Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral

by Dustin Stevens

  “We doing this right here?” I ask, so excited I can barely hold it in.

  “Why not?” Quasi asks, sliding one of the miniature cigars out from the case and extending it to me.

  It feels small and fragile between my fingers as I stare down at it. There’s a decent chance that if my father ever saw me holding one of these, he would return from the grave to berate me.

  The taboo feeling of knowing that only adds to my eagerness.

  “You don’t care if it smells up your car?” I ask, watching as Quasi extracts one for himself.

  With moves that appear practiced, he slides it horizontally under his nose, smelling the length of it. He closes his eyes and seems to be bordering on ecstasy as he does so, prompting me to do the same.

  My first inhalation is too strong, tiny bits of tobacco pulled straight into my nose. Water pours from my eyes and my nostrils burn as I cough three times, the smell so potent it causes my head to spin for a moment.

  When I finally regain my bearings, Quasi is staring at me, his own cigarillo held a few inches from his face. He is amused, though to his credit, there is no laughter.

  “Would you like to do the honors?”

  A simple sniff almost wiped me out. I can’t imagine actually lighting the thing and taking a puff. I look at him, uncertain.

  “Experience,” he says, echoing the words Weinberg gave us just hours before.

  Any trepidation I have falls by the wayside. My features harden a bit as I stare at him before snatching the book of matches off his lap.

  It takes me three strikes against the sandpaper strip along the back before a blaze bursts forth, a whiff of sulfur filling the car. I place the Black & Mild between my lips and hold the flame to it, drawing in deep breaths of air, just the way I have seen it done on television before.

  The tip of the cigarillo glows bright a moment before the caustic taste of dark smoke fills my mouth. It passes down my throat and fills my lungs, burning the entire way.

  My body’s reaction is instantaneous and complete. I have never experienced misery like this before in my life.

  Smoke shoots from my nose and mouth as I cough one time after another so hard that tears begin to stream down my cheeks. Snot slides from my nostrils and touches my lips, my entire body aching as I choke on the acrid intrusion.

  Two feet away, I am vaguely aware of Quasi laughing at me, though I don’t have the air in my lungs to tell him to shut the hell up. All I can do is cough and pray this nightmare ends soon.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Friday, January 21st, 2015

  1:38 pm

  I am expecting some bit of reaction from Pearson, though I hear nothing. The sound of her tapping against a keyboard continues for a moment before coming to a stop.

  I wait, knowing a question is coming from her.

  We are just now entering the part of the story that is the most important. The origin aspect of my father’s passing is certainly a big inciting incident. What happens at the end is obviously a sweeping crescendo.

  But this middle portion, this is where the transition takes place. It, as much as anything else, will demarcate my legacy moving forward. People may remember the final acts or the crazy antics of Chaz D, but without this, they will never understand.

  “So that’s where it all began?” Pearson finally asks, most of her still hidden from view.

  There is no accusatory tone in her voice, no prodding one way or another.

  “Well,” I say, raising my eyebrows a touch, “I already told you where it really began. That was the night we started to go live though.”

  The crown of her head nods a bit.

  “Who would have thought the mighty Chaz D started in the parking lot of a 7-11.”

  I’m not sure if the comment is meant to be irreverent or a joke, but I laugh just the same.

  “Something like that.”

  “Whose idea was it to post online?”

  My eyes go unfocused as I stare at the back of her laptop. For a moment, I am back a few years in time, remembering how things played out.

  “Quasi’s,” I say, my vision still blurry, my voice far away.

  “That night, I had no idea he even had his phone out. To this day, the last thing I remember seeing is the match touching the tip of the cigarillo. After that, everything just kind of becomes a smoky haze. I remember my chest seizing, my lungs clenching tight. My eyes burned, my nose ran.”

  “Yeah,” Pearson inserts. “I’ve seen the footage. You looked pretty miserable.”

  “Miserable doesn’t begin to cover it,” I say.

  I pause for a moment, blinking, pulling myself back into the room.

  “Nobody ever told me you aren’t supposed to inhale a cigar. You’re supposed to fill your cheeks, enjoy the taste, and push it all back out.

  “Hell, I didn’t know that. I took the biggest, longest drags I could, just like I imagined James Buchanan would.”

  I wait again for the sound of Pearson chuckling at me, but nothing comes my way. If the tables were turned, I would almost certainly be laughing hysterically by now, but she has already proven herself far more professional than I could ever hope to be.

  A much better person as well, I’m sure.

  “I’m guessing your friend laughing hysterically didn’t help much,” she adds.

  A bit of a smile tugs at my lips, falling back into place just as fast.

  “I barely even knew he was laughing at the time. All I could hear was my own coughing.”

  As if sensing the subtle shift in my demeanor, Pearson leaves it alone, changing direction.

  “Why the cigarillos?” she asks. “If you’re going to do it, why not go get a Cuban cigar? Really do it right?”

  It is a fair and valid question, one I have asked myself in the time since, though I am still a bit surprised to hear it come from her. For all her various qualities and attributes I unearthed in my research, I remember none that would lead me to believe she is familiar with cigars.

  People can surprise, I guess.

  “Two reasons,” I say, tapping the index and middle finger of my right hand against the table for emphasis. “First, we only had about ten dollars between us. At that point, we were both extremely naïve and misguided, believing something as high end as a Cuban would cost us north of a hundred bucks.”

  A tiny sound is emitted from the other side of the table, what I assume is a stifled laugh.

  “Second, we were at a dilapidated little gas station on the edge of town. The only things they had were Marlboros or Black & Mild’s.”

  “And you guys weren’t about to go for a Marlboro?” she asks.

  “James Buchanan never would,” I say. “And, at the time, that was still the point.”

  The line sounds a bit canned, I confess, but it is the truth. At that point in time, we were still acting under the assumption that we were out collecting life experience. Once we were done, I would take it all back upstairs to my bedroom and funnel it into my work, propelling a strong character and a decent plot into the upper echelons of fiction.

  Looking back now, neither one of us had any idea how far off that notion was from what eventually became of our escapades.

  Or how fast those changes would occur.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sunday, February 26th, 2012

  12:17 pm

  “Charlie!”

  The issue of Sin City I am reading gets lowered down atop my face, blocking the overhead light from view. As it does, the antiseptic scent of my breath is refracted back into my face, the result of going through an entire bottle of mouthwash in the previous thirty-six hours.

  “Charlie!”

  A small groan escapes me as the book is tossed aside, landing on the bedspread beside me.

  “Yes, Ma?”

  The door bursts open before she can respond further, jerking my attention upward. Through it walks Quasi, his coat and shoes both still on. His cheeks are flushed from the cold and his glasses are f
ogged over.

  “I’m here,” he says, stepping inside and swinging the door closed behind him.

  Outside I hear my mother say something muffled that sounds like, “Never mind,” but I can’t be certain.

  “You’re here,” I say to Quasi, remaining flat on my back.

  My legs are crossed at the ankles as I lace my fingers behind my head, the front of my hooded sweatshirt riding up a few inches on my stomach.

  My voice conveys that I am less than thrilled to see him. The three calls I’ve missed from him and not bothered to return should have told him as much, though my tone leaves nothing to chance. Judging by his movements, he is either unaware or ignoring every signal I am trying to send him.

  “You have got to see this,” he says, tossing himself down in my desk chair.

  Using the heel of his foot, he pushes himself across the hard plastic to my laptop, popping the cover open and bringing it to life.

  “Sure, make yourself at home,” I say. “Can I take your coat for you?”

  For the first time since entering, he looks down to realize he is still wearing his outdoor gear. With great effort, he shrugs the puffy jacket off, letting it fall down around him, the sleeves draped over the back of the chair.

  “There you go. That better?”

  Those seem to be the words that finally get through to him, his entire body rotating in the chair to look at me.

  “Something wrong?”

  Most of my Friday night was spent in the bathroom, puking up pizza and soda and things I don’t remember ever having eaten. My skin, hair and clothes all stink and my breath still isn’t back to where it it’s supposed to be. I let all of this show on my face without verbalizing it.

  “No, what gave you that impression?” I ask, remaining in place on the bed while shaking my head.

  “Oh, just asking,” he replies, turning to face forward without another thought.

  The action, and his flippant tone, brings a surge of animosity within me, both hands swinging forward to roll me into a seated position.

  “You have got to see this,” he says, cutting off my outburst before it even begins.

  I glance at my right index finger, extended and ready to lash out at him, before lowering it into place.

  “What?” I snap.

  A fuzzy sound rolls from the speakers of my laptop as I scoot across to the edge of the bed. The plastic mat feels cold through my socks as my feet hit the floor.

  In front of me, Quasi rolls a few inches to the side and turns the computer, letting me see the video on the screen. At first, it is nothing but a cloudy image, a few random shapes moving about. After a moment, the haze lifts to reveal a person doubled over at the waist, their body convulsing in place.

  With time, the noise becomes clearer, a deep, guttural coughing. It matches in sync to the person on the screen, the bottom falling out of my stomach as I stare in horror at what I’m seeing.

  Myself, hacking to the point of hyperventilation.

  “What the hell is this?” I ask, my tone low, too stunned to muster even a bit of anger.

  “Dude,” Quasi says, his face split into an oversized smile as he scrolls down the webpage to reveal a title stretched across it in oversized block letters.

  Man Tries smoking for first time.

  I can feel a mix of dread and shock permeate through my body as I stare at the screen.

  “I put it on YouTube!” he practically shouts at me, his face glowing with self-satisfaction.

  So many thoughts course through my mind that I can’t seem to grab a single one. They are nothing more than ethereal threads racing past my consciousness, beckoning me to reach out, but refusing to be caught.

  Deep inside, I want to be furious at him, but right now I can’t muster the energy for it. I am instead fearful of my mother ever seeing this, of the people at Bob’s finding it and never letting me hear the end of it.

  “Why...why...” I stammer, watching myself cough and cry on the computer, the images searing themselves into my psyche.

  “Why would you do this? I’m going to be-“

  “Famous,” Quasi finishes, reaching out and clicking on the video, stopping it cold.

  The word just barely registers with me as I turn towards him, my mouth still agape. I want to ask what the hell he is talking about, though no sounds escape me.

  “Check it out,” Quasi says, pushing the screen a little lower.

  There, below the title in plain black letters, are the stats for the page.

  “I put this up at noon yesterday,” he announces, the same look of triumph still on his face. “Already, three hundred and twenty views!”

  As he speaks, he leans forward and slaps me on the thigh. He hits me harder than necessary, my skin stinging beneath the sweatpants, though I continue to sit in silence.

  “And fifty-seven of them liked it!” he adds, drawing my attention over to the screen.

  I have been on YouTube enough times to know where everything is located, my gaze moving straight for the small grey thumbs-up under the main title. Beside it is the number fifty-seven, a scant three having voted in the negative.

  All in the last twenty-four hours.

  “What? Why?” I ask, my head shaking from side to side as I try to comprehend what is going on in front of me.

  “Damned if I know,” Quasi says, “but they like you. Give this thing another week and who knows how many will see it.”

  “A week?” I ask, my eyes bulging a little. “No, we’re taking this down right now.”

  “Oh, no,” he says, smiling at me. “This is only the beginning.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  My faculties have returned to me somewhat, though the frozen image of myself amidst a cloud of smoke on the screen still sits uneasy with me. Despite having moved to the end of the bed, I can’t help but glance over at it every few seconds, wishing so much that it was gone.

  In a reversal of our usual roles, Quasi is now on his feet in front of me, wearing out the same path I have walked so many times. Both his hands are in front of him flouncing about in spastic motions, beads of sweat shining from his forehead.

  “Yeah,” he says, his usual slow cadence picked up a few beats. “I’ve been reading about it all morning. Apparently, it’s called platform building, and it’s what a lot of authors do these days.”

  I’m not sure which part of the story is the least believable, that he has been reading up on something called platform building, or that he has even been awake for more than an hour.

  “Really?” I say, letting my thoughts show in my voice. “Platform building?”

  “Platform building,” he says again, stopping just long enough to nod in affirmation. “I checked the numbers when I got up and saw we were up over three hundred views, so I started doing some research.”

  Again, I can’t help but be a bit skeptical.

  “You? Research?”

  “Well,” he says, a shy smile crossing his face, “I started typing stuff into Google and reading what came up.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “But it worked,” he says, resuming his gait across the room. “I ended up on a website called Writer’s Something-Or-Other and there were all these articles on there talking about platform building.”

  Already I can tell I don’t like where this is going, once more glancing over at the screen beside me. Every moment that video exists in the world is a possibility that someone I know will see it. The mere thought of willingly leaving it up, or even adding to it, is enough to bring about a wave of nausea on par with what I felt two nights ago.

  “I don’t like it,” I say. “I don’t like any of this. I tried going along with what Weinberg said, and it damn near killed me.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” Quasi snaps, waving a hand dismissively in my direction.

  The movement brings a flush of heat to my face but, again, he continues right on without acknowledging it.

  “It didn’t kill you, it was
n’t even a real cigar” he says. “Besides, it was worth it. Almost four hundred people that two days ago didn’t know you existed have now watched you online. Fifty-seven even liked you!”

  The points are somewhat valid, though I’m not about to concede that to him. My arms remain crossed as I watch him, a scowl stretched across my face.

  “So, I’m reading these articles,” Quasi continues, “and they’re talking about platforms, using social media to gain followers.”

  “Social media,” I snap, cutting him off. “Are you even listening to yourself? It’s bad enough you put this on YouTube to a bunch of strangers, but now you want us to start actively engaging people we know?”

  I’m so exasperated at this point that my breath is becoming ragged. The sweatshirt I am wearing feels hot as I stare at him, my entire being wanting to jump to my feet and square off with Quasi.

  Yet again, all this seems to be lost on him.

  “Not just people we know,” he replies, the smile returning. “So many more! I got to looking around on Twitter and stuff this morning. Some of these major authors have millions of followers. Can you imagine?”

  I am forced to glance over at the screen beside me again. There is no way I want another soul to see that, let alone millions.

  “You get that kind of fan base, get some love going on Facebook, Weinberg will have no choice but to sign you,” Quasi says, a look of supreme triumph on his face.

  I do not feel any of the same resolve.

  “This is what happens when you wake up too early, isn’t it?” I ask.

  The question does nothing to dampen his enthusiasm.

  “Don’t be foolish, this is the social media era. Justin Bieber, Charice, that new singer in Journey; all discovered because of YouTube. Why not you?”

  The question bounces around in my head for a few moments. I don’t like it, not even a little bit. The idea of making a fool of myself for internet acclaim leaves a taste worse than the Black & Mild’s.