Brief Pose

by Wesley McCraw

  “Eric, there’s no one there. You can relax.”

  I sit and drop the camera on my bed. “I’m going to need your help.”

  “You really are desperate if you think I’m the dependable one.”

  Despite the horror of knowing this could be happening worldwide, not being the only one affected has its upsides. None of us are alone in this.

  The first section of “The Archive” consists entirely of footage shot by Bram, the eighteen-year-old activist. The majority documents protesters outside Brief Pose. The remaining video takes place inside Clara Powers’s townhouse.

  Clara, the mastermind behind the protests, talks with a room full of activists about her future plans. The footage is rough and mostly out of context. Johan Montoya, Jennifer Lu, Austin Chu, Ivy Nguyen, and Angeline Wu are here, in some footage just listening, other times making protest signs or texting on their phones.

  Clara gives speeches filled with liberal anti-capitalist rhetoric. She is of the opinion that taking down capitalism will solve all of America’s problems. Bram mostly films from the back of the room. The mike on his camera isn’t sensitive enough to capture much of what she’s saying. It’s clear though that Clara has organized these protests to create chaos and wants to recruit as many people as possible into her anarchist collective.

  Often, instead of the camera focusing on the meeting, the shot focuses on Abigail, the teen girl who confronted Eric in front of Brief Pose. It seems Bram has a crush on her and his reasons for filming the meetings aren’t all about revolution.

  A new member, Riley Michalak, joins the last meeting. In the footage, Riley doesn’t do anything but listen, but he is friends with most of the people at Brief Pose, so his presence is significant.

  At the end of the last meeting, Clara leads Bram upstairs. A door opens to reveal her son strapped to a bed. She removes a rag from his mouth, and he shouts in fake Latin as if possessed by a demon that skipped Dead Language 101. Clara stuffs the rag back in his mouth to stop the gibberish and snarling.

  She mutters, “My poor baby, my poor baby boy.” She clearly thinks she can use her son’s condition (real or not) to get sympathy for her radical agenda.

  The shot pans and zooms to a close-up on her face. Crocodile tears wet her cheeks. “I’ve tried everything. What are we gonna do? No one wants to listen.” This is the last shot of the first section of “The Archive.” It leaves the viewer with an unpleasant impression.

  None of these meetings at Clara’s house are part of the main documentary, though it’s not hard to see why. It’s possible there wasn’t enough coherent video to form a clear narrative, but more likely, no one thought Clara was a sympathetic character. She’s loud and, frankly, bitchy, ordering everyone around without tact or grace. When she isn’t overly emotional over her son, she’s yelling about the evils of corporations. Her anger is ugly, and if she wasn’t so worked up all the time, she might come across as a nice lady. Is it any surprise her husband left her, years before, for his dental assistant? (Sartain, 120-121)

  The address on the flyer is the address of a cute brownstone townhouse that looks the same as the rest of the townhouses along the street. It’s not the revolutionary headquarters I had imagined.

  I knock.

  “Clara Powers?” I call out.

  The door opens. Clara, dressed in slacks and a blouse, looks at me with recognition. “You work at Brief Pose.”

  “That’s right. Can I come in?”

  She steps aside. I walk into her living room, not sure if I should sit somewhere or remain standing.

  “Pardon the mess.” Besides the paint, brushes, and protest signs piled in the corner on a plastic sheet, this is the home of a woman who likes to keep things immaculate. Tasteful artwork hangs on the walls. She doesn’t seem to have a TV. The space is probably four times larger than my apartment.

  “Where are all the other protesters?”

  “I sent them home. Why are you here?”

  “I need your help.”

  “With what? I thought you people didn’t believe us.”

  “‘You people?’”

  “Brief Pose released an official statement: They said we’re all suffering from mental illness, that we’re conspiracy nuts. We just want an investigation. How can there be scientific proof if no one is doing the science? I’ve talked to hundreds of people online. It’s not just my son. They all have compulsions to buy BP clothing. Not just any brand. It has to be BP.”

  “Did your son buy the catalogs?”

  “I found a whole pile in his room. But I think I got rid of most of them. Why?”

  “It’s not the clothes. It’s the catalog. If he still has any, you need to get rid of them right now.”

  I follow her up to her son’s room on the second floor. He sleeps tied to his bed. I’m sure she has a good reason for tying him up, but on its face, it looks like abuse.

  She opens his closet. She looks under some blankets and clothing. “No,” she says in despair.

  “What?” I whisper.

  She grabs a stack of catalogs. “Could you help me with these?”

  I take an armful; she takes an armful, and we throw them into the trash downstairs in the kitchen. All the while, I try to breathe in as little as possible.

  “He sleeps most of the time.”

  I nod.

  She ties the plastic bag, and I help her take it out to the curb, making sure the heavy catalogs don’t rip out the bottom.

  Oak trees that I’m sure look beautiful in the springtime line the quiet street. Two kids play hopscotch despite the cold.

  “Don’t blame yourself,” I tell her. “You didn’t know.”

  “At least they recalled them.”

  “We got a new shipment. The summer edition.”

  “Are they like these?”

  “I think they’ve affected everyone at my store. We need to figure out a game plan. It’s not over. Not by a long shot.”

  She hugs herself. She doesn’t have a coat. “I’ve been doing everything I can. I’ve been writing emails and organizing protests.” She looks up at her son’s window. “He’s gone to countless doctors. They can’t do anything. I don’t know what else I can do? No one wants to listen. He’ll get better now that he’s not being exposed, right?”

  I shrug.

  We should probably go back inside, but I don’t want to tell her what to do. Maybe she just needs a break from her house. She continues to hug herself and shiver. “Have you seen? All across the country, college kids are having nervous breakdowns and committing suicide. They’re smashing in store fronts. Setting fires. The media is blaming it on video games. Video games! I’ve contacted newspapers and radio station, all the TV news outlets; no one will believe that has anything to do with Brief Pose. The one story I got was about how I’m a radical socialist trying to recruit children into my extremist anarchist cult. What a joke! How can people believe something like that?

  “An activist group in Ohio I’ve been communicating with are organizing a protest at BP’s home office, but I can’t leave my son for that long. They’re going to try and talk to Weber and get some answers. Hopefully, they’ll at least get some media attention, but it doesn’t seem likely. What can we really do?”

  “When are they doing it? The protest, I mean.”

  “This Friday. Why?”

  “Because he won’t be in Ohio. He’ll be at my store.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  An Apple Hanging from a Tree

  “This many people breaks fire code,” Marshall says.

  Victor, Adam, Riley, and Hunter sit or stand around my apartment. That makes six of us. I never imagined so many people here at once. With all of them and all the plants, claustrophobia encroaches. At least Santa is gone. At least I replaced him with real people, I hope.

  “This shouldn’t take long,” I say.

  This is the core team that will take down Brief Pose. I get out my new camcorder. And this will help us do it.


  I record each of them introducing themselves.

  The second section of “The Archive” gets into the heart of the matter. It starts with footage taken with a camera Eric received on his birthday two days previously. Even with little experience, he’s already better than Bram at holding the shot steady and capturing the moment. Eric puts more effort into composing artistic and varied shots. Instead of just trying to record what’s going on around him, he envisions a finished film.

  His first footage takes place in his apartment the day before Matthew Weber’s arrival. While not optimal, the image is sharper than what came before. The first clip is relatively short but provides a deeper understanding of the next day's footage.

  Much like Clara before him, Eric organizes a meeting in his apartment. It starts with introductions.

  “My name is Adam. What should I say?” Adam has a rugby ball and an intense demeanor, similar to someone on stimulants. Possibly he’s on speed, but his condition is more likely caused by prolonged exposure to the pheromone.

  “Just say something about yourself and how you know me,” Eric says from behind the camera.

  “Okay-okay. My name is Adam. I play rugby for the Panthers. Go Panthers! Um. I work with Eric. Hey man, how long will this take? I’m missing practice.”

  “Good enough.”

  The camera turns to Victor, a man in his late twenties and perhaps the only person in the room who hasn’t been exposed to the pheromone.

  “What’s this about?” Victor doesn’t look comfortable and glances around as if keeping an eye on the exit. Adam makes him particularly uncomfortable. “Is this about Brief Pose?”

  “We’ll explain everything. Right now, I just need you to introduce yourself.”

  Adam breaks in, a hand on Victor’s shoulder. “Oh and I just discovered I’m a polyamorist. I’m in a relationship with two hot chicks at work!” He shoves Victor’s shoulder and goes to get something to eat from the refrigerator. He says off screen, “We should’ve invited over some girls. This could have been a party!”

  Victor straightens his jacket. “I met Eric at the Outpost. It’s a coffee shop. We met through a mutual friend. She recently passed away. Loola Black. I’m a painter, and I do some mixed-media sculptures. Most of my work focuses on the degradation of the urban environment. That’s about it.”

  The camera focuses on Marshall, an older man in his late forties. He appears in much of Bram’s footage outside of Mermaid Coffee Co., but this is the first time Marshall is the focus of one of the shots. “You don’t have to film me. I’m real. You already know I’m real.”

  “Come on, Marshall.”

  He rolls his eyes in irritation. “Okay, fine. I met you outside — when you used to work at the coffee shop. We’re friends. I’m living here until I get back on my feet.”

  The camera turns to a handsome black man in his early twenties. “Hi. Name’s Hunter. Eric and I have been friends since he started coming into BP.”

  Adam interrupts through a mouthful of food. “And I’ve been seeing shadow men. That’s right! They’re fucking everywhere, man. They’re totally out to get me. No joke.”

  He does a jump kick and almost hits Hunter.

  “What’s he talking about?” Victor asks off camera as Hunter pushes Adam away. Adam pushes back. Hunter knocks into a potted plant.

  “Take it easy, you guys,” Eric says. “Say something about yourself, Hunter, so I can finish this up.”

  “I’m a country boy.” He flexes his bicep for the camera. “I’m trying to open my own vintage clothing store someday. Who knows? We’ll see.”

  Riley, wearing a fitted Marines t-shirt, leans in front of the camera. Apparently, he has been beside Eric this whole time.

  “Name’s Riley. I’m a war vet. I play rugby with Adam and Hunter. I recently found a group protesting BP. They opened my eyes, man. I’m here to build some bridges.”

  “That should do it.”

  The clip ends. There is no explanation why they taped the introductions and not the meeting. (Sartain, 140-142)

  We all huddle around the tiny viewfinder, and I play back the footage. It proves we’re not imagining each other the way I imagined Yuki.

  “Okay,” Victor says after we reach the end. “Now can you tell me what this is about?”

  Adam accidentally knocks over another plant. He tries to get the dirt back in the pot.

  “Let’s go into the bedroom. There’s more space in there.” The door is still padlocked, so we have to go through the window. I usher everyone besides Marshall out onto the fire escape. “It’s a dumb story.” I duck back into the apartment. It’s mostly still empty in here. Along with my snake plants and fichus, I sleep on an air mattress because I couldn’t fit my bed through the window. Supposedly snake plants produce more oxygen at night than in the day.

  As I watch the guys climb inside, I wonder if not inviting the girls was a mistake. Fiona is too unstable with her bug freak-outs, though now I realize Adam isn’t any better. Juliet is always studying and wouldn’t be free, but I should’ve at least asked her. Tara would have insisted on bringing JuanCarlos, who has enough on his plate with school and work and everything else.

  Since my episode in the coffee shop in front of JuanCarlos a few months ago, I’ve been pretending everything is okay. JuanCarlos was worried about Tara at the time, and I blew him off. Now Tara is going crazy, and to be honest, I don’t have the heart to talk to him about it. Can’t they just be happy? They saved the catalogs for me, for my birthday, because I didn’t say anything. I’ll include everyone once we have a plan. That way, it doesn’t look like I’ve been sitting on my hands this whole time.

  Adam taps a letter opener against his rugby ball. He must have gotten the opener from my junk drawer. What if he thinks he sees a shadow man and stabs one of us?

  Victor, losing patience, crosses his arms.

  I stare at my ficus and remove a dead leaf. Talking to people is becoming increasingly difficult. I haven’t been hallucinating since the Santa episode two days ago, at least as far as I know, but loneliness has settled into my chest like a bat in a cave. The urge to buy BP clothing has returned. My symptoms validate my fears about BP and the catalog, but backsliding sucks.

  “There's been a contamination,” I say. “Could you come to the meeting tonight at the store? Riley is helping us organize with the protesters.”

  Adam punctures his rugby ball with the letter opener. “Damn it!” He looks about ready to cry.

  I try to ignore him. “We’re hoping to band the BP employees and the protesters together. Matthew Weber is coming tomorrow.”

  “Who?”

  “The Brief Pose founder,” Riley explains. “He oversees everything. He’s coming to inspect the store. It’s our chance.”

  “Matthew will help us. You’ll see,” Hunter says, sounding like a fanboy. “That’s probably why he’s coming. To set things right.”

  “I guess we’ll see,” I say.

  “What kind of contamination?” Victor asks me. Somehow I’ve become the defacto expert.

  “We need people like you,” I say. “People who haven't been exposed.”

  “I don't know what's real anymore!” Adam cries out. He’s making everyone tense. I regret inviting him, but we can’t kick him out when he’s this unstable.

  “Is he joking?” Victor says.

  “I taped those introductions to make sure we’re all real. No, Adam’s not joking. You and Marshall are the only people I know that haven’t been exposed. And maybe Clara Powers. She’ll be helping Riley with the protestors.”

  Victor tilts his head to get me to look into his eyes. “You should contact the authorities.”

  “And tell them what?!” Adam yells.

  Startled, we all look at him. He’s about to punch someone. Riley goes to comfort him, but Adam shrugs him off.

  “I need some air.” He ducks out onto the fire escape.

  “Let him go.” Having him gone is a relief. “What c
ould we say that doesn’t sound crazy?” I look to the video camera in my hand. “This is the only way I can tell what’s real, but how long will that work? God! You think we’re crazy, don’t you.”

  Victor puts a hand on my shoulder. “Maybe, but I think you’re right about the catalog. Eric, my sister isn't getting better. She had a horde of those catalogs, and piles of BP clothing. There was this news report about people who were obsessed with Brief Pose.”

  “I saw.”

  “They killed people. Some committed suicide. I don’t know if it’s all connected, but we can’t just do nothing. I want to help. Whatever you need.”

  I don’t see Adam anymore on the fire escape. I should at least be able to hear the creaking of him moving around. Maybe he went back inside the main room.

  “Adam?” I say.

  I approach the window. The orange cord hangs taut from the railing. I step over the window sill, afraid to confirm what I already know. I look down over the railing.

  Adam hangs by the neck from the cord, his neck snapped. I drop my camera into a flowerpot and grasp at the cord, but I can’t do anything. It’s too late.

  I collapse onto the grate, grasp the vertical bars, and shake the railing. “We should’ve been watching him! We should have made sure he was okay!”

  Victor calls 911.

  I hug my legs, my forehead on my knees, and wait.

  The police question us. I sound unhinged, but they seem to think Adam’s death was a suicide, not a murder. “Sir, I’m gonna need you to calm down.” “We should have been watching him. He wasn’t well. I knew he was seeing things.” How crazy I sound, I’m surprised they don’t arrest me.

  Maybe I did hang him. No. Five other people corroborate my story. The police talk to me the longest. After all, it’s my apartment and my extension cord. There is a lot of waiting around. At least they don’t ask me to come down to the station.

  My landlord shows up in his robe.

  Once, I had a plumber come over to fix the toilet. It took forever, and I had to wait around like this. My landlord never reimbursed me even though I gave him a copy of the invoice.

  He talks with the police a bit and then stands around in the hall with me.