Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral

by Dustin Stevens

  Like so many reporters that have tried their hand at true crime in the past, Carmen Pearson failed to realize what she was walking into when she agreed to this.

  To so many people, an evil act is just that – an evil act. There are a hundred bad clichés out there about someone wanting the end product while missing the entire middle. My young interviewer here has fallen victim to the same mistake. She has seen the videos and thought she had me pegged.

  What she actually had was Chaz D.

  “So, you did it, right?” she asks, forcing herself back to the task at hand.

  I can tell from her question and the tone she’s taken that her vigor is renewed, though I’m guessing this is from a deep-seated desire to finish and be gone from me as fast as possible.

  “I did,” I say, dipping the top of my head. “Twice, in fact.”

  The admission draws a sucking sound from across the room, her ability to withstand this beginning to crack.

  “Her nickname amongst friends was Anaconda Jonda, a well-earned designation derived from her ability to-“

  “Yeah, I got it,” Pearson snaps, cutting me off.

  A hint of a smile flares on my face at her attitude, though I say nothing.

  “Apparently, Pauley had told Rae I was an up-and-comer online that was swinging by the shop. Somehow that information was twisted into me being someone famous and relayed on to Jonda.”

  “At which point she ran right over for some camera time, too,” she says, her voice so openly hostile it is almost amusing.

  “That she did,” I concede, “and in my state, I fell right for it. Never once questioned a thing.”

  To my surprise, the computer is again shoved to the side, one quick movement from right to left in front of me. One moment I am staring at a plain grey piece of plastic, the next I am looking into the hardened gaze of two pale blue eyes.

  “Yeah, and where the hell was Quasi during all this?” she asks. “Filming it? Did he go behind the curtain with you guys, too? Recreate Deep Throat in the back of the tattoo parlor?”

  Energy is a good thing, but the negative vibe I am getting from Pearson is bordering on something else entirely. If I do not derail her soon, or at least nudge things back into a more civil direction, my entire plan here could be foiled.

  I wait a moment, hoping to see some tiny bit of concession in her eyes, but none arrives.

  “You have to understand,” I say, “on that day, we shot two videos; one was the tattoo, one was the after party. Those two combined brought us close to one hundred thousand hits over the next month.”

  If she is impressed at all by the number, she does nothing to show it.

  “So that makes everything alright?” she hisses, her eyes narrowed to just slits, her body lowering itself, poised just a few inches above the tabletop.

  “That possibly makes getting tattooed and having sex on camera okay?”

  Not once did we ever record anything that could be construed as pornographic. Doing so would have gotten us flagged, which would have hurt our business.

  I don’t bother to point this out, though. She knows exactly what made it to screen, she’s seen it all before. This is her moment to be dramatic, which I have anticipated for days now. My only hope is I can get her past this rough spot. After that, it becomes a headlong sprint to the finish line.

  “Have you ever heard of Phil Jackson?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow and looking up at her.

  A moment of incomprehension passes over her face before falling away with a shake of her head. It is quickly followed by one of resignation, her gaze settling on me.

  “No, why?”

  “Phil Jackson is one of the most successful coaches of all time. He coached the Michael Jordan Bulls and the Kobe Bryant Lakers. I assume you know-“

  “Yes,” she snaps, the same tension still present in her tone.

  Pushing out a slow breath, I raise my palms towards her, a sign that I meant no disrespect. Nowhere in my research did I see she had ever been in Chicago or Los Angeles, no indication she would be a sports fan.

  “After he retired the first time,” I say, “he wrote a book about winning all those championships and in there he talked about the Disease of More.”

  She glances to her screen as if wondering if she should be taking notes, though to my surprise remains in position in front of me.

  “The Disease of More,” I explain, “is something that happens the season after a team wins a championship. Suddenly, everybody on the team wants more minutes, more points, more rebounds, more money.”

  I fall silent, watching, waiting as she processes the information. It takes her several moments to do so, her face relaying every emotion in her body before she raises her gaze back to me.

  “Okay, and?”

  For the first time in quite a while, the venom in her voice has fallen away. There is a sliver of hope for me here, the explanation I am giving her drawing her journalistic curiosity back to the forefront.

  “You asked where Quasi was during all this,” I say, “as if he were some sort of enabler. That’s an unfair assessment to make. It’s easy to point this out now, but in the moment, we were both flying by the seat of our pants. He didn’t try to stop anything, but I damned sure didn’t either.”

  “The Disease of More,” she whispers, picking up where I am heading with this.

  “I didn’t know it then,” I say. “I never even heard the phrase until I read the book once I got here. Looking back though, it fit us perfectly.”

  She sits in silence a moment, attention focused on the table.

  “Like I said, that month, we got one hundred thousand hits on those two videos alone,” I say.

  I deliver the information without a trace of pride or braggadocio, merely relaying the facts.

  “Our Twitter and Facebook accounts bloomed overnight. Thousands and thousands of people were jumping onboard.”

  She remains frozen in place a moment before finally realizing what I just told her.

  “So it got worse? More people started showing up, wanting to be a part of things?”

  I lean forward a few inches, my nose directly in line with hers. Just eighteen inches separate the two sides, the closest we have been since the initial handshake.

  “Much worse, but not the way you think,” I say. “It wasn’t just that more people started piling on, it was that we actually started to believe I was Chaz D.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Saturday, May 5th, 2012

  2:48 pm

  “Hey, hey, this is your boy Chaz D coming to you from what should be a sick party out here at Pauley’s for Cinco de Mayo.”

  Three glasses of punch in, already I’m feeling a little bit tipsy. The massive sombrero perched atop my head sways as I speak, the uneven motion only heightening the effects of the alcohol.

  “Today, like most everyday here with us, promises to be epic!”

  Making both hands into finger guns, I point them at the camera and fire one at a time, each jumping up and down. A ridiculous grin is splashed across my face as the brim of the hat falls across my face, blocking Quasi from view.

  It doesn’t matter, though. We only need a few opening lines to get things off the ground. The rest of the day promises to take care of any other footage we need.

  “Cut!” Quasi yells, switching off the camera feed and lowering it to his side.

  In honor of the holiday, he has opted to wear an old serape he found in a box somewhere, the thing reeking of mothballs.

  I'm sure buried underneath it is that damn vest, though for the time being it is covered.

  “How’d it look?” I ask, pushing the sombrero back off my head, the string of it tugging against my throat. I leave it to slap against my shoulder blades as I take another pull of punch and wipe the back of my forearm across my face.

  “Great,” Quasi says without looking up, watching the playback on screen.

  “Yeah?” I ask, feeling the fog of punch begin to settle in.

&
nbsp; “Hell yeah,” Pauley says, jumping in before Quasi can respond.

  Coming out of nowhere, he slaps his body against mine, the force of it almost knocking me over. I stumble to the side a few steps to regain my bearings, any hostility I feel fading away as I see him standing before me.

  He is laughing, in his left hand a handle of tequila. In the midst of his chuckles he raises it to his lips and upends it, the pale liquid sloshing around inside.

  Laughter crosses my own features, beginning low and rolling into heavy guffaws. I can feel the string tugging on my neck as he walks forward and throws an arm around my shoulder.

  “I knew you’d been losing weight, but I didn’t think it was that bad,” he says, squeezing my arm a tiny bit. “You cut much more and you’re going to be a leaf on the breeze!”

  Unsure how to respond, I laugh again, taking another drink.

  In front of us, Pauley’s Parlor is in full swing, most of the shop already bursting with the usual cast. In the grass lot out to the side of the strip mall we’ve cordoned off a large patch with police caution tape. Inside the area are a few picnic tables that have been scraped together from various places, all of differing shapes and colors.

  Along the building is a grill already spitting out a steady stream of smoke. Beside it a DJ is just starting to get going for the afternoon.

  “Today is going to be legendary,” I say more to myself than him, watching as a carload of ladies unload and make their way towards the parlor.

  For early May, the weather is nice, though certainly not yet summer in the south. That doesn’t seem to have deterred them though, all four dressed in cutoff shorts and bikini tops.

  A month ago, I would have soiled myself just staring at them. Now, while very much aware of their presence, I am able to maintain a bit more of a stoic facade.

  “You have no idea, my friend,” Pauley says, steering me toward the front door.

  Somewhere behind us, I’m sure Quasi is getting everything, within minutes settling into his role as the wallflower that says little but misses nothing.

  “Speaking of which,” Pauley continues, pulling me in closer and glancing to either direction, “how would you boys like to try something new for that show of yours? Really goose the response big this weekend?”

  Just like Quasi and I, Pauley has become a slave to the numbers. Once twenty-five thousand people had seen the first tattoo, he started hustling me for a second, then a third.

  Business boomed as he became something of a minor celebrity in his own right, feeding off the residuals of our moment in the sun. His shop became one of our chief points of being, our lives either spent at work, in bed, or here at the parlor.

  “Yeah?” I ask. “What have you got in mind?”

  The punch is beginning to take hold, my inhibitions drifting to the side. I can feel its warmth rising through my stomach, my thoughts starting to become a bit muddled.

  A burst of laughter erupts from inside the shop as we cross the parking lot towards it, evoking a head shake from Pauley.

  “Bastards already started without us.”

  “Started what without us?” I ask, trying to put together what he is telling me.

  Releasing his hold on my neck, he takes another hit from the tequila and gives me a wet smile.

  “You ever tried weed before?”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Sunday May 6th, 2012

  4:14 am

  The shake is brusque, the grip on my shoulder tight. It stays for several long seconds, whipping my upper body back and forth.

  “Hmm?” I manage, my eyes cracking open to only slits.

  “Dude, you’re home,” Quasi says.

  The world around me is completely dark.

  “What? Where are we?” I mumble, turning away from his voice and the feel of his arm on my shoulder.

  “We’re sitting in the car outside your house,” he says. “You have to get out so I can go home.”

  Bits and pieces of the preceding fourteen hours find their way to my psyche, brief snippets strung together in an odd amalgamation. Each one seems to be disconnected by flashes of black, like a strobe light in a crowded room.

  “What the hell happened?” I ask, rolling flat onto my back and raising a hand to my head.

  I can hear him snort, but don’t bother looking over.

  “What didn’t happen.”

  “Shit,” I mumble, moving my hand over and rubbing my eyes with my thumb and forefinger. “The last thing I remember was sitting around in a circle with Pauley and his friends. After that, things get a little bit jumbled.”

  “Yeah,” Quasi says, an edge apparent, “well, that was twelve hours ago. It has been quite a whirlwind ever since.”

  From his tone, I can guess that means he has been babysitting me through one drunken antic after another for the last half day, though I don’t bother asking. Doing so would probably only start an argument. Besides, that’s part of his job in all this - I’m the talent, he’s the support team.

  “Weed?” I ask.

  “Twice,” he confirms.

  “Booze?”

  “More than I could keep count of.”

  The combination explains the pounding in my head and the extreme desire to fall right back asleep.

  “Anything else?” I ask.

  Again he snorts, an unspoken way of telling me the list I just mentioned should be more than enough.

  “Sex, another tattoo.”

  A month ago, he would have been jumping in exultation at either one of those things. Whatever has transpired in the previous twelve hours must really have him riled.

  “Damn,” I whisper, forcing my eyes open and looking down at my arm.

  A fresh white bandage is stretched over my entire left elbow, a few strips of tape holding it in place.

  “Oh, shit,” I whisper.

  “Yeah,” Quasi says, “and let’s just say Pauley wasn’t exactly one hundred percent when he gave it to you.”

  My eyes slide shut as my head rocks back against my seat. For a moment, I hear his words flash through my mind before a swell of anger passes through.

  “I thought we had an agreement that all ink was to stay above the bicep? That way I could keep it covered?”

  A moment of silence passes, followed by a deep exhalation. “We did.”

  “Then why the hell did you let me get this?” I ask.

  My voice isn’t nearly as loud or as hostile as I would prefer, both held in check by the fear that my head might explode if I let them loose.

  “I got you home,” Quasi replies. “That should be enough.”

  There is an iciness present that I’ve never noticed before, the fact that it’s there raising my own ire even more.

  “Well, it’s not,” I say. “You’re supposed to stop me from doing anything stupid when we’re out on a shoot-“

  “I tried, alright!” he yells, turning to face me head-on.

  Even in the darkness of the car, I can see the left side of his face is purple and swollen. His eye is puffy, only half as large as its counterpart.

  “I tried,” he repeats, staring me down, letting me see what happened.

  He doesn’t go into further explanation, but he doesn’t have to.

  “Oh, shit,” I mumble, looking back at my friend.

  “Yeah,” he says, turning to again face forward. “You’re home, get out.”

  My mouth drops open to respond, but no words come out. I know I should apologize, or ask what happened, or at least hear the story of how I came to assault him, but I say nothing.

  In my state, it probably wouldn’t come out right anyway.

  The passenger door moans as I push it open and step onto the curb, the cool night air hitting my skin. I look down to see I am without my leather jacket, dressed only in my black-on-black t-shirt and pants ensemble.

  “Hey, do you-“ I begin, but Quasi peels away from the curb, the squeal of tires and the smell of burnt rubber in his wake.

  “What
a dick,” I mutter, turning to face my house.

  My head sways and my arm aches as I take two steps up the walk. Given the time of night, I expect the place to be silent, but to my surprise something else entirely happens.

  The front porch light kicks on.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  “Charlie, is that you?”

  I can hear my mother’s voice through the front door even before I see the curtain on the top half of it slide to the side and her face peek out. Red creases on her skin indicate she has been sleeping as I turn to glare at the twin taillights disappearing down the street.

  Son of a bitch set me up.

  “Yeah, mom, it’s me,” I say, standing at the bottom of the trio of concrete steps leading up to the front door.

  My hope is that she will see it’s me and turn around, allowing me to wait on the stoop until she is safely in bed before heading in.

  As I should have known though, that isn’t in the cards.

  The door jerks open with a wheezing from the rubber sealant lining the outside of it. A gust of warm air flashes over my skin, the sudden light ripping through my skull. My eyes squeeze shut as a hand shoots up in front of my face, blocking as much from view as possible.

  “Dang, Ma, can you kill that light?”

  “Honey, what are you doing out here at four in the morning? Where have you been?”

  This is the first time I’ve ever dared come home after midnight. It was the curfew that was set when I was seventeen, long before there was need for one, and has never been changed in the years since. It has been an unspoken rule of sorts that none of us ever had the inclination, or reason, to revisit.

  Since our conquests began some months before, we have been fortunate to take advantage of Quasi’s living situation. His basement abode comes complete with its own side entrance, ensuring that we make it in without incident every time.

  Until tonight.