do you know where everyone has gone?' Wombat enunciated slowly, as was best when Koala had been digesting for a long time.
'They uh, 'soff to listen to Kookaburra ehn't they?'
'Oh, I see.' said Wombat in a sad small voice, 'Koala?'
'Emph?'
'Have my stories become boring?'
'Nah 'course not, Wombatsalwaysgotthebesstories, 'swat I always say. Why you think I sleep 'ere?'
'But Kookaburra tells better stories now?'
But the only answer Wombat got was Koala's rough snoring
After some thought, Wombat decided that the best thing she could do was to go with the other animals and listen to Kookaburra's stories to see what she could learn. Before long the echo of Kookaburra's staccato call had drawn her to a tall, tall tree where Kookaburra sat and declaimed to the crowd gathered below. Since most of the other animals were larger than her and looking up at Kookaburra besides Wombat was able to move unnoticed to the front where she settled down to listen.
It didn't take long before she started to become unsettled by the way Kookaburra's stories were constructed: they all followed a very simple formula, at least to start with, but he seemed to constantly change his mind about what would happen next depending how interested his audience was. In fact Wombat was sure that several times the first part of a story was completely dropped in favor more exciting sequences that seemed to come out of nowhere but she couldn't be quite sure because of how quickly Kookaburra shifted from one tale to another.
Eventually she couldn't bear anymore and quietly dragged herself away from the crowd feeling dejected and confused. Kookaburra's stories were not as good as hers, she was sure of that. If she could only master the speaking style that Kookaburra used she'd be able to tell her stories as quickly as he did and people would want to listen to her again.
As she was thinking this she became aware of a persistent chirping noise coming from somewhere nearby, moving to investigate she found Frog sitting in some branches overhanging a pond apparently absorbed in repeating something over and over to himself.
Wombat smiled to see her old friend and called out to ask what he was doing.
'Practicing,' explained Frog after nearly falling out of his tree from surprise at the interruption, 'I'm learning to tell stories like Kookaburra. I'm getting better but I'm still not as fast as he is, see:' and he began rhythmically chirping a simple story of a frog far from home.
'Could you show me that again?' asked Wombat after Frog had finished his story.
'It's not to hard to start with,' replied Frog, demonstrating as he spoke, 'You start at your stomach and push up and forward till the sound gets to your mouth. The trick is to get your rhythm up so you can do it quickly.'
Wombat tried mimicking the movement, her front claws digging into the dirt with concentration.
'Well,' said Frog, 'It's a start.'
And so Wombat spent the rest of the day with Frog practicing, and then each night after that would pace in front of her burrow practicing telling this story or that story in the new style, claws digging into the earth with each new sound, trying to get faster and faster as Koala snored gently above her head. Then as the sun rose she would go with the other animals and watch Kookaburra give his daily performance and try to spot some new nuance of his technique before returning home to sleep before it got too hot. She became so wrapped up in forcing her normally slow languid tone to fit this new harsh style that as she would pace and practice her body would tense and twist with the effort, she spoke to no one, save Koala who would sometimes be waiting at the base of the tree when she got back from watching Kookaburra to compliment her the stories she had told the previous night.
Time wore on and while Wombat went to watch Kookaburra religiously his popularity among the other animals was waning and his crowds were steadily decreasing. It didn't seem that they were going anywhere else, they simply weren't going to see Kookaburra anymore. As Wombat was wandering home contemplating this new development, ready to fall asleep after a long night of practice and an interminable morning of Kookaburra's disjointed plots, when she passed some of the other animals heading away from her burrow. Frog was moving swiftly in the middle of the group but when he saw Wombat he slowed down, 'That was a great story today Wombat. I can't wait to finish it tomorrow.'
Before Wombat could ask what he meant Frog had hopped away again and started talking excitedly with the other animals, from what Wombat could overhear it sounded like they were talking about the seven sisters, which was one of the stories she had been practicing the night before.
Thoroughly confused Wombat returned to her burrow to see Koala sitting at the bottom of the tree bidding farewell to a few remaining animals. Suddenly everything fell into place.
'You've been telling my stories!' she confronted Koala angrily,
'Whatchoo mean Wombles?' Koala replied with with a fuzzy stare.
'You've been listening to me at night and then telling my stories like your own,' Wombat went on, barely listening, 'I never would have thought you'd do this to me, you know how hard I've been practicing and now you do this.'
'I.. I haven't bin telling any stories Womby, you know I can't keep track of the... thing.. words. I've just been showing everyone the stories you've been leaving for me.' a sloppy sadness creeping into his voice at Wombat's accusations of betrayal.
'What?'
As Wombat slowly teased the story out of Koala it became apparent that he had been watching and listening to her practice each night, but from his perspective at the top of the tree her practice looked quite different. As Wombat had twisted and scratched at the dirt in concentration each sound she tried to enunciate in Kookaburra's forced style had left a different mark in the dirt beneath her claws, even though his concentration wasn't the best it didn't take Koala long to link sounds to marks. Since he had a very straightforward and slightly self-centered view of the world he had decided that his friend Wombat was leaving the stories there on the dirt for him so he could look at them at his convenience. The ability to hear whichever story he wanted at his leisure had excited him so much that he had brought other animals round and taught them how to decipher the marks Wombat left behind.
'Oh.' said Wombat, as it finally all sunk in. Looking around with new eyes at her tracks back and forth and around the clearing near her burrow she was struck by all the stories just lying there in the dirt. Stories that would stay there until they were erased and not fade quickly on the air. She realized that telling her stories like this she could tell more stories to more people than Kookaburra ever could.
Turning back to Koala she asked, 'Could you teach me how to read them too?'
So that is how Wombat was the first animal to write down her stories, and soon other animals were writing there own as well as reading Wombat's and they stayed there for all to see (for as long as these things do) and people weren't forced to listen to only one story at a time or worry they might miss something exciting ever again. Even today, though people write in many more complex and permanent ways than Wombat's first scratchings a tracker in deep bush will always go out of their way if they spot a wombat trail and they say the stories are always worth the time.
Dead in Real Life
"Have you ever been shot before?" he asked, trembling.
"Yes," Shrader said. "Twice."
"What does it feel like?" he asked.
"Well if it doesn't kill you right off, it hurts like hell," Shrader said. "Worst pain imaginable. But I'm sure you can't feel it if you die right away. And if you hold still for him, you'll die right away."
"You're just saying that," he said.
"Your right," Shrader said. "I love getting shot."
Shrader took a couple of steps away. The man reeked of tequila. Shrader's own light haze of gin was unsettled by the odor. He avoided turning his back with the grace of a professional. Never let them see the back of you, he thought. How many years since he learned that?
"I'm not going to let you do it," the man said. "I'm not going to let you bastards take me!"
"You don't really have much of a choice in the matter," Shrader replied. "It's either his gun or my knife. And I should say, no one ever gets stabbed and dies right away."
Shrader could see the man screwing up his courage. He telegraphed it in a way that was so transparent as to be ludicrous. Me thirty years ago, Schrader thought. He drew his knife slowly, and held it so they could see it. Make sure they can see it, he remembered. Help them connect the dots.
"I'll take my chances!" the man bellowed. He ran for the door. Shrader caught him in one arm, but he was going to fast. The two men stumbled, and almost fell off entirely. The man swung weakly at Shrader who punched a quick left to the man's gut. The man hopped a little as Shrader made contact. Shrader threw his right arm back. The knife glinted in the lights. Make sure they can see. He swung his arm downward. The knife swept in a low arc. The man hopped again. He screamed a long, loud, terrible scream, and he crumpled to the stage.
Schrader was shaking. It was as if he had been sleep-walking through it, and had only been woken by the scream. It was louder and so much more awful than James had rehearsed it. For the first time, he was grateful for what would come next. He walked downstage, slumped into a chair, lit a cigarette, and gazed over the audience. There wasn't a sound in the house. He gave a quick and nervous smile, something he'd never done in rehearsal. His red-soaked right hand was shaking. He allowed himself a nervous laugh. There wasn't a sound from the audience, not a single cough.
Damien Tangen had played this role for ten months before tonight. Every night that Damien had played this scene, the audience coughed when he lit the cigarette. The director had insisted there be a long pause here, and Damien had eaten it up, but you could tell that the audience wasn't with him. They coughed as soon as they saw smoke. But Damien was gone. Off to open another show, maybe something on Broadway proper. And here was poor old Jim Schrader, shaking like he'd just murdered a man, and the audience was entirely his.
A small trickle of red liquid inched past Schrader's chair and began dripping off the stage.
"Done already?" came a voice behind him.
"Don't touch him!" Schrader yelled, spinning around. It was the right line, but he was so genuinely startled, he hadn't actually remembered it. His mouth had done all the work. "He's mine, Wolf. Don't touch him."
She lowered her glasses and raised her eyebrows. "He wasn't supposed to be yours," she said. "He was supposed to belong to Bear."
"Bear got the other two tonight. This one wouldn't wait. This one belongs to Fox."
"Have it your own way, Foxy." she said. "Only let me have what he's got."
"Wait," he said. "I get his gadgets. He's got one of those fancy phones, and once Bear's had his say, I probably won't get paid a cent for this one."
"Gadgets, really? At your age?"
"To each their own," Schrader said stepping over the bloody figure lying on the floor. As drunk as he was, James played a better corpse than he had a man.
"Hmph," she said. "Wallets and rings for me; the simple life."
Schrader crouched down, retrieved his knife, wiped it on James' coat, and put it away.James had crumpled into a ball and fallen with his back to the audience. This obscured his breathing, and hid the large plastic blood bag. Something was wrong. Shrader went through James' pockets methodically. James didn't smile or whisper "fuck you" as he had during all the rehearsals. He wasn't even making faces. Shrader retrieved the iPhone from the inside breast pocket where it had always been, and then stopped cold. Something was very wrong. The world darkened. There was a faint ringing sound in his ears. Shrader's mind receded like a runway dropping away from an airplane.
Through the gin, his muscles did what they were trained to do.
"There she is," he said, standing up. "The fancy phone. Have you seen these?" It's not so bad, he thought. It can't be like that. But the bag. This sort of thing doesn't happen. But the bag was full.
"I can't work the damned things," said wolf. "If it were up to me, I'd still have my rotary."
He tried to get the picture out of his mind, but it sat there fat and obvious. The large plastic bag of stage blood was full, and James was empty. Shrader stepped over the stream of blood -- it's real blood! -- and walked back to the chair.
"My turn," Wolf said.
"He's all yours, deary," he said. Idiot! Why did you say that?
He glanced at Wolf as she walked to the body. The lights glinted off her glasses as she crouched and went through the same pockets he had just searched. He held his breath. Time stopped. It's not my fault, he thought. That asshole is as drunk as a lord. He forgot to wear the protective vest. It's not my fault he forgot to wear the vest. It's not murder if it's not my fault.
Someone in the audience coughed. Shrader glanced back again and saw Wolf stand again, a wallet and a ring in her hand. She hadn't screamed. The bag was full. She'd been right there, but she hadn't screamed. She caught Shrader's eyes and gave the queerest smile. He had never seen her smile like that before. It was devious. Their conspiracy was born in that smile.
His dread vanished, and he felt a rush of frantic energy.
"Good night, Fox," she said.
"You're not staying then?" he said.
"Oh heavens no. I don't want to be here when Bear shows up. Hell I don't want to be here when Rabbit shows up."
The stagehands rattled some boxes off left.
"Speak of the devil," she said.
"Is he still in here?" Rabbit asked, running in and pretending to be winded. "Because if he's not still-- Geez, he's dead!"
"That's usually what happens when we're done with them," Shrader said. Wolf slowly stepped out where Rabbit had stepped in. Out of the lights, she becaume Beatrice again. Beautiful Beatrice, star of the stage past her prime. Beatrice who had not screamed. Beatrice who had smiled.
"...supposed to be done with him yet," came the end of Rabbit's line. "We're supposed to hold him till Bear comes to do him."
"He was a runner," Shrader said. "Didn't want to wait for Bear."
"Geez, Foxy, what are we supposed..." Rabbit continued. Rabbit was safe. At no point in the next four minutes and fifty-two seconds during which he was on stage did he ever get close to James. Bear was the problem. Shrader spat his line in response to something Rabbit had said. It was insane. Finally in performance he had achieved what he never could despite all his preparation. He was actually afraid of Bear's entrance. But he wouldn't be here for it. He feigned disinterest as he talked with Rabbit, as he had done every night. But instead of absently playing with Fox's new "fancy phone", Shrader dialed frantically at the thing. Web browser. Taxi listings. Online booking. Wait outside the theatre. Keep the engine running. Big tip.
"...think we should at least clean up the mess?" said Rabbit.
"Don't get your hopes up," said Shrader giving his practiced look. "Wolf already got his wallet."
"Geez!" said Rabbit. I never liked this play anyway, thought Fox. Whoever says 'geez' anymore? His finger moved quickly. Web browser. Plane tickets. Mexico City. No flights until midnight. I have to get off this stage. Plane tickets. Tijuana. No flights tonight. Dammit. Plane tickets. Matamoros. 11:30. There was nothing before then. Rabbit pranced the stage, speaking his monologue and gesticulating wildly. There were only two minutes and five seconds left from the beginning of that monologue to Bear's entrance. Something had to be done. Matamoros. 11:30. He couldn't get off the stage, but he couldn't let Bear enter. Bear couldn't be allowed to play the scene and lift James' corpse like he did every night, because tonight it was actually James' corpse and not James' pus-filled, swaggering, overindulgent, woman-chasing body. It's not murder to get a guy drunk. It's not murder to try to get a guy fired. It's not murder just because I wanted him dead.
"That's the difference between you and me, Rabbit," Shrader said. "Give it time, though. Another thirty years in this business will dry you up faster than it did me."
"Screw you, Fox," said Rabbit. Matamoros, Mexico. 11:30. One-way ticket. Wait. She had smiled at him. She knew. He had done it for her, and she knew. It's not murder just because he deserved it. Two one-way tickets. Could he chance a message?
"Look, I'm getting out of here," said Rabbit. "You can tell..." He couldn't do it alone. She was his accomplice now. She hadn't screamed. There were no alarms. She was in this with him. She wanted it that way. He typed in her cell number as he'd memorized it from the call sheet. You. Me. Airplane to Mexico. Cab in the alley. No curtain call. Send.
The message was on its way, and so was Rabbit. Shrader remembered he was supposed to stop feigning interest in the phone. He slipped it in his pocket as Bear entered stage left.
At six-foot-two, Marcus Brenberg was an impressive man. With a team of experts in hair, makeup, and costume, Bear was almost cartoonishly intimidating.
He can't have the body, Shrader thought. "You can't have the body," Shrader said.
"The hell I can't," boomed Bear's voice.
This ends with him taking the body, but he can't have it. "It's my kill, and I intend to be paid for it."
"That wasn't the plan, little Fox. You were supposed to hold him," Bear said.
"He wouldn't be held," Shrader said. "And the contract is very clear."
"The contract is a piece of paper," said Bear. "And what's paper among men?"
Shrader glanced at the shining trail of blood on the stage. I can't change the scene, he thought. The problem wasn't with Bear, but with Marcus. If anyone else in this sorry excuse for a cast had played Bear, it wouldn't have mattered. But save Shrader and Beatrice, Marcus was the only professional in the bunch. If Shrader started changing the scene, if he added dialogue, Marcus would be professional. He'd say the scene's pivotal line and exit as quickly as possible to minimize the damage. Exit with the body.
"You can't. Have. The body," Fox said.
"You're trying my patience," Bear said. "Maybe you think you're old enough you don't have to listen to your betters."
I'm trapped, Shrader thought. I'm trapped in this horrible, stupid, third-rate play, and the only way I'll get out is in manacles, and at my age I'll die in prison, and I knew my career was over ten years ago, but I had to go on because I'd never BEEN anybody. He was shaking. And it's NOT MURDER!, he thought. Not in real life.
With that, and with all all of the frustration and adrenaline and chutzpah he could muster, Shrader clocked Bear in the jaw right where it curved up to meet the ear. Many in the audience gasped audibly. One shot. One chance to get out of here a free man. If Bear fell, he could finish the scene -- finish the show -- without anyone else ever touching James. But Bear did not fall. Instead, he slowly turned his head back to Shrader and blinked. Shrader's mouth fell open. Bear inhaled deeply, leaned forward, and laughed.
Marcus Heberg, the large, youg, studious, and consummate professional actor made the strongest choice he could think of and committed his whole body to it. He laughed uproariously. He laughed like a man who had just discovered all of humour. Something buzzed silently in Shraders pocket. Bear -- still laughing -- swept a long arm out and motioned toward the body. Shrader walked quickly over to it, bent and lifted James in a fireman's carry, careful not to burst the bag. He walked off the stage, and into the darkness. He walked to the back wall where the actors' sofa sat. He pulled it forward with one foot, deposited James behind it, and pushed it back again. Then he hurried back onstage. Bear was still laughing when he arrived. He looked at Shrader -- who was covered in blood -- chuckled twice more, and hit him on the side of the head with his open palm. Shrader fell to the stage, and -- laughing still -- Bear exited.
Shrader dragged himself up, and slumped once more into the downstage chair. He rubbed his temple. He was supposed to light another cigarette once Bear left, but instead he retrieved the iPhone. It had a message. "Re: Me. You. Airplane." Still rubbing his head, he thumbed the screen. The message was one word: "Darling."
The rest of the show was a dream, a waking dream. Shrader gave the last best performance of his life. He infused every word with his very soul. The mediocre script, and lackluster supporting cast seemed to absorb his energy. The audience seemed rivited. It was the perfect night. And as the lights went down the final time, and the audience cheered, Shrader bid farewell to theatre, and finally escaped the stage. Beatrice stood in the wings. She'd changed out of costume, and was holding Shrader's gym bag. Out of those glasses and makeup, she was radiantly beautiful. He caught her wrist and hurried her to the back door near the couch. Neither of them looked at it. The cab was waiting out back just as he had planned, and they sped away to the airport.
"This is so romantic," was the only thing Beatrice said. Shrader struggled to change shirts in the taxi. Even if no one discovered the body before their flight took off, there wasn't any way he could get through airport security looking like he was covered in blood. Actually covered in blood, he corrected himself.
He couldn't believe how easy it was. Print tickets at the booth. Find the terminal. Board the plane. Two for Mexico. His career was over. His life had changed irrevocably. But he had a beautiful, sophisticated woman of his own age and experience, and before them lay an adventure that could go on forever. Once the plane started toward its runway, he finally felt safe enough to speak. "I can't believe you came with me," he said.
"How could I not?" she asked. "You're my hero."
"I didn't mean it," he said. "It was a dirty thing, and I didn't mean to do it."
"What are you talking about?" she asked. "I remember hearing about you doing the exact same thing to Marty MacCullen in 1982."
"I've never done anything like this," he said, taken aback.
"Nonsense," she said. "Marty had been taking unoffered liberties with the leading lady of whatever little comedy you boys were in, so you took him out and drank him under the table just before performance. Just like tonight. I heard it straight from Miranda Deitrich."
"I never killed Marty MacCullen," he said.
"Oh but you did," she said. "He was fired the next day, and as far as I know never got into anything again."
"But James--"
"Oh, I'm not worried about James. He made it as far as he had to. I pity my understudy, though."
"Understudy?"
"Yours too. James will be hell to work with these few days we're absconding with each other. You know I've always wanted to do this with you? But I never imagined you'd be so bold!"
"Beatrice, did you look at James tonight?" he said.
"Well of course I looked at him," she said, smiling that same beguiling smile. "But heaven knows I can't see a thing in those glasses especially under those lights. Still I could smell the man a mile away." She wrinkled her nose, in a manner far too cute for her age. Then she leaned forward and whispered, "I wish he would just drop dead while we were gone. Do you ever think that sort of thing could happen?"
Shrader watched out the window. "No it couldn't happen," he said as the runway dropped away. "Not in real life."
"Yes," Shrader said. "Twice."
"What does it feel like?" he asked.
"Well if it doesn't kill you right off, it hurts like hell," Shrader said. "Worst pain imaginable. But I'm sure you can't feel it if you die right away. And if you hold still for him, you'll die right away."
"You're just saying that," he said.
"Your right," Shrader said. "I love getting shot."
Shrader took a couple of steps away. The man reeked of tequila. Shrader's own light haze of gin was unsettled by the odor. He avoided turning his back with the grace of a professional. Never let them see the back of you, he thought. How many years since he learned that?
"I'm not going to let you do it," the man said. "I'm not going to let you bastards take me!"
"You don't really have much of a choice in the matter," Shrader replied. "It's either his gun or my knife. And I should say, no one ever gets stabbed and dies right away."
Shrader could see the man screwing up his courage. He telegraphed it in a way that was so transparent as to be ludicrous. Me thirty years ago, Schrader thought. He drew his knife slowly, and held it so they could see it. Make sure they can see it, he remembered. Help them connect the dots.
"I'll take my chances!" the man bellowed. He ran for the door. Shrader caught him in one arm, but he was going to fast. The two men stumbled, and almost fell off entirely. The man swung weakly at Shrader who punched a quick left to the man's gut. The man hopped a little as Shrader made contact. Shrader threw his right arm back. The knife glinted in the lights. Make sure they can see. He swung his arm downward. The knife swept in a low arc. The man hopped again. He screamed a long, loud, terrible scream, and he crumpled to the stage.
Schrader was shaking. It was as if he had been sleep-walking through it, and had only been woken by the scream. It was louder and so much more awful than James had rehearsed it. For the first time, he was grateful for what would come next. He walked downstage, slumped into a chair, lit a cigarette, and gazed over the audience. There wasn't a sound in the house. He gave a quick and nervous smile, something he'd never done in rehearsal. His red-soaked right hand was shaking. He allowed himself a nervous laugh. There wasn't a sound from the audience, not a single cough.
Damien Tangen had played this role for ten months before tonight. Every night that Damien had played this scene, the audience coughed when he lit the cigarette. The director had insisted there be a long pause here, and Damien had eaten it up, but you could tell that the audience wasn't with him. They coughed as soon as they saw smoke. But Damien was gone. Off to open another show, maybe something on Broadway proper. And here was poor old Jim Schrader, shaking like he'd just murdered a man, and the audience was entirely his.
A small trickle of red liquid inched past Schrader's chair and began dripping off the stage.
"Done already?" came a voice behind him.
"Don't touch him!" Schrader yelled, spinning around. It was the right line, but he was so genuinely startled, he hadn't actually remembered it. His mouth had done all the work. "He's mine, Wolf. Don't touch him."
She lowered her glasses and raised her eyebrows. "He wasn't supposed to be yours," she said. "He was supposed to belong to Bear."
"Bear got the other two tonight. This one wouldn't wait. This one belongs to Fox."
"Have it your own way, Foxy." she said. "Only let me have what he's got."
"Wait," he said. "I get his gadgets. He's got one of those fancy phones, and once Bear's had his say, I probably won't get paid a cent for this one."
"Gadgets, really? At your age?"
"To each their own," Schrader said stepping over the bloody figure lying on the floor. As drunk as he was, James played a better corpse than he had a man.
"Hmph," she said. "Wallets and rings for me; the simple life."
Schrader crouched down, retrieved his knife, wiped it on James' coat, and put it away.James had crumpled into a ball and fallen with his back to the audience. This obscured his breathing, and hid the large plastic blood bag. Something was wrong. Shrader went through James' pockets methodically. James didn't smile or whisper "fuck you" as he had during all the rehearsals. He wasn't even making faces. Shrader retrieved the iPhone from the inside breast pocket where it had always been, and then stopped cold. Something was very wrong. The world darkened. There was a faint ringing sound in his ears. Shrader's mind receded like a runway dropping away from an airplane.
Through the gin, his muscles did what they were trained to do.
"There she is," he said, standing up. "The fancy phone. Have you seen these?" It's not so bad, he thought. It can't be like that. But the bag. This sort of thing doesn't happen. But the bag was full.
"I can't work the damned things," said wolf. "If it were up to me, I'd still have my rotary."
He tried to get the picture out of his mind, but it sat there fat and obvious. The large plastic bag of stage blood was full, and James was empty. Shrader stepped over the stream of blood -- it's real blood! -- and walked back to the chair.
"My turn," Wolf said.
"He's all yours, deary," he said. Idiot! Why did you say that?
He glanced at Wolf as she walked to the body. The lights glinted off her glasses as she crouched and went through the same pockets he had just searched. He held his breath. Time stopped. It's not my fault, he thought. That asshole is as drunk as a lord. He forgot to wear the protective vest. It's not my fault he forgot to wear the vest. It's not murder if it's not my fault.
Someone in the audience coughed. Shrader glanced back again and saw Wolf stand again, a wallet and a ring in her hand. She hadn't screamed. The bag was full. She'd been right there, but she hadn't screamed. She caught Shrader's eyes and gave the queerest smile. He had never seen her smile like that before. It was devious. Their conspiracy was born in that smile.
His dread vanished, and he felt a rush of frantic energy.
"Good night, Fox," she said.
"You're not staying then?" he said.
"Oh heavens no. I don't want to be here when Bear shows up. Hell I don't want to be here when Rabbit shows up."
The stagehands rattled some boxes off left.
"Speak of the devil," she said.
"Is he still in here?" Rabbit asked, running in and pretending to be winded. "Because if he's not still-- Geez, he's dead!"
"That's usually what happens when we're done with them," Shrader said. Wolf slowly stepped out where Rabbit had stepped in. Out of the lights, she becaume Beatrice again. Beautiful Beatrice, star of the stage past her prime. Beatrice who had not screamed. Beatrice who had smiled.
"...supposed to be done with him yet," came the end of Rabbit's line. "We're supposed to hold him till Bear comes to do him."
"He was a runner," Shrader said. "Didn't want to wait for Bear."
"Geez, Foxy, what are we supposed..." Rabbit continued. Rabbit was safe. At no point in the next four minutes and fifty-two seconds during which he was on stage did he ever get close to James. Bear was the problem. Shrader spat his line in response to something Rabbit had said. It was insane. Finally in performance he had achieved what he never could despite all his preparation. He was actually afraid of Bear's entrance. But he wouldn't be here for it. He feigned disinterest as he talked with Rabbit, as he had done every night. But instead of absently playing with Fox's new "fancy phone", Shrader dialed frantically at the thing. Web browser. Taxi listings. Online booking. Wait outside the theatre. Keep the engine running. Big tip.
"...think we should at least clean up the mess?" said Rabbit.
"Don't get your hopes up," said Shrader giving his practiced look. "Wolf already got his wallet."
"Geez!" said Rabbit. I never liked this play anyway, thought Fox. Whoever says 'geez' anymore? His finger moved quickly. Web browser. Plane tickets. Mexico City. No flights until midnight. I have to get off this stage. Plane tickets. Tijuana. No flights tonight. Dammit. Plane tickets. Matamoros. 11:30. There was nothing before then. Rabbit pranced the stage, speaking his monologue and gesticulating wildly. There were only two minutes and five seconds left from the beginning of that monologue to Bear's entrance. Something had to be done. Matamoros. 11:30. He couldn't get off the stage, but he couldn't let Bear enter. Bear couldn't be allowed to play the scene and lift James' corpse like he did every night, because tonight it was actually James' corpse and not James' pus-filled, swaggering, overindulgent, woman-chasing body. It's not murder to get a guy drunk. It's not murder to try to get a guy fired. It's not murder just because I wanted him dead.
"That's the difference between you and me, Rabbit," Shrader said. "Give it time, though. Another thirty years in this business will dry you up faster than it did me."
"Screw you, Fox," said Rabbit. Matamoros, Mexico. 11:30. One-way ticket. Wait. She had smiled at him. She knew. He had done it for her, and she knew. It's not murder just because he deserved it. Two one-way tickets. Could he chance a message?
"Look, I'm getting out of here," said Rabbit. "You can tell..." He couldn't do it alone. She was his accomplice now. She hadn't screamed. There were no alarms. She was in this with him. She wanted it that way. He typed in her cell number as he'd memorized it from the call sheet. You. Me. Airplane to Mexico. Cab in the alley. No curtain call. Send.
The message was on its way, and so was Rabbit. Shrader remembered he was supposed to stop feigning interest in the phone. He slipped it in his pocket as Bear entered stage left.
At six-foot-two, Marcus Brenberg was an impressive man. With a team of experts in hair, makeup, and costume, Bear was almost cartoonishly intimidating.
He can't have the body, Shrader thought. "You can't have the body," Shrader said.
"The hell I can't," boomed Bear's voice.
This ends with him taking the body, but he can't have it. "It's my kill, and I intend to be paid for it."
"That wasn't the plan, little Fox. You were supposed to hold him," Bear said.
"He wouldn't be held," Shrader said. "And the contract is very clear."
"The contract is a piece of paper," said Bear. "And what's paper among men?"
Shrader glanced at the shining trail of blood on the stage. I can't change the scene, he thought. The problem wasn't with Bear, but with Marcus. If anyone else in this sorry excuse for a cast had played Bear, it wouldn't have mattered. But save Shrader and Beatrice, Marcus was the only professional in the bunch. If Shrader started changing the scene, if he added dialogue, Marcus would be professional. He'd say the scene's pivotal line and exit as quickly as possible to minimize the damage. Exit with the body.
"You can't. Have. The body," Fox said.
"You're trying my patience," Bear said. "Maybe you think you're old enough you don't have to listen to your betters."
I'm trapped, Shrader thought. I'm trapped in this horrible, stupid, third-rate play, and the only way I'll get out is in manacles, and at my age I'll die in prison, and I knew my career was over ten years ago, but I had to go on because I'd never BEEN anybody. He was shaking. And it's NOT MURDER!, he thought. Not in real life.
With that, and with all all of the frustration and adrenaline and chutzpah he could muster, Shrader clocked Bear in the jaw right where it curved up to meet the ear. Many in the audience gasped audibly. One shot. One chance to get out of here a free man. If Bear fell, he could finish the scene -- finish the show -- without anyone else ever touching James. But Bear did not fall. Instead, he slowly turned his head back to Shrader and blinked. Shrader's mouth fell open. Bear inhaled deeply, leaned forward, and laughed.
Marcus Heberg, the large, youg, studious, and consummate professional actor made the strongest choice he could think of and committed his whole body to it. He laughed uproariously. He laughed like a man who had just discovered all of humour. Something buzzed silently in Shraders pocket. Bear -- still laughing -- swept a long arm out and motioned toward the body. Shrader walked quickly over to it, bent and lifted James in a fireman's carry, careful not to burst the bag. He walked off the stage, and into the darkness. He walked to the back wall where the actors' sofa sat. He pulled it forward with one foot, deposited James behind it, and pushed it back again. Then he hurried back onstage. Bear was still laughing when he arrived. He looked at Shrader -- who was covered in blood -- chuckled twice more, and hit him on the side of the head with his open palm. Shrader fell to the stage, and -- laughing still -- Bear exited.
Shrader dragged himself up, and slumped once more into the downstage chair. He rubbed his temple. He was supposed to light another cigarette once Bear left, but instead he retrieved the iPhone. It had a message. "Re: Me. You. Airplane." Still rubbing his head, he thumbed the screen. The message was one word: "Darling."
The rest of the show was a dream, a waking dream. Shrader gave the last best performance of his life. He infused every word with his very soul. The mediocre script, and lackluster supporting cast seemed to absorb his energy. The audience seemed rivited. It was the perfect night. And as the lights went down the final time, and the audience cheered, Shrader bid farewell to theatre, and finally escaped the stage. Beatrice stood in the wings. She'd changed out of costume, and was holding Shrader's gym bag. Out of those glasses and makeup, she was radiantly beautiful. He caught her wrist and hurried her to the back door near the couch. Neither of them looked at it. The cab was waiting out back just as he had planned, and they sped away to the airport.
"This is so romantic," was the only thing Beatrice said. Shrader struggled to change shirts in the taxi. Even if no one discovered the body before their flight took off, there wasn't any way he could get through airport security looking like he was covered in blood. Actually covered in blood, he corrected himself.
He couldn't believe how easy it was. Print tickets at the booth. Find the terminal. Board the plane. Two for Mexico. His career was over. His life had changed irrevocably. But he had a beautiful, sophisticated woman of his own age and experience, and before them lay an adventure that could go on forever. Once the plane started toward its runway, he finally felt safe enough to speak. "I can't believe you came with me," he said.
"How could I not?" she asked. "You're my hero."
"I didn't mean it," he said. "It was a dirty thing, and I didn't mean to do it."
"What are you talking about?" she asked. "I remember hearing about you doing the exact same thing to Marty MacCullen in 1982."
"I've never done anything like this," he said, taken aback.
"Nonsense," she said. "Marty had been taking unoffered liberties with the leading lady of whatever little comedy you boys were in, so you took him out and drank him under the table just before performance. Just like tonight. I heard it straight from Miranda Deitrich."
"I never killed Marty MacCullen," he said.
"Oh but you did," she said. "He was fired the next day, and as far as I know never got into anything again."
"But James--"
"Oh, I'm not worried about James. He made it as far as he had to. I pity my understudy, though."
"Understudy?"
"Yours too. James will be hell to work with these few days we're absconding with each other. You know I've always wanted to do this with you? But I never imagined you'd be so bold!"
"Beatrice, did you look at James tonight?" he said.
"Well of course I looked at him," she said, smiling that same beguiling smile. "But heaven knows I can't see a thing in those glasses especially under those lights. Still I could smell the man a mile away." She wrinkled her nose, in a manner far too cute for her age. Then she leaned forward and whispered, "I wish he would just drop dead while we were gone. Do you ever think that sort of thing could happen?"
Shrader watched out the window. "No it couldn't happen," he said as the runway dropped away. "Not in real life."
Unbearable
Unbearable
"Did you smell that?" Sara wrinkled her nose.
"So what's new." Caleb's tone was placid. He reminded Sara of the bears that they worked with. Large, furry, and quick to move from stillness to anger. Not nearly as cuddly as outsiders seemed to think.
"It's worse when Bob is off," Sara said, nodding her head at the closed door of the assistant curator's office.
Caleb shrugged. "He needs a drink just to be normal, at this point. Anyway, I'm not his boss. As long as he's not endangering anyone else, I'm not getting involved."
The conversation stopped abruptly as Nick shuffled back into the food prep area, the miasma of alcohol almost visible around him.
"Hot wire's off," he said. "Sloth bears."
The three exchanged looks. Sloth bears were Bob's exhibit. They should have decided first thing this morning who was working them today, but they'd procrastinated. On his return, Bob would always find some detail that had been neglected and nag about it. No one was enthusiastic about being his next victim.
It's probably my turn, Sara thought, resigned. She picked up another handful of mealworms.
"I can do it. No problem," Nick said, waving a hand, before she could speak up.
Sara put down the log she was stuffing with mealworms for the cusimanses. She walked over to the display that indicated the state of the various exhibit hot wires. The system was intended to give the animals a shock if they tried to climb out over an exhibit wall. Designed to react when something touched it, it was finicky about any kind of intrusion. Sara saw that one of the wires wasn't off, exactly, but clicking on and off excitedly.
"It's the one up top," she said. "Probably there's a branch or something in stuck it again. You'll have to climb up that rock wall."
"No problem," Nick repeated. "I can do it. No problem."
Nick wandered toward the exit of the keeper kitchen. Sara and Caleb exchanged glances. Was he going to make it out the door?
Nick stopped. He stuck his hand out, and it made contact with the doorknob.
"No problem," he said, pulling the door open. "Back in a jiff."
"Better him than me," Caleb grunted as the door closed behind Nick.
"Do you think he can really climb the wall in that condition?" Sara wrinkled her brow. She felt a bit guilty, but not quite enough to run after him.
Caleb shrugged. "I don't think he can climb it sober. He'll stand there all morning throwing rocks at the branch hoping to knock it free. Beats working, right?"
Sara thought about picking up the phone. Was it worth calling their senior curator about Nick's drunken state? But they'd complained before. No one seemed to care that they had to follow closely behind Nick all day, making sure he'd closed shift doors and locked gates. The problem was, they did such a good job of it that no one realized there was anything wrong. But what choice did they have? These were dangerous animals. They couldn't risk letting one of them get out just so Nick would get fired for it.
"Yeah. You're probably right," she said. She loaded the mealworm-stuffed pieces of log into a bucket. "See you later."
Sara glanced over at the sloth bear exhibit as she walked past. She didn't see Nick, either up on the wall or throwing rocks from the ground. He'd better not be up on the wall, she realized – the bear was out. It wandered into view from behind a pile of logs, shaking its head back and forth. Foolish animal, she thought. Not one of her favorites.
She peered toward the back of the exhibit. Something didn't look right. She sighed. She'd just spent a long morning scrubbing the forest carnivore section, and was looking forward to lunch. She was in no mood to cover Nick's ass again.
She trudged over to the exhibit without enthusiasm. As she'd suspected, the shift door to the back holding area was ajar. Not just ajar, but half open. The bear was supposed to be closed out during the day. If he had access to his holding area all day, they had trouble getting him to come in for the night. If the bear decided to mess with the door, it would be easy for him to push it the rest of the way open. In fact, he probably wouldn't have to bother. He could squeeze through that opening if -
Suddenly she had a worse thought. Was Nick drunk enough to leave the door that way while he was working back there?
Sara started to run. She pulled her keys out of her pocket as she approached the door to the service area. Her hand trembled as she tried to fit the key in the lock. It seemed like forever before the door opened and she pushed it open, so hard that she almost fell through the entrance.
"Nick?" she called out as she rushed toward the holding cage.
The light was dim. That ought to mean he wasn't back here working. But this was no time to waste time thinking. She pushed the shift door shut, hard.
Now she could relax. Her heart started to slow.
"Nick," she called again.
She turned on the light. There was no one in the service area. And no one lying there, mauled, in the shift cage.
It smelled like no one had cleaned yet, in fact. Obviously all Nick had done was pop in and let the bear out. And then not even closed the door properly behind him. She looked around. Her eyes lit on the panel of switches on the far wall. Nick hadn't turned the hot wire back on either, she saw. She walked across the room and flipped it back on.
Her concern had turned to annoyance now. I'm going to give him a piece of my mind, she thought. Giving me a scare like that. And what had he been doing all morning that he hadn't gotten around to cleaning here? If she or Caleb ended up having to do it, she was going to be furious.
Not that anyone would care, she thought, scowling. She turned out the light and slammed the door behind her.
It was nearly the end of the day. Caleb, carrying a clipboard, opened the animal fridge. He stuck his head inside and started making marks on the order form.
Sara was cleaning the kitchen. She'd rather clean than do the inventory and ordering any day. She hadn't become an animal keeper to spend her time doing paperwork.
An incomprehensible sound came from the depths of the fridge.
"I'm sorry?" Sara called.
"Eeniglaidly?" With Caleb's voice still muffled by the refrigerator, Sara couldn't make out any more than that. She put down her sponge and walked over to him.
"Sorry, what?"
Caleb's shaggy, bearded head emerged from the chilly depths. "Sorry. I said, have you seen Nick lately? Isn't this the sloth bear pan?" he pointed.
"Yeah. No. I haven't seen him since this morning actually. Not that I've looked for him, I was so angry after that thing with the sloth bear shift door."
Caleb nodded. Nick hadn't been around for lunch, either, or they wouldn't have been able to spend the whole break complaining about him. Caleb pulled out his radio.
"Caleb to Nick, lower bears."
They waited. There was no reply. He repeated the call, with the same result.
"He didn't – oh, he couldn't have gone home early, could he?" Sara said.
Caleb's face grew dark. Sara was reminded of how she'd often thought she wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of a shift door with Caleb if he got really angry. She watched as he stomped across the keeper area to the small office and vanished inside.
He reappeared after a moment. "No, his radio hasn't been put away. He must still be here."
"And ignoring his radio," Sara whined. It was such a good excuse, pretending you'd bumped up against something, accidentally turned your radio down. It happened for real often enough to be plausible. And such a perfect way to avoid someone who was trying to give you work to do.
Caleb shook his head. "I've had just about enough of this."
Sara nodded. "Between ignoring the radio, and giving me that scare at the sloth bear this morning, and not feeding – "
She stopped. "I didn't go into the holding cage," she said.
They looked at each other, both thinking of the covered den area in the bear's holding cage. Thinking, that was where he liked to drag his last bits of food, to eat in private.
"You don't think...." Sara began.
"He's probably just passed out in one of his other exhibits." Caleb sighed heavily. "Let's go look. Not that I care if he sleeps it off behind the grizzlies overnight, but who knows what else he hasn't gotten done today?"
"I guess. You take the grizzlies, I'll do the rest?" The grizzlies were the farthest walk away, so that was a fair division.
Caleb nodded. He took the sloth bear pan out of the fridge. "I'll feed this guy afterwards. Someone has to do it."
Sara nodded, her lips pursed, as they headed out the door.
Nick wasn't behind the beaver exhibit. Sara had run out of places to look. She unclipped her radio from her belt.
"Sara to Caleb."
"Go ahead."
"Any luck?" She didn't really think so, or he'd have called, but you never know. Maybe she'd missed it. Like Nick was always claiming.
"No. You?"
"No."
She hesitated. Nick couldn't really be dead or dying in the sloth bear holding cave, could he? That was crazy. Caleb would have had them go there first, if he'd thought that was really a possibility.
"Did you feed the sloth bear yet?" she continued.
"I'm just headed there now."
"I'll meet you."
"Ten-four."
Sara trotted toward the sloth bears. She couldn't decide whether to be concerned or angry. If Nick was fine, just slacking off somewhere, and they'd wasted all this time looking for him...
Caleb was just walking up to the exhibit as she arrived. Sara found herself scanning the enclosure. She told herself it was stupid, there's certainly no way he's been lying in there all day without anyone noticing. There've been hundreds of people walking by, she thought, as she was jostled by a woman pushing a huge stroller full of babies and cupholders.
But in back was different. She felt nervous as Caleb unlocked the door and she followed him in.
Caleb checked the shift door to make sure it was safe for him to go into the holding cage. It was solidly closed, as Sara had left it. He unlocked the cage door and picked up the pan of food he'd left on the floor behind him. The food was supposed to be spread around the exhibit for enrichment. Nick should have done it, of course. But now that it was so late, they didn't have time.
On the bright side, Sara thought, it would make it easy to bring the bear in for the night. She tried to convince herself that that was all there was to worry about as Caleb, inside the cage, bent over and looked into the den.
She felt all the tension go out of her body as Caleb just set down the pan and turned away. No reaction, like everything in there was normal. The urge to get mad at Nick resurfaced. It's not like I even like him, she thought, or the bear, that much. But the idea of one of the animals hurting or killing a keeper – it was everyone's worst nightmare. Even if it was the keeper's own drunken fault.
Caleb left the cage, closed and locked it behind him. He opened the shift door and rattled it, as they did to tell the bear it was time to come in. It didn't always work so well for the other keepers as it did for Bob. But the bear was hungry, and after only a moment he stuck his head through the door, lifting his snout, smelling. Catching a whiff of something edible, he hurried into his den, and Caleb closed the shift door behind him.
Sara's worry had turned fully to anger now. "So, no Nick," she said, as the two keepers watched the bear vacuum the pan clean. Worth waiting for, he seemed to think. Food delivered on a silver platter, instead of having to hunt for it through the exhibit. He looked over at them as if to indicate his approval. Why didn't they do more of this sort of thing?
"I say the heck with him," Caleb said.
She shook her head, disgusted. "The shift door was half open. The hot wire – he hadn't even turned that back on, and that's what he'd come out here to deal with. He's done nothing, and where's he disappeared to?"
"The hot wire?" Caleb said. He seemed suddenly interested.
"Yes. He'd switched it off to work on getting the obstruction off it, obviously. But he never turned it back on."
Caleb got a funny look on his face. Suddenly, without a word, he turned and walked quickly out the service area door.
"Caleb?" Sara called, trotting after him, surprised.
Outside, he was already in the exhibit, the heavy metal door left unlocked and wide open behind him, and was climbing up the wall to the top hotwire. Sara hurried in and closed the door behind her. She stood at the bottom of the wall where Caleb was now looking over the far side, his face oddly pale.
"Caleb? What's wrong?"
He didn't reply. She called again, and again, strangely, he didn't respond.
There was nothing else to do. She climbed up the wall after him, quicker than she'd ever climbed it before. She wasn't sure she wanted to see what he was looking at.
She reached the top and looked over, as Caleb was. Nick was lying on the ground at the bottom of the outside of the wall. Even at this distance, Sara and Caleb could recognize death. It was part of their job. They had no doubt.
Sara felt a moment of guilt. If she'd hunted for Nick earlier, before lunch, would it have made a difference? She considered the angle of his neck. No, she thought. It wouldn't have mattered.
Caleb took out his radio and called the zoo police. She looked over at him. His face had regained its color and his voice had sounded perfectly controlled.
The police responded. Caleb gave them the location, not revealing over the radio exactly what the problem was. There was no point in causing a ruckus.
He clipped the radio back on his belt. Now he looked directly at Sara for the first time.
He shrugged. "Well, that problem's solved." Then he began to climb down the wall without waiting for a reply.
"Did you smell that?" Sara wrinkled her nose.
"So what's new." Caleb's tone was placid. He reminded Sara of the bears that they worked with. Large, furry, and quick to move from stillness to anger. Not nearly as cuddly as outsiders seemed to think.
"It's worse when Bob is off," Sara said, nodding her head at the closed door of the assistant curator's office.
Caleb shrugged. "He needs a drink just to be normal, at this point. Anyway, I'm not his boss. As long as he's not endangering anyone else, I'm not getting involved."
The conversation stopped abruptly as Nick shuffled back into the food prep area, the miasma of alcohol almost visible around him.
"Hot wire's off," he said. "Sloth bears."
The three exchanged looks. Sloth bears were Bob's exhibit. They should have decided first thing this morning who was working them today, but they'd procrastinated. On his return, Bob would always find some detail that had been neglected and nag about it. No one was enthusiastic about being his next victim.
It's probably my turn, Sara thought, resigned. She picked up another handful of mealworms.
"I can do it. No problem," Nick said, waving a hand, before she could speak up.
Sara put down the log she was stuffing with mealworms for the cusimanses. She walked over to the display that indicated the state of the various exhibit hot wires. The system was intended to give the animals a shock if they tried to climb out over an exhibit wall. Designed to react when something touched it, it was finicky about any kind of intrusion. Sara saw that one of the wires wasn't off, exactly, but clicking on and off excitedly.
"It's the one up top," she said. "Probably there's a branch or something in stuck it again. You'll have to climb up that rock wall."
"No problem," Nick repeated. "I can do it. No problem."
Nick wandered toward the exit of the keeper kitchen. Sara and Caleb exchanged glances. Was he going to make it out the door?
Nick stopped. He stuck his hand out, and it made contact with the doorknob.
"No problem," he said, pulling the door open. "Back in a jiff."
"Better him than me," Caleb grunted as the door closed behind Nick.
"Do you think he can really climb the wall in that condition?" Sara wrinkled her brow. She felt a bit guilty, but not quite enough to run after him.
Caleb shrugged. "I don't think he can climb it sober. He'll stand there all morning throwing rocks at the branch hoping to knock it free. Beats working, right?"
Sara thought about picking up the phone. Was it worth calling their senior curator about Nick's drunken state? But they'd complained before. No one seemed to care that they had to follow closely behind Nick all day, making sure he'd closed shift doors and locked gates. The problem was, they did such a good job of it that no one realized there was anything wrong. But what choice did they have? These were dangerous animals. They couldn't risk letting one of them get out just so Nick would get fired for it.
"Yeah. You're probably right," she said. She loaded the mealworm-stuffed pieces of log into a bucket. "See you later."
Sara glanced over at the sloth bear exhibit as she walked past. She didn't see Nick, either up on the wall or throwing rocks from the ground. He'd better not be up on the wall, she realized – the bear was out. It wandered into view from behind a pile of logs, shaking its head back and forth. Foolish animal, she thought. Not one of her favorites.
She peered toward the back of the exhibit. Something didn't look right. She sighed. She'd just spent a long morning scrubbing the forest carnivore section, and was looking forward to lunch. She was in no mood to cover Nick's ass again.
She trudged over to the exhibit without enthusiasm. As she'd suspected, the shift door to the back holding area was ajar. Not just ajar, but half open. The bear was supposed to be closed out during the day. If he had access to his holding area all day, they had trouble getting him to come in for the night. If the bear decided to mess with the door, it would be easy for him to push it the rest of the way open. In fact, he probably wouldn't have to bother. He could squeeze through that opening if -
Suddenly she had a worse thought. Was Nick drunk enough to leave the door that way while he was working back there?
Sara started to run. She pulled her keys out of her pocket as she approached the door to the service area. Her hand trembled as she tried to fit the key in the lock. It seemed like forever before the door opened and she pushed it open, so hard that she almost fell through the entrance.
"Nick?" she called out as she rushed toward the holding cage.
The light was dim. That ought to mean he wasn't back here working. But this was no time to waste time thinking. She pushed the shift door shut, hard.
Now she could relax. Her heart started to slow.
"Nick," she called again.
She turned on the light. There was no one in the service area. And no one lying there, mauled, in the shift cage.
It smelled like no one had cleaned yet, in fact. Obviously all Nick had done was pop in and let the bear out. And then not even closed the door properly behind him. She looked around. Her eyes lit on the panel of switches on the far wall. Nick hadn't turned the hot wire back on either, she saw. She walked across the room and flipped it back on.
Her concern had turned to annoyance now. I'm going to give him a piece of my mind, she thought. Giving me a scare like that. And what had he been doing all morning that he hadn't gotten around to cleaning here? If she or Caleb ended up having to do it, she was going to be furious.
Not that anyone would care, she thought, scowling. She turned out the light and slammed the door behind her.
It was nearly the end of the day. Caleb, carrying a clipboard, opened the animal fridge. He stuck his head inside and started making marks on the order form.
Sara was cleaning the kitchen. She'd rather clean than do the inventory and ordering any day. She hadn't become an animal keeper to spend her time doing paperwork.
An incomprehensible sound came from the depths of the fridge.
"I'm sorry?" Sara called.
"Eeniglaidly?" With Caleb's voice still muffled by the refrigerator, Sara couldn't make out any more than that. She put down her sponge and walked over to him.
"Sorry, what?"
Caleb's shaggy, bearded head emerged from the chilly depths. "Sorry. I said, have you seen Nick lately? Isn't this the sloth bear pan?" he pointed.
"Yeah. No. I haven't seen him since this morning actually. Not that I've looked for him, I was so angry after that thing with the sloth bear shift door."
Caleb nodded. Nick hadn't been around for lunch, either, or they wouldn't have been able to spend the whole break complaining about him. Caleb pulled out his radio.
"Caleb to Nick, lower bears."
They waited. There was no reply. He repeated the call, with the same result.
"He didn't – oh, he couldn't have gone home early, could he?" Sara said.
Caleb's face grew dark. Sara was reminded of how she'd often thought she wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of a shift door with Caleb if he got really angry. She watched as he stomped across the keeper area to the small office and vanished inside.
He reappeared after a moment. "No, his radio hasn't been put away. He must still be here."
"And ignoring his radio," Sara whined. It was such a good excuse, pretending you'd bumped up against something, accidentally turned your radio down. It happened for real often enough to be plausible. And such a perfect way to avoid someone who was trying to give you work to do.
Caleb shook his head. "I've had just about enough of this."
Sara nodded. "Between ignoring the radio, and giving me that scare at the sloth bear this morning, and not feeding – "
She stopped. "I didn't go into the holding cage," she said.
They looked at each other, both thinking of the covered den area in the bear's holding cage. Thinking, that was where he liked to drag his last bits of food, to eat in private.
"You don't think...." Sara began.
"He's probably just passed out in one of his other exhibits." Caleb sighed heavily. "Let's go look. Not that I care if he sleeps it off behind the grizzlies overnight, but who knows what else he hasn't gotten done today?"
"I guess. You take the grizzlies, I'll do the rest?" The grizzlies were the farthest walk away, so that was a fair division.
Caleb nodded. He took the sloth bear pan out of the fridge. "I'll feed this guy afterwards. Someone has to do it."
Sara nodded, her lips pursed, as they headed out the door.
Nick wasn't behind the beaver exhibit. Sara had run out of places to look. She unclipped her radio from her belt.
"Sara to Caleb."
"Go ahead."
"Any luck?" She didn't really think so, or he'd have called, but you never know. Maybe she'd missed it. Like Nick was always claiming.
"No. You?"
"No."
She hesitated. Nick couldn't really be dead or dying in the sloth bear holding cave, could he? That was crazy. Caleb would have had them go there first, if he'd thought that was really a possibility.
"Did you feed the sloth bear yet?" she continued.
"I'm just headed there now."
"I'll meet you."
"Ten-four."
Sara trotted toward the sloth bears. She couldn't decide whether to be concerned or angry. If Nick was fine, just slacking off somewhere, and they'd wasted all this time looking for him...
Caleb was just walking up to the exhibit as she arrived. Sara found herself scanning the enclosure. She told herself it was stupid, there's certainly no way he's been lying in there all day without anyone noticing. There've been hundreds of people walking by, she thought, as she was jostled by a woman pushing a huge stroller full of babies and cupholders.
But in back was different. She felt nervous as Caleb unlocked the door and she followed him in.
Caleb checked the shift door to make sure it was safe for him to go into the holding cage. It was solidly closed, as Sara had left it. He unlocked the cage door and picked up the pan of food he'd left on the floor behind him. The food was supposed to be spread around the exhibit for enrichment. Nick should have done it, of course. But now that it was so late, they didn't have time.
On the bright side, Sara thought, it would make it easy to bring the bear in for the night. She tried to convince herself that that was all there was to worry about as Caleb, inside the cage, bent over and looked into the den.
She felt all the tension go out of her body as Caleb just set down the pan and turned away. No reaction, like everything in there was normal. The urge to get mad at Nick resurfaced. It's not like I even like him, she thought, or the bear, that much. But the idea of one of the animals hurting or killing a keeper – it was everyone's worst nightmare. Even if it was the keeper's own drunken fault.
Caleb left the cage, closed and locked it behind him. He opened the shift door and rattled it, as they did to tell the bear it was time to come in. It didn't always work so well for the other keepers as it did for Bob. But the bear was hungry, and after only a moment he stuck his head through the door, lifting his snout, smelling. Catching a whiff of something edible, he hurried into his den, and Caleb closed the shift door behind him.
Sara's worry had turned fully to anger now. "So, no Nick," she said, as the two keepers watched the bear vacuum the pan clean. Worth waiting for, he seemed to think. Food delivered on a silver platter, instead of having to hunt for it through the exhibit. He looked over at them as if to indicate his approval. Why didn't they do more of this sort of thing?
"I say the heck with him," Caleb said.
She shook her head, disgusted. "The shift door was half open. The hot wire – he hadn't even turned that back on, and that's what he'd come out here to deal with. He's done nothing, and where's he disappeared to?"
"The hot wire?" Caleb said. He seemed suddenly interested.
"Yes. He'd switched it off to work on getting the obstruction off it, obviously. But he never turned it back on."
Caleb got a funny look on his face. Suddenly, without a word, he turned and walked quickly out the service area door.
"Caleb?" Sara called, trotting after him, surprised.
Outside, he was already in the exhibit, the heavy metal door left unlocked and wide open behind him, and was climbing up the wall to the top hotwire. Sara hurried in and closed the door behind her. She stood at the bottom of the wall where Caleb was now looking over the far side, his face oddly pale.
"Caleb? What's wrong?"
He didn't reply. She called again, and again, strangely, he didn't respond.
There was nothing else to do. She climbed up the wall after him, quicker than she'd ever climbed it before. She wasn't sure she wanted to see what he was looking at.
She reached the top and looked over, as Caleb was. Nick was lying on the ground at the bottom of the outside of the wall. Even at this distance, Sara and Caleb could recognize death. It was part of their job. They had no doubt.
Sara felt a moment of guilt. If she'd hunted for Nick earlier, before lunch, would it have made a difference? She considered the angle of his neck. No, she thought. It wouldn't have mattered.
Caleb took out his radio and called the zoo police. She looked over at him. His face had regained its color and his voice had sounded perfectly controlled.
The police responded. Caleb gave them the location, not revealing over the radio exactly what the problem was. There was no point in causing a ruckus.
He clipped the radio back on his belt. Now he looked directly at Sara for the first time.
He shrugged. "Well, that problem's solved." Then he began to climb down the wall without waiting for a reply.
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