Someday Jennifer

by Risto Pakarinen

  He laughed and carried on with his wiring.

  DAD HAD A NEW GAME. Every time it was my turn to play music, he’d come back with examples of 1960s music that had inspired the songs I’d grown up with.

  Spandau Ballet: “Nothing without Marvin Gaye.”

  Kim Wilde: “Nancy Sinatra did it much better.”

  Bruce Springsteen: “Well . . . isn’t that the Animals all over again?”

  “It just goes to show that all the best music was made in the 1960s,” he concluded.

  When he said that, with his arm around my shoulder, I noticed that his posture had gotten better. He was, once again, taller than me.

  Mom often came to see us, and she always had sandwiches with her. One day she also brought the mail—a postcard from Tina.

  Pete,

  Happy to hear you’re feeling better. I’m curious about everything.

  Please send photos.

  T

  “I’m happy too,” Mom said as she handed it to me.

  There were other issues with the theatre. I had been back to the town hall twice to get my event permit. My application was missing some documentation, and I got into an argument with a young man at the fire and rescue department.

  “I don’t make the rules, it’s the law. It’s the Assembly Act,” he said, enunciating “act” carefully.

  Finding the movie distributor had been much easier, and they were more than happy to help me find the reels to Back to the Future, as soon as I sent them the technical specifications of the projector that was going to be used. The film would be sent to me by courier once the invoice had been paid. Oh, and they would take 50 percent of the proceeds.

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” I replied, stuffing my fist into my mouth.

  THAT EVENING I CALLED Tina. I couldn’t send her photos—I’d taken a full roll, but I wasn’t sure there was anyplace to get 35mm film developed in Kumpunotko—but I still wanted to give her an update.

  “You’ll have to come and see it for yourself.”

  “Is everything on schedule? Will you be able to open the theatre again?” she asked me.

  “Of course! We’re almost there. Well, there’s still a lot of painting, cleaning, boring admin stuff. But we have about eight weeks now, so plenty of time.”

  “Is that all you do there? It must be so boring, especially now that summer’s over. I bet the streets are empty by six.”

  “It’s not too bad, actually. I’ve been busy,” I said.

  “Dancing to Duran Duran? Making mix-tapes? I hear Union Jack tank tops are all the rage there. Yo-yo-yo!”

  Tina was snickering. Sofie had been debriefed, I noted. I countered by lifting a corner of the family rug.

  “So, have you spoken to Mom?” I asked.

  “The usual. She asks after Sofie, passes the phone to you . . .”

  “I don’t think she’s happy.”

  “Then maybe she should think about things. Maybe she shouldn’t freeze people out.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  The line was silent.

  “Take care, Peter. Thanks for the postcards.”

  Tina hung up.

  I stared at the receiver for a second before putting it back in its cradle.

  I logged on to the BBS and chatted with Twisted Sister for a while, comparing notes about the best (and worst) of the early MTV big-hair rock videos. We managed to establish that she preferred the live concert footage, whereas I was more into those with a narrative, before I began to doze off.

  Chapter 29

  Sledgehammer

  YOU NEED A HAIRCUT, young man,” said Mom. It was true: I’d been putting it off for ages.

  So the next morning, rather than riding to the hospital, I took my bike past Jennifer’s old house and into town via the off-centre route. I parked outside Salon Salon, the cheapest barber in town. The bell above the door dinged as I walked in.

  Everything was just the way I remembered it. The same faded black-and-white photos offering the latest (circa 1978) trends. The same creaking pneumatic chairs. And, most importantly, the same slightly hunchbacked barber himself, Stefan.

  He barely looked up.

  “Hey, Peter, take a seat. With you in a minute.”

  He was just about finished with an elderly gent who had hair only in a couple of tufts around the ears, so I didn’t figure it would take long. I sat on the old hard wooden bench.

  For the first time in ages, in anticipation of a moment of waiting, my hand crept toward my phone pocket. I chastised myself for the lapse, and instead reached for a copy of Sports Car magazine, but it was from 1998, so I put it back.

  Instead, I went through a mental checklist of the things I had to complete before I could finally cross item number two off my master plan. Which then got me thinking about my Time Machine, and how far I’d journeyed, through time and space, since its arrival. Funny how little pieces of paper can be so important to our lives.

  Finally, after cropping the wads of hair sprouting from the old man’s nostrils, Stefan dusted down the seat and waved me over. I sat down in the comfortable old leather.

  “The usual?” he asked, reaching for a thick pair of scissors and a comb. “Short at the top and the sides, long at the back?”

  I spluttered. “How the heck d’you remember that?”

  He shrugged. “Always remember a customer. Anyway, you been away or something? Not seen you in a while.”

  Half an hour later, I walked out of the barbershop onto a sunny autumnal Kumpunotko street, my mullet waving in the breeze, feeling like a million dollars. I unlocked my bike from the No Parking sign and was just turning it around to head toward the Atlas when the back wheel banged against something. Or someone, to be more specific.

  “Hey, watch it!” he shouted.

  I turned to look, and there was a guy with thick, dark hair.

  “My trousers, man,” he said, rubbing the material vigorously.

  “Sorry.” I said it more to placate him than anything. There was no dirt on his trousers.

  He finally looked up at me, picking up his briefcase and straightening to his full, rather large height. It was the moustache I recognized first.

  “Sami?”

  “Yeah, I’m Sami. And this is an expensive suit.”

  “Well, maybe you should be more careful where you walk.”

  His eyes flared. “You swung your bike around without looking, like you own the sidewalk.”

  “Yes, but you clearly saw me. Anyway, no harm done. How are you?”

  “What? I’m fine. Who are you? Do you know me?”

  For a moment I was tempted to just walk off, leaving him mystified.

  “It’s Peter, man. From school?”

  He looked puzzled.

  “Peter Eksell?” I said. “Look, never mind. You’re obviously in a big rush, so I’ll just get out of your way.”

  “Eksell? Yeah. That’s right. You’re Peter Eksell! What the hell are you doing here? I haven’t seen you since . . .”

  “Since high school. Well, I was in Helsinki for a few years, running my big IT consultancy, but then I decided—”

  “Yeah, anyway, I am in a rush. Great to catch up. Listen,” he said, already walking away, “let’s go for a beer some time, okay . . . ?”

  “Great.”

  I watched him walk away in his shiny business suit, with his shiny briefcase and his thick, shiny hair. He probably could have grown a proper mullet in a week.

  “Hang on. Wait a minute,” he said, charging back toward me. “I heard about this. You’re the guy who’s trying to restore the cinema.”

  I grinned. “That’s me.”

  “You’re the guy who’s trying to stop the apartments!”

  “Well, not exactly.”

  “Hey, listen. I’m on the council, and we’ve worked damn hard trying to get that waste of space taken down. It’s an eyesore, having a building falling apart like that right in the middle of town. You know,
young people can barely afford to get on the property ladder, but there’s prime real estate sitting there empty, slap-bang in the middle of town.”

  I hadn’t thought about it like that.

  “We don’t need another movie theatre,” he said, right in my personal space, towering over me. “We need affordable homes. We need investment opportunities. We need development. Progress!”

  “Well,” I said, as diplomatically as I could, “perhaps if you speak to Kari at BBB you’ll understand the situation a bit better. I’m not delaying anything. Anyway, lovely to catch up, Sami. Hope to see you in another thirty years or so . . .”

  I climbed onto my Crescent, dinged the bell, and rode past him down the street.

  Sometimes I wonder why I’m not in touch with my old friends anymore.

  Sometimes I realize why.

  IT WAS ANOTHER tough day at the Atlas, sanding the handles on the glass doors, and part of me was wondering what I’d gotten myself into, and if it was really worth it. In a year’s time, all of this would be bulldozed, crushed to rubble, carted off to wherever rubble goes, to presumably be sorted and sifted and turned into new building materials. In six months, this lovely Art Deco door handle could be shredded, pulped, reconstituted as MDF, flat-packed and sitting in a big blue-and-yellow warehouse waiting to be someone’s bedside table.

  I was tired. Being a movie theatre entrepreneur was a lot of work, but I couldn’t let go of the goal. I couldn’t let doubt fill me and ruin it. I had a little over seven weeks to go, and I was on track. I couldn’t wait for the day when I’d be able to roll out the red carpet and welcome the good people of Kumpunotko to the new, improved Atlas.

  I bumped into Sara at a hockey game

  “The one time I go to a hockey game,” I told her, “and who do I see?”

  “Meee!” Sara said with glee.

  “I didn’t know you were a hockey fan.”

  “Got to support the team, man.”

  “Of course. Go KP!”

  “I never used to come to hockey games, you know. Back then.”

  “Me neither.”

  “But it really makes me feel like I belong here, that I’m part of the community. And people can see I’m not just a mean old cop.”

  I grinned. “I doubt anyone thinks you’re mean.”

  She snarled at me.

  “Where are you sitting? I’m in the corner, over there. Plenty of space, if you want to join me?”

  “Ah, sorry. We’ve got front-row seats. My buddy knows the coach, so . . .” I said, just as Kim returned from the concession stand with grilled sausages and two cups of coffee.

  “It’s fine. I’ll see you around. Go KP!” Sara said, and pumped her fist.

  I DIDN’T NECESSARILY like painting walls, but even I could see that I was getting better at it. And it did give me an opportunity to really think. Every stroke of the brush, every sweep of the roller took me deeper into my consciousness. I wasn’t a religious or even a spiritual person—I never did yoga and I didn’t believe in meditation—but when I was painting over the dragon at the Atlas, I was at peace.

  Until the music stopped.

  Dad went on humming for a few bars, but I turned around and saw Tomi Taimi standing in front of the curtain.

  “I guess you didn’t hear me come in,” he said. He walked toward me with his hands crossed, twiddling his thumbs nervously.

  “You boys have done wonders here. It’s hard to believe this is the same place it was when I checked it out in September,” he said, wringing his hands.

  “Thanks. It hasn’t been straightforward, but we’re happy with the way things are going,” I said. “Coffee?” I nodded at a Thermos next to the radio.

  “No. No, thanks.” He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I have some bad news. We just heard back from the town hall. The council has apparently been working hard behind the scenes, and we won our case against the last complaint. Therefore . . .” He looked really uncomfortable, like he was trying not to cry. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. “Sorry, guys. The bulldozers will be here in about three weeks. November 1, to be exact.”

  I dropped my roller into the tray. I glanced at my left wrist, but I wasn’t wearing my calculator watch. It didn’t matter. When I heard “three weeks,” my heart skipped a beat.

  “I think I have to sit down,” I said, and did so, on the carpet. All I could do was stare ahead.

  Tomi Taimi sighed.

  “I’m sorry. I thought you’d like to know in person, rather than in writing.”

  “We appreciate that,” said Dad, emerging from the shadows. He got down on his haunches and put a hand on my shoulder. “Maybe there’s still time to do one show?” he said softly.

  “Maybe . . .”

  THAT EVENING, I PACED around my room and the house like a lion in a cage. I’d start to do something, drop it, and start something else. Rinse and repeat.

  I’d lost a month. Maybe even more than that. Worse, the little notion I’d always carried—that somehow the demolition would be stopped and the cinema saved forever—faded to black, crushed by a big yellow bulldozer. Now everything would have to be ready by the end of October.

  October 26! The date hit me like a bolt of lightning. Of course! I would move my gala opening to October 26. It was the perfect date—the same day that Marty McFly travelled back in time, met young “Doc,” and—

  The lightning hit a second time. I had told “Doc” that I’d like to see him in Kumpunotko on December 1.

  In a frenzy, I took the first piece of paper I saw on my desk and, as carefully as I could in that state of mind, wrote a second letter to Christopher Lloyd. It was shorter than the first one.

  Dear Mr. Lloyd,

  Please accept my apologies, but there has been a change of plans. I would appreciate it if you could be in Kumpunotko on October 26, a date I am sure you know well.

  I apologize if this means you have to change your flight booking. I’d be more than happy to cover the cost of doing so.

  Very much looking forward to meeting you.

  Humbly yours,

  Peter Eksell

  Manager, Atlas Theatre

  I put the letter in an envelope, sealed it, and went downstairs for dinner.

  Chapter 30

  Here I Go Again

  MAYBE YOU WON’T have the theatre for long, but I’m sure it will still be an unforgettable night,” Mom said.

  “Yeah,” added Dad gruffly.

  “Dad and I will help you the best we can, of course.”

  “Yeah,” said Dad.

  “Don’t give up.”

  “Yeah.”

  They reminded me of an elderly Finnish version of the two jailbird thugs in Trading Places. Which made me Billy Ray Valentine. But I wasn’t feeling very lucky that evening.

  I mumbled some sort of a reply, but my mind was elsewhere. It was everywhere. I sat down to play a game, and to think, but my hands were twitching. I logged on to the BBS to see if Twisted Sister was there.

  While the Spectrum loaded the software, and the modem hooked up onto the BBS, I berated myself for being so stupid. My inner narrator was mad; he was mad as hell.

  “He thought he’d found the perfect way to go back in time, and to get his girl. What he forgot was that he was a slacker!”

  My breathing got heavier and heavier.

  The “I Wanna Rock!” logo appeared on my screen, followed by the menu choices. Before I’d had time to check for new messages on the board, Twisted Sister began a chat.

  Good evening. How are things with you today?

  Hi, I typed back.

  I needed air. I inhaled as much as I could, but nothing was enough. The walls started to close in. I heard another chat message rattling onto the screen.

  That was short. Are you okay?

  I sat down to write.

  Had some devastating news today. Trying to digest everything.

  A minute later, a reply:

  I see. Remember that at a time of stress,
you have two choices: fight or flight. Just remember that it’s a choice. Your call.

  What the hell? Was Twisted Sister actually Seppo Laine? I tried to picture the old man hunched over a keyboard, sporting a massive perm and shock-rock makeup, but my brain couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed air and I needed space. I ran downstairs and was headed toward the front door when something stopped me in my tracks. Dad’s computer screen was shining in the dark study, and I stopped at the threshold for a second, staring at the machine humming softly on the table.

  Dad had been looking at Tina’s photos of Sofie on Facebook. She was cute, and Dad’s computer was gorgeous. It was a laptop, no bigger than my Spectrum, but so much faster and more powerful. It had better graphics, better software, and . . . a fast internet connection. If I just borrowed it for a few minutes, I could go online and fill in all the forms I needed to finalize my permits; I could do all the other admin that was clogging up my time—I could do days’ worth of work in minutes. I could type “Jennifer Berg” into a search engine and see what came out . . .

  I grabbed the Beetle keys from the hall table and ran.

  I drove first toward town, and when I came to the intersection that would have taken me to Jennifer’s road, I pressed the gas pedal to the floor and continued straight ahead.

  I sped past the Atlas and the record store and the market square, and, ten minutes later, I sped past the City Limits sign. My heart was racing, and my poor brain couldn’t keep up. To make sense of things, I decided to sing.

  I reached for a new tape in the glove compartment, but my hand hit something else. Paper. The Time Machine. “The fargin’ Time Machine,” said Tina’s voice in my head. The stupid piece of paper that had gotten me into this stupid mess in the first place. I pushed it back in and, instead, pressed a tape into the Blaupunkt stereo that Dad was so proud of.

  I hit Play and a powerful guitar chord struck out, but then crunched slightly and warbled, and—“Noooooo!” The machine was eating my favourite tape. I clicked Eject and the stereo spat out the cassette, the magnetic tape still tangled in its guts.

  I didn’t need music; I could sing.

  But nothing came to me.