by Karina Halle
Next I decided to give Wine Babes a shot because I knew he was filming that one. Last week’s episode took place in the vineyards of the Niagara Region. The week before that, it was finding the best sherry in the UK. I was immediately jealous of Dex and the fact that he obviously got to go to all these places. Why on earth would you want to quit a job like that?
There was obvious eye candy too. The show wasn’t called Wine Babes for no reason. The hosts were impeccably charming and gorgeous. Jennifer Rodriguez was tall with slick, washboard abs that were always peeking out from her low-cut jeans. She had that exotic quality to her with tawny, glowing skin, full lips and dazzling green eyes. Her hair wouldn’t have looked out of place on Jennifer Aniston’s head.
The other girl, Rebecca Sims, was also tall (damn them!) with a Dita Von Teese look about her: A carefully crafted raven coif, merlot-matching lips, and smooth, slim limbs.
I immediately hated both of them. Not only were they hot, but they had the best job in the world: Gallivanting around the world, drinking wine and dumbing it down to appeal to a whole generation of young men. They even had a segment where they paired wines with microwavable and fast food. Why didn’t I think about that idea before?
I couldn’t watch much of it due to my increasing envy, but I did note that the camera-work was stylistic and sharp. In the show’s credits I found Dex’s producer, cameraman and musical score credit. It was official. Dex (Declan) Foray was honest-to-God who he said he was.
A smile crept across my face until I was flat-out beaming. Now that I knew it was real, I realized what it all meant. That could be me! I could be a Wine Babe!
Of course, I wouldn’t be. I couldn’t even be Ghost Babe. Unless I highlighted my hair. Got a better tan. Covered up the freckles. Perhaps get a slight nose job. Obviously tone up and slim down. Maybe hire a celebrity personal trainer?
And just like that I started fantasizing about everything that couldn’t be.
Nope, I wasn’t going to be Ghost Babe. But I could be Ghost Blogger and at the moment that sounded a gazillion times better than Failed Receptionist.
I clapped my hands together with glee. It was time to log in to Facebook and add Dex as a friend.
I hadn’t been on it since noon and as soon as I logged in I was inundated with twenty notifications and twelve friend requests. I scrolled down the names and so far it was just people saying they liked my blog and my video and asking if they could they be my friends, until I came to the last request: Dex Foray.
I guess he had already sent me a friend request earlier that day. For some reason, I was slightly apprehensive about clicking on it. I couldn’t explain why but it had something to do with seeing photos of someone you’ve already built up in your mind. I didn’t think I had given Dex too much thought these last couple of days, but it was obvious, especially now after the phone call, that I had.
Interestingly, his profile picture was one of Crow T. Robot from Mystery Science Theatre 3000, one of the most hilarious and obscure TV shows out there. I felt an immediate kinship with him.
Once on his page, the first thing I looked for was his birth date and relationship status. Like many people, his was blank. His birth date read August 18 but had no year date.
His wall was scrawled with people commenting and posting videos and funny links. He didn’t strike me as the type of person who would be on Facebook all the time, as the posts were a few days apart. I went for his info section.
Here is what I found about Dex Foray:
Activities: Music, filmmaking, video games, making up stuff on Wikipedia, booze, more stuff
Favorite Music: Metal, rock, alternative, and everything that’s missing from pop culture
TV Shows: BBC
Movies: Stuff YOU probably don’t like
Books: Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Catch-22...all the stereotypes
He didn’t have a college listed under his education but he did have his high school: Bainbridge High School ‘96
Quick calculations in my head placed him at thirty-two, ten years older than I. I don’t know why I was expecting a younger guy. I hoped he realized how young I was and wasn’t banking on someone he thought was older. I know youth is revered all over but sometimes I feel like my age does me more harm than good, like I’ve been around much longer than I have and should be taken more seriously. Then again, I was only twenty-two, so what did I know?
Next, it was time to spy on his photos. I felt a tinge of creepy voyeurism as I clicked on the area, though you would think that after years of Facebook I would be desensitized to the overall ick factor of spying on people.
There weren’t too many tagged photos of him. But enough.
I clicked on the first picture, him at a bar holding up a beer in a “cheers” gesture.
He had on a brown-collared, short-sleeved shirt and a few silver Celtic-looking rings on his fingers.
And, in plain flash photography and not in some creepy derelict lighthouse, I could in fact see what I remembered of him was correct. He had a nice face (and that was putting it mildly). There was a bit of a smartass smirk to his smile, which I now knew was expected. His dark eyes, wide mouth and expressive brows were totally on par.
I clicked to the next photo. My heart lurched in an unfamiliar way. It was a photo of him in a vineyard, his arm around Jennifer Rodriguez. You know, from the wine webcast? The Wine Babe? I couldn’t tell if it was just a friendly crew shot or what because as she was smiling her supermodel gums at the camera, he was pursing his lips, head titled up and making a gangsta face.
I clicked to the next one and saw another picture of him and her together, but this time Rebecca was on his other arm. It must have been taken the same day, as they were all wearing the same clothes. They were all laughing in the picture, a charming and affable bunch. Rebecca herself had written in the comments below: “So Dex, when ARE we going to have that ménage a trois? Lol.”
I did not see the “lol” in that and quickly clicked through the rest of the pictures. Most of them were of Dex on location with a camera in hand. Sometimes he was at a bar or a concert and sometimes he was just posing with random people. What was most interesting about the pictures was that though his smile was very becoming, with his nice straight teeth and all, there was something unnatural about it. And when he wasn’t smiling, he was glaring at the camera with sharp, brooding eyes that were so intense at times that he seemed to be a different person altogether.
“Who is that?”
I jumped a mile in my seat. I whirled around to see Ada standing behind me, staring at my screen inquisitively.
“You scared the shit out of me!” I exclaimed. “How did you get in here?”
She gave me a funny look. “Through the door, you moron.”
I noticed she was dressed in her normal (and presumptuously ugly) Alexander Wang gear, which meant she was feeling better. She nodded at the screen again.
“Is that Satan’s Facebook account?”
I looked back at it. In this particular picture he was grinning like a madman, head tilted down, eyes like a falcon. With the Johnny Depp facial hair, I could see where she was coming from. I felt somewhat embarrassed.
“I’m not sure,” I replied truthfully.
I looked up at her. She was waiting for me to continue and obviously knew that something was up.
I decided to indulge her. “Ada, can you keep this between you and me? Just until next week?”
She nodded excitedly, happy to be included. I took a deep breath and told her everything. By the end of it she was rendered impressed. And annoyed.
“You get your own fucking TV show for doing three blog posts? On my blog? Where the hell is my TV show?”
“OK, it’s not a TV show, it’s a webcast that isn’t going to be viewed by many people. And nothing is confirmed. Dex just wants to try it out and see what happens.”
“Dex,” she snorted. “You talk about him as if you know him. You don’t know him. I don’t care if he’
s some low-budget cameraman and has a Facebook page. Most psychotic killers and rapists have Facebook pages...that’s how they get you. Plus he looks like Satan. Don’t you think that’s a sign?”
“It’s a sign that the Errol Flynn ‘stache is coming back in style.”
“Who the hell is Errol Flynn?” She threw her hands up. “Perry, seriously, you should reconsider this.”
“Oh, whatever, come on, Ada. You’re just jealous that something good is happening to me for once. Can’t you just let me enjoy this? Writing for your blog, all the attention this week...I haven’t felt this happy in a very long time. Maybe ever. This might be bullshit in the end but it’s my bullshit and it makes me think there might be a place for me in this crazy world.”
She rolled her eyes but her face softened. “Fine. Whatever makes you happy. I think you should Google him first, though, just in case. See if he’s on the America’s Most Wanted list.”
That made sense. I went to Google and typed in his name.
A lot of pages came up. They were all connected in some form or another to his work on the webcast. Nothing too interesting.
“Well, that’s a good sign,” said Ada.
I nodded, then typed in Declan instead of Dex.
Another set of pages came up. I clicked on one that said “Funkiest band to rock New Jersey,” thinking it must be another Declan Foray.
It was an online magazine article about a lounge act called Sin Sing Sinatra. The band, consisting of a keyboardist, bassist, drummer and a singer (who was called Declan Foray), was mildly successful playing small clubs and bars on the East Coast. They were described as “Rocker Crooners” and did hip, lounge-y covers of rock songs. The singer, Declan, was described as having a “smooth, yet formidable voice” and he was someone to watch for. I clicked to the next page and saw a picture of Dex, my Dex (I guess you could call him that), singing into an old-fashioned mic.
His face was thinner and the moustache was gone, but it was definitely him. His floppy dark hair was more subdued and a white suit adorned his body. He looked like as total showboater. He also looked very young. I looked up at the URL to see the date: 03/09/02. He would have been around my age.
“So he’s a singer, too?” Ada pondered.
“I guess so. At least he used to be.”
“Maybe he changed his name because he sucked.”
I glared at her. “Dex is short for Declan. Somehow. And it says here that they were the opposite of suck.”
“Then how come I’ve never heard of them before?”
“A, you’ve barely heard of any of the best bands. You blindly believe that talent is what the radio tells you. And B, there are tons of excellent bands, groups, singers, whatevers out there who do quite well for themselves despite never becoming well known.”
“Oh, whatever. He’s a cameraman now, not a singer, so he failed somewhere along the way. This conversation is boring me now. Good luck with your thing.”
Ada turned on her heel and left my room, slamming the door behind her. Come in quietly, leave loudly.
I shook my head at her teenage dramatics and turned my attention back to the screen. It didn’t really matter to me whether Dex was a singer or not. But I couldn’t help but be even more intrigued. I had a huge respect for all musicians; they were sort of my weak spot. I could barely write notes, my songs were terrible and though I had heard I had a strong and pleasant singing voice, it wasn’t anything to make a career of.
Curious, I started cruising torrent sites trying to see if I could find any recordings of Sin Sing Sinatra or Declan Foray. I found nothing and eventually fell asleep on my keyboard.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I woke up on Friday morning a few minutes before my alarm went off. I tried to remember if I had any dreams during the night and I was coming up blank. Then I remembered the phone call...Dex...the webcast...Google. Everything. Could that have been a dream?
I quickly looked onto my bedside table and saw the piece of paper with his name and number scrawled on it. It was definitely no dream then. Dex was real; the proposition was real. And I knew in the deepest recesses of my being I had to be a part of it, no matter what.
Grabbing my phone, I quickly dialed his number, ignoring the fact that it was early in the morning and he might be sleeping. I was afraid that the longer I waited, the more likely he would be to change his mind.
With each unanswered ring my nerves tightened sharply. All these doubts started to flood my brain: What if he doesn’t remember? What if he had changed his mind? What if his boss, Jimmy Kwan, changed his mind? What if I’m waking him up and it’ll piss him off so much that he’ll cancel?
That last thought scared me most of all. I was entertaining the idea of hanging up when he answered.
“Hello?” Though it sounded groggy, there was no mistaking that voice. My heart skipped a beat.
“Uh, hi, Dex. This is Perry calling,” I said as brightly as possible. “I’m sorry if I woke you up.”
“Who?”
My insides swirled. “Perry. Palomino. We spoke yesterday about my blog. The potential webcast. I met you in the lighthouse…”
“I’m sorry, I was absolutely wasted yesterday. I don’t remember talking to anyone about anything. What did you say your name was again?”
I could not breathe. “Um, Perry.”
I was pretty sure he could hear the sadness in my voice.
“Perry,” he repeated. I could almost hear him running my name through his head. “That’s an unusual name. I guess you would know that. Most people think of Matthew Perry, I bet. Or Perry Mason.”
“Yeah…” I trailed off.
“But there’s always Peri Gilpin. You know, Roz from Frasier. She was a real firecracker, that Roz. I would have married that woman, you know, if she was real and didn’t have that horrible ‘90s hair.”
My head started to reel.
“It’s Swedish,” I managed to say.
“Aha!” he exclaimed. “That would explain your mother’s accent.”
“You remember talking to my mother?”
“Of course I do. Do you think I’m a tard?”
Yes, I thought. Big time.
“Oh,” he continued, “you must not get that I’m pulling your leg. You know, about being wasted last night. And the whole not remembering thing.”
What the hell was this guy on and so early at that?
“Oh kiddo, you really shouldn’t be so gullible.”
“I’m not gullible,” I said defensively. “I’m just not used to dealing with crazy people.”
Silence. Then a small, awkward laugh from his end. “Well, I am sorry if I misled you, Miss Palomino. I have, in fact, been waiting for your call.”
“I thought I woke you up.”
“I’ve been awake for hours. Already showered, cut my toenails, had pancakes and ten cups of coffee. Now what say you, Miss Palomino?”
I pushed the mental image of toenail cutting out of my head.
“Yes. Yes, I would love to do this,” I said, hoping I projected absolute certainty in my voice.
“Fantastic,” he said in a terrible French accent. “Now, what I need from you is to make sure we can have access to the lighthouse for tomorrow night. Might as well ask if you can stay over as well.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure you’d be able stay there too, if I am.” Uncle Albert would probably welcome the company.
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m set to stay at the motel. Either way, just pack light-colored clothing. Black doesn’t show up so well on film. Perhaps bring some makeup, too, in case I need to doll myself up. I’ll be bringing the equipment in the car and yeah...what’s your address?”
I told him.
“See you tomorrow at ten a.m., sharp. Be sure to have your game face on.”
“Oh, I will,” I said. Nervous prickles (the good kind) shimmered along my spine. The excitement was almost too much.
We hung up. My alarm started blaring. I turned it off inattentivel
y.
You know those times in your life when you feel like you’re in a movie? I have those moments often, usually due to the music I am listening to. Maybe I’m walking down the street in the rain, wind whipping my hair around my head, people passing me by in a quick, faceless blur and I’m listening to something moody (like Massive Attack) and just like that, it feels like I’m being observed by an outside source. Like I’m having an out-of-body experience and watching myself go about my life. Only it’s my life turned infinitely more interesting, like every step I take, every puddle I splash or pair of eyes I meet has more meaning than normal.
Well, I was having that feeling again. There was no music, but I could see myself sitting up in my bed, my black hair in messy strands across my face, staring down at my phone and I, and everyone else in the world, knew that something heavy had just been handed to me. Like I was given a superhero power to save the world.
That, of course, was ridiculous, as the only power I could ever have would be an overactive imagination. But the feeling still remained.
I slowly got out of my bed, enveloped in future mystery and drama, and let myself indulge in the moment.
When the indulgence hit an all-time high, I went to my computer and quickly put in a new blog post. I knew that Ada would have a hissy fit over my impromptu post, but I didn’t care. I wanted to tell the world that the blog posts weren’t for nothing. Something big was going to happen. I didn’t flat out say what it was, lest I jinx it or get Dex in trouble, but I definitely alluded to the fact that I would be revisiting the lighthouse again with a proper ghost-hunting team. I didn’t mention that the team was just Dex and me, but I did say it would possibly be aired on a prominent website.
Then I brushed it aside, got dressed and went to work.
***
I could only see blackness at first. My eyes fluttered upwards; my lashes were wet and thick as they tried to focus. Slowly, light appeared in patches, a damp glow that moved and swirled in all four corners of my sight.
My other senses kicked in lazily. I was wet and cold, and could barely feel my limbs, floating, bobbing up and down with rolling swells of water. A light shone in the distant black and grew bigger with each wave. I felt as if I was gradually being sucked toward a tunnel of brightness.
