by Brian Bakos
Behind me comes the screech of smoke alarms and the frantic spraying of the garden hose. Mrs. Simpson comes running over from her house, phone in hand.
“What’s going on, Matthew?” she cries.
“Oh ... nothing,” I gasp.
Duals exits the house, all smudged and smoky.
“It’s out man,” he says between coughs. “What a mess!”
Four: Thunderous Conclusion
36: Demise of Studio Duals
“I’m calling the Fire Department,” Mrs. Simpson says.
“Please don’t do that,” I say. “It’s all under control.”
“They need to know about this,” Mrs. Simpson says.
The nightmare keeps spreading like some horrid disease. The firemen are coming, and the police. Soon Mom and Dad will be here. How can I possibly explain this situation? I’ll be grounded permanently – if I ever get out of juvenile lockup.
I play my final card.
“I know my Grandpa would be grateful if you didn’t involve the fire department,” I say.
“He would?”
Mrs. Simpson lowers her phone a little.
“Yes,” I say. “He hates dealing with the authorities.”
“But – ”
“He was just telling me before he left how much he liked having you for a neighbor,” I say, “and how he wants to get better acquainted.”
The phone lowers some more.
“He did?” Mrs. Simpson says.
“Yes.”
“Well, in that case ... I suppose ...”
Mrs. Simpson drops the phone into her pocket and starts walking toward her house. She pauses to look back.
“You will tell him to come talk to me about this, won’t you, Matthew?”
“I sure will, Mrs. Simpson.”
She disappears into her house.
“That was real smooth!” Duals says. “I didn’t know you were such a great b. s. artist.”
“Thanks,” I say.
We reenter the house and shut off the smoke alarms. Then we take inventory – the damage to Studio Duals is massive. The curtains and throw rug are a total loss. The wooden floor and wall paneling are scorched, the whole living room is soaked and stinking.
The 1000 watt light unit is destroyed. The coffee table is knocked over. The computer, extra monitor, printer, and external drive are busted and sodden. Somebody stepped on the laptop, breaking its keyboard – me, probably.
Not to mention the wrecked camera in the back yard. It’s like the end of the world has roared through my life.
“Looks like we’re out of business,” Duals says.
I plop down on the waterlogged sofa and cradle my head in my hands. Clammy water soaks through my clothes like the fingers of death, but I’m beyond caring.
“What else can possibly go wrong?” I mutter.
A text message pings on my phone. It’s from Grandpa:
Hi Matt!
I’m at the airport, will be home in an hour.
***
The others come in to view the destruction. They all wear awe-struck expressions, like people gaping at a train wreck. Lauren carries the ruined camera in her arms like a sick baby.
“What happened?” Dylan asks.
“Raspberry got up here and knocked over a hot light,” Duals says. “The curtains went up like a Roman candle.”
All eyes turn toward Dylan. The room becomes deathly silent.
“Weren’t you were supposed to lock the basement door?” I say.
Dylan turns pale. “I’m sorry, man, I-I must have forgot ...”
“You idiot!” Tamika shrieks. “Raspberry could have been killed – and you wrecked my movie!”
She looks all angry and offended, as if somebody else’s pet has caused the disaster.
“And who left that light on?” she demands.
Bill and Gerry exchanged glances.
“Don’t look at me,” Gerry says. “I was working sound, remember?”
“Well, somebody screwed up!” Tamika says.
“Just leave them alone, okay, Tamika?” I say. “You’re the one who brought that dog here, don’t forget.”
She gapes at me, open-mouthed, like one of those fish hauled out of the lake. I turn away from her.
“Please, can you all just go home now?” I say.
All the stuffing is knocked out of me, like a ruined teddy bear. I’m not even mad at Dylan. Why would I be when the whole tragedy is my fault?
I should have checked the basement door myself, I should have made sure the light was shut down. But I’d been too puffed up slinging around the camera, trying to look impressive. The safety of Studio Duals was my responsibility, and I blew it.
Lauren gives me a hug. “Oh, Matt ... I wish there was something I could do.”
“There isn’t, Lauren,” I say. “But maybe you’ll call me tonight – if my Grandpa hasn’t killed me first? He’ll be here in an hour.”
“Let me stay,” Lauren says. “I can help explain things.”
“Me, too,” Duals says. “I can’t let you face the wrath by yourself. We’re partners, right?”
Through my agony, I feel a burst of affection for Duals and Lauren. My truest friends.
I shake my head. “It’s better if I talk to him alone.”
“Let’s go Trace,” Tamika says, “before something else happens.”
She heads out the front door without so much as a good-bye. Trace follows, stopping long enough to give my arm a sympathetic little squeeze.
“Sorry about all this, Fr ... Matt,” she says. “See you around.”
“Yeah, see you.”
She exits with a regretful backward glance.
Duals hands me his keys to the house.
“Guess I won’t be needing these again, huh?”
“I suppose not,” I say.
Then the others troop out, each with some sympathetic utterance. Dylan looks so grief-stricken that he could be at a funeral – mine. Only Lauren remains.
“This has been quite an experience, Matt.” She kisses my cheek. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?”
“I’m sure.”
“I will definitely call you tonight, then,” she says.
Lauren takes a final glance around the living room, then back at me. If I look half as bad as I feel, I must be a pitiful sight.
“Don’t worry so much, Matt, she says. “Your grandpa sounds like an amazing guy – a lot like you, actually.”
Then she leaves, taking the last bit of warmth with her. I am alone with my misery.
Studio Duals hulks around me like a tomb. I wash up and change into some clean clothes, but I still smell like a fire. I need a good airing outside.
On my way out the door, I snatch the two Studio Duals signs and tear them to shreds. Then I park myself in the front porch lawn chair and wait for Grandpa to show up.
Behind me, the picture window gapes curtain-less and charred. A crack runs from the light fixture’s impact point clear to the bottom edge. Hopefully I can distract Grandpa’s attention enough when he arrives so that he won’t notice the window right off.
So, why is he coming home today, anyhow, and why did he fly in? I thought he’d be driving back with the Beast later this summer.
As I sit on the porch nursing my anguish, such questions occur to my tortured brain. Up until now, I’ve just accepted Grandpa’s arrival as one more lousy fact in an overwhelmingly lousy day.
Then again, maybe it’s better like this – get all the trauma over in one massive dose.
37: Dreaded Return
About half an hour later, a big, gleaming rental car pulls into the drive. I stand up and wave, trying to block the window crack as much as possible.
“Hi, Grandpa!”
My voice sounds incredibly cheerful. How did I do that? Grandpa beeps the horn and rolls down the window.
“Hey, Matt, great to see you!”
He pulls into the back yard and parks on the wid
e concrete area in front of the garage. I run to meet him there.
“How come you flew back?” I say. “Where’s the Beast?”
“I left it with the missionaries,” Grandpa says. “It was the ‘donation’ I told you about.”
He gets out of the car and stretches himself.
“It’s been a long day,” he says.
“Yeah, I know ...”
He grabs a package off the front seat. “I’ve got some great Costa Rican coffee here, I can’t wait to brew some up.”
“Uh ...” I say, “before we go inside, there are a few things you need to know about.”
***
Some minutes later, we are standing in the living room surveying the damage. Grandpa has this astonished look on his face, as if he’s just stepped into some horrible alternate reality.
“I figured you’d have some problems – but nothing like this,” he says.
“Things were going fine until an hour ago,” I say. “I was so proud – I wanted you to be proud of me, too.”
I struggle to keep the tears back, but am not succeeding too well. Grandpa examines the cracked picture window.
“This is quite a remodeling job,” he says. “It’s going to cost a fair amount to put things right.”
“I know,” I say. “And the equipment is all ruined – the camera, the computer ...”
Grandpa gazes at me with a very stern expression on his face, like a judge from Hell court. Every expectation he’s ever had for me is shattered for good. He’s wasted a ton of money and all I can show him is a bunch of fire damage. I feel small enough to slip through the cracks in the wood floor.
Unbearable seconds drag by. Then Grandpa waves his hand breezily.
“Ah, to heck with all this,” he says. “I’ve got plenty of money, it’s family that’s in short supply.”
He wraps an arm over my shoulders.
“Lighten up, Matt,” he says, “it’s not the end of the world.”
“You mean ... you’re not mad at me?”
“What for?” Grandpa says. “You gave it your best shot, that’s all anyone can do.”
I feel so relieved that I can barely keep standing. Only the thought of the soaked furniture keeps me on my feet.
“You know, Matt, people my age get to thinking they’ve seen everything.” Grandpa gestures about the living room. “But here’s something entirely new!”
He heads for the front door.
“Come on, let’s go get something to eat. I’m dying for some good Italian food.”
Out on the porch, I notice Mrs. Simpson watching us from her own porch.
“Mrs. Simpson was a big help today,” I say. “Can we bring her along?”
“Of course,” Grandpa says.
He waves to Mrs. Simpson.
“We’re dining Italian,” he calls. “Come join us.”
“Be right with you!” Mrs. Simpson calls back.
38: Reconciliation
The next night, Mom throws a little welcome home party for Grandpa – the first time she’s ever done anything like that.
We order pizza and ribs. The adults drink Margaritas, made with Grandpa-imported tequila, while I have Bomb Cola. I’m worried that Grandpa will say something about the fire at his house, but, fortunately, he keeps that off the list of conversation topics.
We watch more videos of the Costa Rican adventure.
“I really enjoyed working on the church,” Grandpa says at one point. “Ever since I retired I’ve been looking for some contribution I could make. You know, give something back for all the blessings I’ve had.”
“Like Andrew Carnegie,” I say. “We studied him in History class. He gave away all his money building libraries and stuff.”
“I wouldn’t put myself quite on the same level as Andrew Carnegie,” Grandpa says.
Then, incredibly, as we sit watching a video on Mayan history, Mom walks up behind Grandpa’s chair and wraps her arms around his neck. She kisses his cheek.
“I love you, Dad,” she says.
As Duals pointed out, Grandpa looks a lot younger than he really is, but suddenly he drops another ten years. He almost glows. He places a hand on one of Mom’s, and they remain that way for some time.
Later, Grandpa and I go up to my room to check out my latest model airplane.
“You know, Matt,” Grandpa says, “I’d like to meet those kids who were involved with you in ‘Studio Duals.’ Have you heard about that new cruise boat they’re starting on the river?”
“Yeah,” I say, “It’s a pretty big deal. The mayor says it should bring in lots of tourist bucks.”
“I managed to get a baker’s dozen of tickets for the first cruise,” Grandpa says. “There’ll be live music, dinner. Do you think your collaborators would like that?”
“Sure Grandpa, thanks!” I say. “Er ... what’s a ‘baker’s dozen?’”
“Thirteen,” Grandpa says. “In past centuries bakers gave customers an extra item so that they wouldn’t get their hands chopped off for short changing on the dozen.”
“That’s ... interesting,” I say.
“We can make an early birthday party out of it for you,” Grandpa says. “Are thirteen tickets enough? I can’t get more, unfortunately.”
I do some mental calculation. “We’ll only need ten, max.”
“Let’s bring your Mom and Dad then.”
“Well ... there’s kind of a problem with that,” I say. “I sort of never got around to telling them about Studio Duals. They might not be too happy.”
“Oh, I see,” Grandpa says.
“I mean, there’s no way I can stop everyone from spilling the beans about the fire,” I say.
“Better leave the sleeping dog lie for now, huh?” Grandpa says.
“Something like that.”
“We’ll just have to take them on another cruise, then,” Grandpa says.
39: Champagne Cruise
I call Lauren first. Yes, she’d be delighted to come on the cruise, she says, and didn’t she tell me that my Grandpa was super cool?
I call Duals next.
“Hey, I’m glad to hear you’re still around,” Duals says. “The way you were talking, I thought your Grandpa was going to skin you alive.”
“Well, things turned out a little better than that,” I say.
I explain about the cruise and ask him to spread the word to the others. I don’t say anything about it being a de facto birthday party for me. They can find that out on board.
“What about Tamika?” Duals asks. “You don’t want her to come, do you? I mean, after the way she acted.”
“Hmmm.”
I think this over for a few seconds. No, I definitely don’t want to see Tamika – but even more than that, I don’t want to be like her.
“She can be a snot if she wants,” I say, “but I’ve got more class. Yeah, tell her about the cruise – don’t twist her arm to come, though.”
“She probably won’t, anyhow,” Duals says. “Why waste time with low class types like us, huh?”
“Exactly.”
But on the local news that night, I learn that a television crew will be on board for this first ‘VIP champagne cruise.’ I realize, with a sinking feeling, that Tamika will certainly be there now.
***
The entire Studio Duals crew assembles on the tour boat pier: me, Lauren, Duals, Kaitlyn, Dylan, Bill, Gerry, Trace ... and Tamika. Also our gracious host, Grandpa, who is escorting Mrs. Simpson.
I’ve only seen Mrs. Simpson before wearing gardening clothes or her frumpy house coat. Now she’s all dressed up sharp with good hair and make-up. She actually looks rather hot – especially for a woman dating a guy Grandpa’s age.
Grandpa himself looks elegant in his tailor-made outfit. He’s the type who always looks elegant, no matter what he might be wearing. He even looked sophisticated dressed in work clothes and toting lumber in the Costa Rica video.
He shakes hands and greets each of my ‘co
llaborators’ individually. Then he makes a general announcement.
“I’d like to welcome you all to this little event in recognition of your cinematic efforts with Studio Duals,” he says. “Let’s hope that nobody gets ‘fired’ this time.”
We all laugh.
Grandpa has this knack of treating everyone as if they’re a mature person instead of just a kid fresh out of middle school. Everyone takes to him well; even Tamika is at her charming best.
“She can sure pour it on when she wants to,” Duals whispers in my ear.
“You didn’t tell me your grandfather was so sexy,” Trace murmurs in my other one. “Runs in the family, huh?”
The crowd starts boarding. As we move along toward the entry gate, Grandpa notices a young couple standing off to the side. They’re the same ones we saw at the park with the sausage dog! I try to make myself invisible.
“Aren’t you going on the cruise?” Grandpa asks them.
“We’d love to,” the woman says, “but it’s out of our price range.”
“We’re just here to watch,” the guy says. “See how the other half lives.”
Grandpa hands them his two extra tickets.
“Well, you can go now,” he says.
The couple looks astonished.
“Uh, sir ... w-we couldn’t ...”
“Please just take them,” Grandpa says. “It’s my grandson’s birthday, you know.”
“Okay. Thanks!”
The couple rushes to join the back of the line. Before they leave, I think I see a flicker of recognition in their eyes. They’re too excited to connect the dots, though.
“That was sweet, Richard,” Mrs. Simpson says.
“Well, I didn’t want the tickets to go to waste,” Grandpa says.
Duals and Lauren are close enough to hear Grandpa’s remarks.
“I didn’t know it was your birthday, man,” Duals says.
“Actually, it’s not until October,” I say. “This is unofficial.”
“Then happy early birthday, Matt,” Lauren says.
She kisses my cheek. Then, out of sight in the press of the crowd, she takes my hand in hers. We lace our fingers together. This event is getting better all the time!
40: The Party Gets Rolling
The boat is crowded. Actually, I’d be tempted to call is a ‘ship.’ It’s a pretty good size, in any case. There are a lot of big shots on board, including the mayor and his entourage.
We scatter all over the place – sightseeing off the decks, gobbling the complimentary munchies and soft drinks. The band on the upper deck plays some fairly decent classic rock that we can dance to. And then a slow number with Lauren in my arms. Fantastic!
