The Invention of Sound

by Chuck Palahniuk

  Slyly, Foster brought his phone level with the man in the near distance and quickly thumbed through old images. His nose, his chin, and his neck matched perfectly those of an otherwise pixilated face. Here was the answer.

  Something tugged at his cape. A voice said, “Hey.”

  Foster turned to find a sandal-wearing gladiator with a spray of pimples swelling his cheeks. The gladiator asked, “What are you?”

  A princess with fake braids coiled beneath her crown asked, “Who are you supposed to be?”

  The astronaut-slash–child molester had struck up a conversation with a small girl dressed as a ladybug. The pair seemed alarmingly chummy.

  He told the gladiator, “I’m nobody.” The astronaut’s nose at the very least looked to be an exact match. If Foster left the line to save the kid, he might never meet Blush Gentry. But in another beat the pervert could walk that tiny ladybug through any exit and into oblivion.

  In line ahead of them, a legion of samurai and ninjas turned to give Foster a good looking-over. Someone took a step forward and they all took a step. They were all bored, flicking their phones and needing more distraction.

  Foster directed their attention to the astronaut. “You see that man?” he asked. “Every year eight hundred thousand children are reported missing. That’s according to the Center for Missing and Exploited Children…” He felt like a modern-day Fagin.

  The assembled ninjas elbowed some masked highwaymen, and even more Scottish highlanders turned to where the astronaut was chatting up the ladybug. Foster continued, “That’s more than two thousand kids a day. One kid gets kidnapped every forty seconds in America.” He let the numbers sink in. “And that man is Emory Emerson.” He held his phone for the princess and those close enough to see the image he had on file.

  The listening company of centurions and zombies no longer looked bored. The princess asked, “So?” not taking her eyes off the astronaut. “Do something!”

  Foster shrugged under his hood. “I can’t make a move until he tries something.”

  A zombie asked, “You a cop?”

  Foster squatted down, reached into his boot and withdrew the gun, just for a flash before tucking it back. His ankle burned where it had been rubbed raw. The crowd stared at the bite scar on his hand as much as the gun itself.

  The pimply gladiator drew a plastic broadsword from his belt and said, “Maybe you can’t do anything, but I can.” He turned to the princess and said, “Save my place in line, okay?”

  Standing on tiptoe, the princess kissed him on the forehead.

  Before the gladiator had charged halfway to the astronaut, the samurai broke ranks to follow. The elfin bandits went to join the fray. A cry went up from the astronaut, a bellow of panic and confusion, as the swarm of musketeers and ghouls surrounded and enveloped him. The plastic clack of fake cudgels and nunchucks drew even more attention. More people in line, dazed by boredom, stepped away to video the ruckus.

  Seeing his opportunity, Foster edged past the distracted masses. As the ladybug screamed in alarm and the pervert was pelted with foam rubber ninja stars, Foster made his way through Halls I and J and into Hall K where the object of his search sat alone and ignored for the moment. Her handler had stepped away to call security, so it seemed. Blush herself looked older than he’d expected, almost his own age. Around her mouth were etched the telltale lines of a heavy smoker. Her hair looked too bright to be natural. She sat at the table holding a felt-tipped pen. A pile of glossy photos was stacked at her elbow.

  Blush Gentry looked up with a sweet smile and asked, “Do you have a ticket?”

  Foster fumbled inside the cuff of his spandex sleeve and brought forth a paper ticket dark with sweat. He asked, “Can we go somewhere? Somewhere and talk?”

  She scribbled her name across a photo and handed it toward him, saying, “Thank you for stopping by.”

  The line was re-forming. Any handler or talent wrangler would be back in a moment. Panicked, Foster stooped slightly, reached into his boot, and for the third time that day took out the gun.

  Mitzi caught sight of herself. No one could escape the mirrors that lined the weight room from floor to ceiling. Even her baggy sweatshirt suggested a small baby bump. In her mind lingered so many half memories and dream fragments soaked in blood. She couldn’t definitively swear she had or had not gotten her period in the past several months. One half image stood out in particular, bleeding from her vagina. Or bleeding from someone’s vagina. It hadn’t hurt, and she’d put foam plugs into her ears, which didn’t make sense. She’d plugged her ears and said a prayer just before her last period, and the words of the prayer had been: “Scrambled eggs…bacon…orange juice…” The garbled nonsense of a dream.

  A chime sounded inside her gym bag. Her own phone. A producer, Schlo, was calling. She said a quick prayer that it was a dubbing job, but her prayer came out as, “Poached eggs…link sausage…”

  “Mitz, my baby girl,” Schlo said, “I need you should borrow me the original of that latest scream of yours.” Traumatic Orchiectomy.

  Mitzi cupped the phone in her hand to mask the clank of weights around her. “You know that’s not my policy,” she told him. The policy was to never relinquish the original recording of a scream. Besides, the original was as lost as all the screams in the studio archives. Near her a man bellowed under a bar loaded with iron plates the size of car tires. His huffing and growling competed with the loud clank of cast iron.

  “What?” the producer shouted over the phone. “Are you in a factory? Are you a United Auto Worker these days?”

  A memory haunted Mitzi with the words, “Pancakes…oatmeal…toast.” A prayer like a waitress reciting the menu at a diner.

  The phone said, “There’s something wrong with that last scream.” Jimmy’s scream.

  Mitzi asked, “How do you know?”

  “I’m texting you a link is how I know,” Schlo said. “We’re one day into audience testing and—boom.”

  A new text chimed. Mitzi swiped to find a link. Clicking on the link brought up an Associated Press wire story. The headline read: “Over a Hundred Die Watching Film.”

  Foster had to give it to her. Blush Gentry was a trouper. No sooner had he flashed the gun than she’d announced to the crowd, “The talent needs to tinkle. Can you give me a sec?” Her handler was just stepping up to assist her, and she told the woman, “I’ll be back in five.” She put two fingers to her mouth to mime smoking a cigarette.

  Seeing the line that snaked away, the ever-growing number of fans waiting for their moment, Foster had no idea how to exit the floor.

  “Give me your phone,” Blush said and jerked her head toward an unmarked door. She accepted his phone and stepped away as if confident he’d follow. With every step she was keying something into the small screen. Past the door, they stood in a service corridor, cinder block walls, fluorescent lights. There, she reached to tug at the hem of his executioner’s hood, saying, “Give me this.”

  He pulled it off, ashamed of how heavy it was with his sweat.

  She took it with two fingers. Her lips curled in disgust. “This thing stinks,” she said, then took a deep breath and flipped the damp cloth over her head.

  Foster started, “I just need to ask you a couple—”

  She cut him off. “How do you think I’d look in a burka?” She lifted her chin until her eyes met his through the holes cut in the black cloth. Startling against the black cloth, her blue eyes darted sideways.

  He looked for what she might be indicating. A security camera watched them from the passageway ceiling. He asked, “A what?”

  “It worked for Elizabeth Smart,” she said, once again thumbing the keys of his phone. With her quick, confident gait, she was leading him down the corridor to a door marked Exit. Beyond that, they stepped into an alley. Without slowing, drawing no notice, her wearing the black hood and him clutching his cape to hide the gun in his hand, they followed the alley to a street.

  Blush asked, �
�You got a car?”

  Foster pointed, “This way. But I only need to ask a question.”

  She strode off in the direction he’d indicated.

  “Wait,” Foster protested. “Where are you taking me?”

  Her ability to text and walk at the same time was extraordinary. “You ever hear of Aimee Semple McPherson?” she asked. “How about Agatha Christie?”

  They were approaching a parking structure. “Here,” Foster said and nodded toward the elevator. He pressed the Up button and the memory of the escort girl, the surrogate Lucinda, came to mind. The doors slid open and they stepped inside. He pressed the button for the floor.

  As they rode upward, still intent on her keyboarding, her voice muffled by the hood, Blush said, “Both Aimee and Agatha hit mid-career slumps, you know?” She said, “I know all about mid-career slumps.”

  The elevator stopped and they stepped out. The concrete ramps sloped away, crowded with parked cars. Foster slid a hand down inside his spandex tights, feeling for the keys he carried in his shorts.

  Blush’s eyes didn’t leave his phone as she continued to talk and text. “It was 1926, okay? McPherson was the most famous religious leader in America, but she was losing her edge, you know?” She followed as he led her along the rows of cars. “Agatha Christie was a writer with mediocre sales…” Her voice trailed off.

  Foster arrived at the car, the Dodge Dart from Craigslist. He opened the passenger side door, and Blush climbed in still wearing the hood.

  As she explained it, both women had disappeared without a clue. McPherson for a month. Christie for ten days. Both had been the subject of worldwide searches and intense media coverage. Thousands of volunteers had combed the globe trying to find them. “No offense to Jesus,” Blush said, “but disappearing and reappearing is a woman’s version of death and resurrection. A miracle, you know?”

  Behind the wheel, Foster prompted, “Do you remember a movie called Babysitter Bloodbath?”

  As she clicked her seat belt, she said, “Get driving.”

  He asked, “Don’t you need to go back?”

  She dug in the pocket of her jacket and brought out a pack of cigarettes. With the hood hiked up to uncover her mouth, she put one between her lips and pressed the car’s cigarette lighter. Talking around the cigarette, she said, “Just drive.”

  He wanted to tell her not to smoke, but there were bigger issues at stake.

  She pressed a final key on the phone and said the word, “Send.”

  As she explained it, Aimee Semple McPherson was believed to have drowned off a beach near Los Angeles. Agatha Christie was widely thought to be a victim of murder, most likely by her husband who wanted a divorce so he could marry his secretary. When eventually found, McPherson claimed to have been kidnapped and taken to Mexico. Christie claimed amnesia. But both women were welcomed back with enormous fanfare. Thousands came to greet them. Their lagging careers rebounded to make them enduring worldwide successes.

  As Foster turned the key in the ignition, he could hear sirens in the distance.

  “Drive,” Blush ordered. “You don’t want to get caught, not so soon.”

  The sirens grew louder. Closer.

  Foster craned his neck to look back as he pulled out of the parking space.

  “I’ll answer all your questions,” Blush said. She puffed her cigarette. “But only so long as you keep me kidnapped.”

  The car was already spiraling down toward the exits. Foster protested, “But I’m not kidnapping you.”

  Blush countered, “I need the career boost. You need whatever.”

  The car lurched to a stop at the exit gate. Foster had prepaid but hesitated before pressing the button and inserting his receipt. Shaking his head, he said, “You can’t make me kidnap you.”

  Blush lifted his phone near her face. From it she read, “Dear 9-1-1. I’ve kidnapped the beautiful and wildly talented actress Blush Gentry.” She paused, her eyes smirking.

  Foster inserted the ticket and pressed the button. The gate swung open.

  From Oscarpocalypse Now by Blush Gentry (p. 50)

  People say I staged my own kidnapping because I knew about the Academy Awards, about what would happen at the Oscars that year. People also say certain jewelers and fashion designers refused to lend jewels and clothes for the occasion. That puts me in very good company. People who make these accusations overlook the fact that I was being pistol-whipped.

  These same people insist a new weapon called Dustification was used to powderize the World Trade towers. Look up dustification. There’s your answer. I’m sorry if my kidnapping doesn’t fit the narrative of a bunch of black helicopter kooks.

  Mitzi poured another glass of wine and toasted Jimmy’s memory. The deal with dating conceited men like him was that she’d hoped some of his excess self-esteem would rub off. Women always secretly hoped this: that dating a narcissist would give them confidence by osmosis. It never worked.

  She lifted an edge of the bandage on her forearm. The wound from the shard of wine bottle had almost healed. It wouldn’t even leave a scar.

  She glanced back at the noose hanging against her bedroom door. Death amounted to too much of a crapshoot. She could be hit by a bus tomorrow, and she’d go to hell. Go directly to hell. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars. But if she availed herself of the Fontaine method, she could be strapped with this baby. Two Ambien, a bottle of pinot gris, some leftover Halcion, and she’d be an unwed mother for eternity, wandering with no idea she was even dead.

  She felt haunted, but from the inside this time.

  Her phone rang. A private number.

  “Mitz,” a man said. Schlo. Her best work and her final job. He said, “I want you should see a picture tonight.”

  In the dark windows across the street, Mitzi watched her shadow self drain her glass of wine and pour another from the bottle on the windowsill. “It’s after midnight.”

  “It’s a midnight sneak preview,” he said.

  Mitzi told him, “We’ll be late.” She watched the shadows afloat in all the dim squares as others lifted glasses and tipped them to their lips. They were her Fontaine drinking buddies.

  “Not too late,” he said, “not for the scream part.” He was downstairs, waiting for her.

  Mitzi looked, and in place of the usual ambulance outside the front doors there was a limousine idling at the curb.

  They’d been driving around aimlessly. Foster and the actress, they’d been hiding behind the murk of the car’s heavily tinted windows, wondering how to buy food without getting recognized. The sun was setting. Maybe once it got fully dark.

  A ways ahead a police cruiser was double-parked with an officer at the wheel. To avoid getting stuck behind it, or risk veering around it and drawing attention, Foster pulled to the curb. He shut off the engine and set the parking brake.

  Blush asked to see the gun. Foster produced it from the pocket of his jacket, saying, “It’s not loaded.”

  She reached across the front seat to take it, and he let her. She weighed it in her hand. “How’d you get this into Comic Con?”

  Foster shrugged.

  She leaned forward and lifted his phone off the dashboard. “If you got a gun in, it’s because someone wanted you to get a gun in. Somebody wanted you to kidnap me.” Her face deadpan, she mugged, “Probably my agent.”

  Foster considered his own theory about Lucinda guiding him. As if his daughter were somehow guiding his mission.

  Blush unplugged his phone from the cigarette lighter. She reached to get one of his costume gloves off the seat, asking, “You mind?”

  He didn’t respond. He’d removed the heavy gloves the moment he’d climbed behind the wheel. They were spongy with sweat, as was the rest of his spandex costume.

  Blush had long since peeled the damp executioner’s hood off her head and flung it into the backseat. Apparently, she took his silence as consent and fitted a glove over one of her hands. With the other she held the phone as i
f to take a selfie. With the gloved hand she lifted the gun and pressed the muzzle hard against her cheek. Doing so, she twisted her face away and squeezed her eyes shut so tight that tears sprang from them and tracked black trails of mascara down her cheeks. Her downturned lips parted as if she were sobbing. The phone snapped a picture.

  That’s why she’d needed the glove. Cropped by the limits of a selfie, this would look like a man’s hand shoving a gun into her movie star face as she recoiled in terror. The security cameras at the convention had caught him wearing these gloves. The pictures would be sent from his phone. Him, the fugitive from gun charges.

  The phone chimed as she sent the photo. “This one’s for the New York Times.”

  Blush swiped to a new screen that showed the current level of crowdfunded contributions toward her million-dollar ransom. “Fuck,” she said, and not a happy fuck. Hers had clearly been an angry, disappointed fuck.

  Foster pressed his case. “You played a babysitter who got stabbed.” Then, as nonchalant as possible, “Who overdubbed your scream?”

  Her eyes narrowed, wary as if the question posed a threat. Her pretty face recovered its smug confidence. “I never use a scream double.”

  He followed her gaze to the police car parked up the block. He took his phone back and sourced a file. The shrill voice of a terrified girl shrieked.

  The sound froze them both for a moment. It seemed to echo and hang in the air of the parked car.

  Her arms folded across her chest, Blush swallowed. Flatly, she said, “That was me.” Eyeing the police car, she slouched low.

  Foster ventured, “It didn’t sound like you.”

  “That’s my job,” she said. “I can sound like anyone.”

  Foster said, “Get out.”