Someday Jennifer

by Risto Pakarinen

  I glared at him.

  “Maybe just as a backup? I’m sure Hugo would be happy to help . . .”

  “No way, we’re going to do it right—or not at all!”

  He glowered back at me.

  “Then I guess there’s only one thing we can do.”

  Arms folded, we just scowled at each other for a while.

  Finally, I threw my arms up. “Fine!”

  REXI LIVED IN an apartment around the back of the record store. I’d tried ringing him on the number Dad gave me but had no luck. Instead, I tracked down his address and rang the doorbell.

  Eventually, a skinny woman answered.

  “He’s at the pub,” she said, without even asking who I was or what I wanted. She was kind enough, though, to tell me which pub.

  I found him, both elbows on the bar, tracing lines through the rings of beer from the bottom of his bottle.

  “Hey,” he said. “It’s Atlas Boy.”

  “Hey,” I replied as cheerfully as I could. “It’s Atlas Man.”

  “Pssht. No such thing anymore. Beer?”

  “Thanks, but I’m driving.”

  “Two beers, Olli.”

  I pulled up the bar stool next to his.

  “So,” I began.

  “So let me guess. The reels arrived and you don’t know which end goes in the damn machine.”

  I laughed, trying to keep it light. He seemed like a human minefield.

  “I don’t even know how to switch it on.”

  “Ha!”

  Our beers arrived.

  “Will you show me, please? I need to know how to work it. I wouldn’t expect you to do it on the night, but if you could at least just show me how the machine works, I’d be really grateful.”

  He growled.

  “Have you lost your Columbo tape?”

  Damn. He hadn’t forgotten.

  “Listen, I’m sorry. Obviously, I know nothing about being a projectionist. But I do know that . . . Dad would be grateful too. He thinks a lot of you.”

  “Your dad,” he said, spinning his empty beer bottle. “Your dad.”

  I wasn’t sure what to make of that.

  “So . . .”

  “When do you open?”

  “October 26. Next week. It would be great if you could come by before then, though. I mean, we don’t even know if it works . . .”

  “Oh, it works,” he said. “The building, yeah, I may have let that slide a little toward the end. But that machine’s as good as the day it arrived. Better, even.”

  “Great. Do you think you could—”

  “Did I tell you about the time we had a hundred school kids coming to watch Home Alone 2, and the goddamned sound system packed it in? I had an hour to rewire eighteen speakers and get the surround realigned. What do you think I did, Atlas Boy . . . ?”

  I reached for my beer—my first since going back in time. I had a feeling I’d be walking home.

  Chapter 34

  You Spin Me Round (Like a Record)

  ALTHOUGH THERE WAS still plenty to do as the twenty-sixth drew closer, I left the Atlas early the next day so that I’d have time to shower, rewind Trading Places, and do everything else I had to do to get ready for my movie night with Sara.

  My first stop was Kim’s record store. He was sitting on his bar stool behind the counter, as usual. Normally I waited for other customers to leave so I could sit and hang out with my new friend, but I didn’t have time for that, so I got straight to the point, ignoring the man who was going through the old Dylans.

  “I’m having a friend over tonight, and I’d like to play something that will set the tone just right. Warm but not sexy,” I said.

  “Interesting, interesting,” he said, and rubbed his chin. “Dance?”

  “No. Nothing too slow, but no dance beats either.”

  “Lyrics? Rule the world, or peace on earth?”

  “Peace on earth.”

  “Album or single?”

  “An album with a lead single.”

  Kim smiled and wagged his finger. He lifted the countertop and walked straight to a crate by the door. His fingers carefully but quickly flipped through the albums until he found what he was looking for.

  “Not sure what you have in mind, but according to the parameters you just gave me, this is the perfect album for you,” he said, and handed me a brown album cover.

  It was the We Are the World charity album.

  “The best artists in the world,” Kim said. “Springsteen, Jackson, Dylan . . .”

  “Dylan?” said the man from the other side of the store.

  “Not for you,” said Kim, and turned back to me. “And,” he went on, “on the other side, you have Gordon Lightfoot, Neil Young, and Anne Murray!”

  “Kim, you’re a genius,” I said, and we high-fived.

  The thought of Sara interrogating me again made me nervous, so I tried to eliminate all the things that had annoyed her. I wore an ordinary pair of jeans and a plain black T-shirt, with no movie taglines or eighties-band logos.

  The mullet stayed.

  I was also determined to keep the discussion on the movie and away from Jennifer.

  An hour before I expected Sara to show up, the phone rang. I tossed my Spectrum on the bed and bolted to the hallway, but when I answered the phone, I heard Mom’s voice.

  “Oh, hi, Mom,” Tina said.

  “Hello, Tina,” she said. “How are you? How’s Sofie?”

  “Hi, Tina!” I said. “Mom, you can hang up.”

  “Sofie’s great. Her science project came first today. She’s so clever,” I heard Tina say.

  “Mom, you can hang up,” I repeated.

  “Okay, okay, hanging up now,” she said. I stayed silent until I heard the click on the line and her steps downstairs.

  “Okay, here I am, how are you?” I said.

  “Great. Good. Pretty good.”

  I could tell by her voice and the descending value of her well-being that something was up.

  “Are you all right?”

  “It’s just that . . . you know, we may not be able to come to your screening . . .”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because it’s a Wednesday and it’s a long drive and Tim will have work the next day—they have a big staff meeting and Thursdays are a bitch for him . . . you know.”

  “Actually, I don’t know. I get that it’s a Wednesday and that it’s difficult, but it really would mean a lot to me to have you guys here.”

  “It’s just, you know . . .”

  “Again, I don’t know.”

  “It’s not fair if one of us doesn’t feel welcome. Then it makes me jumpy and edgy, and you know how I get when I get edgy. The gloves are off.”

  “Yes, I know that,” I said, suddenly feeling very defensive on Mom’s behalf. “But perhaps it’s not about you. Perhaps you shouldn’t always jump down people’s throats when you don’t know who’s done what to upset whom!”

  “What? Who has done what to upset whom? As far as I know, Mom’s been on Timmy’s case for a while now. I don’t know—do you think she’s racist or something?”

  “No, I don’t think she’s racist! I think you need to talk to your husband about how he talks about his mother-in-law.”

  “What? Peter, can you stop being so damn cryptic, please? I know in our family we’re incapable of speaking directly about anything, but can you please just say what you mean? Argh!”

  I held my breath, my ear ringing. It wasn’t unusual for Tina to yell over the phone at me. But for me to detect a quiver in her voice, the suggestion that she was holding back tears . . . That was unheard of.

  “Look, Tim said something snide about Mom’s cooking, and she heard him. Something about her cooking like an old hag. You know how she takes pride in that sort of stuff.”

  “What? Tim would never say that! He loves her cooking. He thought all we Finns ate was rotting herring and salty licorice; he was amazed by her cooking.”

  “So why say
that, then?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know what you’re talking about. Besides, it’s not like I haven’t had to endure years of little put-downs about him, little remarks.”

  “No. But I bet I know which came first.”

  “Oh God,” she said softly. “This has been stewing for too long. I have to talk to Tim about this.”

  “Probably a good idea.”

  “And look, we’ll try our best to come. Maybe Tim can drive back late and we’ll get the train or something. We’ll try.”

  “Thanks, sis.”

  “I’ve gotta go,” Tina said, and hung up.

  I tiptoed to the hall to put the phone back, and heard Mom’s quiet humming from the kitchen.

  I still had some time to kill, so I dialled up on the BBS to see if Twisted Sister was around. Just seconds after the “I Wanna Rock!” logo had scrolled up on my TV screen, a chat window popped up. I wondered if Twisted Sister ever left her house.

  Hello! What’s new? I read the words out loud as they appeared.

  Just bought “We Are the World.” Your take?

  The answer came while I straightened the rug on the floor and opened the narrow ventilation window to let in some fresh air.

  Great single, strong album. Lots of top artists. Springsteen and Perry crush it.

  I’ve got someone coming over tonight. Thought it would make a good soundtrack.

  Before I hit Enter, I added: It’s not a date.

  Sounds like it. ;o)

  I chuckled.

  Thanks, Twisted Sister, gotta run.

  I had just pressed Enter when I got a new idea and started to type again.

  A crazy idea: Would you want to come to my cinema opening in Kumpunotko, Finland, on October 26? This is an official invitation. Would be fun to see you here.

  I waited for the reply to come back. Had I overstepped? Was I officially asking Twisted Sister on a date?

  Kumpunotko? Finland? Ha ha. Are you kidding me?

  I wasn’t sure what to make of that. That old uncertainty surfaced; the words in an online chat lacked nuance, and offence could be read into the harmless. Was she mocking my town’s name? Admittedly it did sound funny in English, but you try saying “Chicago” in Finnish without it sounding like “Sicker cow.”

  All true. It’s a little town in Finland. I’ve renovated the old movie theatre here and will have a grand opening on October 26. Just thought, if you’re not doing anything else that day . . .

  I waited to be laughed at, to lose one of the only new friends I’d made since this whole adventure began.

  Which movie?

  “Back to the Future.” Doc Brown is coming too . . . I hope.

  This is too much. Doc Brown in Kumpunotko, Finland? That alone sounds worth the airfare.

  I didn’t know what to say to that, so I signed off and disconnected the modem from the wall.

  Chapter 35

  Talk to Me

  MID-OCTOBER. THE LEAVES on the trees behind our house had mostly fallen, and through my window I could see that the wind had swept them into a pile underneath the Beetle, which sat patiently in its carport, that sad and put-upon look in its eyes. I saw Sara make her way up the small walkway between the houses. She was looking at each door, searching for ours.

  I went downstairs to open the door for her and decided to remind Mom and Dad of my plans. Dad asked me if we needed the big TV, and when I told him we’d watch the movie upstairs in my room, he gave me the thumbs-up from his chair.

  “Do you know if she’s allergic to anything?” Mom asked.

  “I don’t, sorry.”

  “What’s her favourite food?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Not sure? What kind of a boyfriend are you? Do you know anything about her?”

  “Oh, she’s not my girlfriend . . . but she likes pizza,” I said sheepishly.

  “I hope she’s not a vegetarian!” Mom said and disappeared into the kitchen.

  A second later she was back, clutching an egg whisk. The doorbell rang.

  “That must be her!” she shouted, and clapped her hands, disappearing back into the kitchen.

  I opened the door and ushered Sara in. She was wearing a nice Norwegian wool sweater and, if I wasn’t mistaken, a little bit of makeup.

  “I took the bus; I had a glass of wine earlier. Anyway, here’s a little something. I was taught that you should never arrive empty-handed.”

  She handed me a bag of chips.

  “And listen, I’m sorry about giving you the third degree before. I was out of line.”

  “Don’t worry about it. This way, please,” I said, but before I had the chance to show her the way upstairs, Mom walked back out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, her eyes on Sara.

  “Peter, aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?” she said.

  “Sure, where are my manners?” I said. “Sara, this is my mother. Mom, this is Sara.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” they said in unison, and then Mom added, “I made some warm sandwiches; they’re ready.”

  I couldn’t say no to my mother, and Sara obviously didn’t want to either, so the four of us sat down and ate the sandwiches.

  “How lovely that you two are partners again,” said Mom.

  Sara and I shared a look. Partners?

  “You did look wonderful when you danced together,” Mom said. “And I like that you’re back in Kumpunotko. It’s good for young people to remember where they come from. Your mother must be thrilled too.”

  “She is. Although she likes to remind me of all the times I vowed to leave town and never come back.”

  I figured it was time to make our escape, and I tried to signal that to Sara by rolling my eyes, tapping the table, and even making strange head gestures, but she went on chatting with Mom and Dad. Mostly Mom. When Dad had finished his sandwiches, he excused himself and left. A few minutes later, I showed Sara to my upstairs room.

  She stopped at the threshold.

  “This is like stepping inside a time machine,” she said. “Everything’s so . . . eighties.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t take it as a compliment.”

  Sara walked around my tiny room as if she was making an inspection. She laughed at the Ghostbusters and Purple Rain posters on the walls, ran her finger over the picture of Axel Foley, and marvelled at my ZX Spectrum. Then she noticed the VCR on my desk, next to the fourteen-inch TV screen.

  “VHS?” She shook her head. “I hope that’s a colour TV at least.”

  “It sure is,” I said.

  “This is . . . something else, truly,” she said, and sat down on my bed.

  I shifted the TV closer to the edge of the desk and turned it so she could see it better. Then I pulled out a cardboard box with all my VHS tapes from under my bed.

  “Wait, what? There’s more?” Sara said. She was giggling.

  She hopped off the bed and got on her stomach on the floor. She reached under my bed and pulled out another cardboard box, the one that was filled with comics. “Hey, I’m not going to find anything naughty in here, am I?”

  I feigned outrage—and then wondered if not having anything naughty in there made me a little boring. Next she pulled out a box full of junk: newspapers, some tapes I had, and an old electronic typewriter.

  “Does that tunnel go all the way to 1979?” Sara asked me.

  “Oh, it’s just some old stuff. Mom and Dad don’t like to throw anything away. Let’s roll the tape now, okay?” I sat on the bed with my back against the wall and set the bag of chips Sara had brought between us.

  I had seen Trading Places a dozen times and thought it was funny every time, but Sara’s laughter made it even funnier.

  As each of my favourite jokes approached, I watched her out of the corner of my eye to see if she’d find it funny too. I don’t know why I felt the need for her affirmation. I mean, Trading Places is funny. Fact.

  And then my favourit
e bit came along—Dan Aykroyd as Santa, drunk on the bus, trying to eat a stolen side of salmon through his false beard. Sara was howling with laughter, squirming at the awfulness of it, slapping her thighs and wiping away tears.

  It was such a happy vision that I couldn’t take my eyes off her, even though I was supposed to be watching Dan Aykroyd.

  After the movie was over, I rewound the tape, pressed Eject, and slipped the movie back into its cover. Sara pulled up her feet and crossed them in front of her. She looked me in the eye and sighed, like a parent who doesn’t know what to say to her child.

  “Listen, Peter, obviously you don’t want to talk about what’s going on, but you should know that when things bother me, I want to get to the bottom of them. I guess that’s part of the training, or maybe why I chose to be a cop. So, please explain.” Once again, she gestured around the room.

  My silence pushed her on.

  “Do you think you might be having some kind of breakdown? Is that why you’re in Kumpunotko? And if you are, that’s fine, I’m not judging. I want to help you. Really. I’m on your side,” she said.

  I wanted to choose my words carefully, but I didn’t know whether to just tell her everything or try to change the subject. The look on her face made my decision easier: she was not going to let me change the subject.

  “Have you ever felt stuck?” I said. “In your life, I mean.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Have you ever looked back at the good old days and wondered what might have been?”

  “Of course.”

  “And have you ever just looked at the world and thought that everything’s going to hell, that there’s trouble everywhere, that . . .”

  I stopped and took a deep breath. I smiled.

  “See, this is what I’m talking about. I’m getting agitated just speaking about it. Anyway, I always thought things would get better and that there would be progress and then, suddenly, Russia annexes Crimea!”

  “Go on,” Sara said gently.

  “You think humanity’s making progress, and then it all slides away. It just got to be too much. Also, you’re a policewoman; your work has a purpose. Mine didn’t. Nothing I did mattered and nothing was going right.”

  I paused.