“Change?” I repeat. “What kind of change?” Here’s one thing I’m sure of: A fundamental component of change is the potential for disaster.
Quinn reaches for a gold-framed picture he keeps of Mrs. Q on his desk. “You know, Ga-ga was a model grandmother, and a shrewd business lady. Nobody disputes that. But since I’ve taken over we’ve increased revenues by twenty-two percent. Just this week, seven more stations have made SWC Fury!!! available pay-per-view. Current coverage is eighty-six percent in North Carolina and fifty-three percent in South Carolina. The Caribbean market is ours for the taking. But certain demographic anomalies disturb me. Frankly, I foresee the potential for audience stagnation.”
I nod and say, “Anomalies.” Quinn used this word expecting me not to know its meaning. He hasn’t read my file. Unlike Hardy, my GPA had nothing to do with why I didn’t finish college.
Quinn goes on, “Men with vision like us have to anticipate market forces. Conceive and execute strategic action plans. This situation demands a bold stroke. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “A bold stroke.”
“I’m glad we’re in agreement on this, B. C. It brings me back to the adjustment we’re making for Friday’s match. We’ve decided to have you win.”
For two beats the world stops spinning. All nine TV analysts smile at me in unison.
Quinn says, “You’ll beat Hardy.”
I try to read the streaming symbols and strange fractions. BGV is down twelve-fifteenths.
“Snake will interrupt your match. The light show will let you know he’s en route,” Quinn explains. “Hardy will stare at him and Lucifer, become agitated the way he does. That’s when you ambush him. Once the crowd gets worked up, pin him. But nothing too extravagant. We’ll need it to look bad.”
“Bad?”
“More fake than usual fake. Fraudulent, in fact, as if Hardy were taking a dive. That’s how this has to appear—constructed. I’ll arrange for some plants in the audience to chant ‘Fix! Fix!’ Or ‘Appleseed sold out.’ Something. We’ve got a couple days to iron out the details. Bottom line is that we need to have Hardy run out of the ring disgraced, a moral man corrupted—that’s the Cliffs Notes version here. At that point, B. C., you walk away with the belt.”
“Buy buy buy!” one bird squawks.
“I’m making you champion,” Quinn says.
The other cracks out, “Sell sell sell!”
I stand up. “No thanks.”
“No thanks?” Quinn repeats. “Explain these words to me.” He’s standing now too.
I realize I’ve knocked my chair over. “This isn’t for me.”
He rakes a hand through the iron black hair. “Listen, B. C. We’re not connecting. This isn’t something I’m asking you to do. This is the plan. This is the script.”
“Not my script,” I say. “Winning’s not in my contract.”
“Don’t be rash. We both know your contract’s a finely polished piece of shit.”
“Watch your mouth!” one of the parrots scowls. Mrs. Q hated cursing.
“Look, Mr. Quinn, I don’t understand why you’d want to bring Hardy down. The fans seem to—”
“Understanding is not something I require from you. Now I didn’t anticipate your reluctance to this project. If I have to send in somebody else with the mask on, so be it. Hardy works well with you. Everybody knows he looks up to you, and I thought your participation in this would help him through. But if you want to file for conscientious objector status, I’m sure I can find someone in the corral who wants a shot. Someone who appreciates the importance of being a team player.”
I rub my chest, still dotted with scabs from Gumbo’s pecking. I tell Quinn, “I am a team player. I just need to think this over is all.”
“Fine, B. C. You think it over. If you decide it’s not something you’re able to do, I’ll understand completely. No hard feelings. If we have to go separate ways, so be it. Unemployment’s only at four percent, and Wal-Mart’s always hiring smiling faces.”
He whips that erector-set phone out and steps back around to his chair, thus ending our interview. I head for the hallway, thinking about a quick shower and my Ford and driving. Behind me I hear Quinn’s voice say, “Get me H. A. Expedite.” And it occurs to me that Hardy doesn’t know about the change in plans yet. He doesn’t know that he’s now scheduled to lose. And I’m kind of glad that he was praying before, though I don’t think this is what the kid had in mind.
After I pull in behind the strip mall that houses Dance! Dance! Dance!, I park by my Dumpster and lean back into the shadows. Alix always drives in from the other direction, down by the Donut Hole. At this distance—about fifty yards from the door—I can usually hear Brook’s laughter and see Alix’s smile. Tonight though, I’ve come here for more than just recon.
It’s only a little after eight-thirty, so the parking lot is just starting to fill up with Aerostars and Caravans. On the message board is a reminder about the dance show tomorrow night. The one Trevor is helping to sponsor. I promised Brook I’d try to make it.
I reach into the CVS bag on the seat and pull free my third Bud Light. Dr. Collins specifically warned me of the “negative interactive potentialities” but I’m feeling in a negative mood. After leaving the SWC Training Facility, I circled Greenfield Lake for an hour, listened to WAOK, considered my options, then hit CVS. After a quick pit stop at the Salvation Station, I came here.
A logical question I suppose is why I would mind Quinn’s offer, why it would bother me to wear the championship belt for a couple days. In the course of my last two beers, I’ve decided that Quinn must have some ulterior motive. I’ve been wondering too if Snake might not have some reliable intelligence on all this, since he’s clearly involved. For a while I considered driving down to Carolina Beach to Snake’s recently reopened, no-longer-topless bar. But since the night of his wreck, Snake and I have history, so I came here instead.
One thing I’m sure is not behind my decision is a fear of success. Dr. Collins claims that my “habitual hyper-aggressive behavior suggests an aversion to accomplishing tasks and achieving preset goals.” But my discharge from the Army was caused by a C.O. with a glass jaw. And later on, I didn’t leave NC State by choice. I didn’t quit the wrestling team. So Collins can stuff his “self-sabotage” theory. Here’s one thing I’m sure of: I never quit anything in my life.
The beer tastes warm but still feels fine going down. I’m not catching anything like a buzz, but when you’re my size it usually takes more than a couple. I wonder if the pink pills will prevent me from getting drunk. That would be negative.
Hoping for clear words of encouragement, I reach for the radio. I click on WAOK and hear, “… Which is why you should always keep a sterile spoon in your first aid kit.” I click it off. Since leaving the gym I’ve been trolling for signs, even though I don’t really believe in them. During my wrestling days at NC State, I took this English class about heroes. Alix sent me and a bunch of other jocks into it, telling us it was an easy C and had a lot of violence. “Great Legends of Literature” dealt with Gilgamesh. Beowulf. King Arthur. Those kinds of guys. But these heroes were always receiving omens—everywhere in the stories were these deeply symbolic messages. So when I tilt the rearview mirror and check the bruise on my chin, part of me is hoping it might resemble Excalibur or a fist or something. What it looks like though is a bruise. I tilt the mirror back.
When Alix pulls in tonight, I’ll do what I’ve never done before. I’ll get out of the Ford and cross the parking lot. I’ll smile when she sees me and raise one hand. We’ll go sit on the steps behind the pizza joint and I’ll apologize for the Trinitron and tell her I’ll replace Trevor’s Wild Turkey and I’ll hand her back the green cell phone, which I retrieved earlier from Dr. Bacchus for just this reason. She’ll tell me Trevor shouldn’t have donated my things to Second Chances. She’ll kick at the ground before looking at the bruise on my chin and saying, “Coop. It was you last night,
wasn’t it?”
At this point, I feel quite certain that we may embrace.
Then I’ll tell her about Quinn’s offer, how the championship we always dreamed of is mine for the asking, but how it doesn’t feel right. Alix will listen and understand. She’ll help me decide what it is I should do.
I’m just reaching for my fifth beer when Trevor’s Lincoln Towner rolls into the parking lot, docks right next to the minivan fleet. In the dark behind the wheel, I see Trevor’s head—bald on top with a crown of aging blond. Alix gets out the passenger’s side, Trevor unfolds from the driver’s side. I sink an inch farther into my seat, into the darkness. As Trevor takes the steps two at a time on those long crane legs, Alix seems to look in my general direction. If she has any idea I’m here, she doesn’t show it. She moves up the steps and through the door being held by Trevor, who follows my wife inside to get my daughter, bring her home from the dance lessons he writes checks for.
There are nights I’m not proud of. Nights when I dream about Trevor. I could lie and say it was the booze that causes it, but even when I’ve gone dry the dreams still come. They go like this: I’m getting into my truck or driving along in it when I hear scuffling sounds from an alley or a dark warehouse. Sometimes I’m in a crazy place I can’t figure, like the set from People’s Court. When I investigate the sounds I see Trevor hurting Alix or Brook. Some nights he’s pulling Alix’s hair and slapping her, coming at her with a baseball bat. Other nights he’s shoving Brook up against a brick wall and … he’s doing the kind of things that mark him as more than just bad. And suddenly I have every God-given right in the book because he is clearly evil and I am clearly good. The one constant in all the dreams is that I always use the tire iron. The rusted one I keep under the Ford’s front seat.
The doors of Dance! Dance! Dance! split open and out they come. Trevor’s face is not smashed in. He extends a long arm at the Lincoln and beeps the locks, then opens both passenger side doors like a gentleman before loping around and getting behind the wheel. They all talk for a minute. Their heads rock with laughter. Then the Towner’s engine rumbles up and Trevor backs out slowly, leaving the lot in the opposite direction. Probably heading for Dairy Queen. The whole time Alix never once looks my way. I could tail them, wait for a chance to get Alix by herself for a minute, but I’m starting to feel like a stalker, so I let them go.
I polish off the rest of my beer watching the other families pull out one by one, until I’m alone. The lights go off in the building, and as I finish my sixth beer a strip mall security guard rolls toward me in a golf cart. I’m hoping that he stops. The action would be good and quick. But he doesn’t even notice me.
I pick up the green cell phone and consider calling Alix, telling her that I need her advice. But since I’ve got her phone, I can’t call her. My fingers start moving on their own, and I realize the clever words they are spelling out. Once again, I am unnerved by the absent punctuation. I lift the phone to my ear just in time to hear, “Welcome to Carolina’s own, Psychic Sidekicks. If you’re calling because of financial trouble, press one. If you’re calling because of love problems, press two. If you’re calling because of trouble with your job, press three. If you’re calling because of other concerns or general anxiety, press four.”
Playing it safe, I go with four. After a recorded message explains the billing options, a live female voice comes on the line. “Say your name, three times. Slowly.”
“If you’re psychic, why don’t you know my name?”
“Look, the meter’s running, pal. I need your name or I can’t get a psychic fix on you.”
This seems reasonable. “Seamus,” I say.
She insists I say it three times slowly, so she can get a psychic fix on me. And though I’m sure it’s just a scam to keep clocking time, I follow her instructions. “Seamus, Seamus, Seamus.”
“Alright, Seamus, my name’s Tina T. I sense you are deeply troubled.”
“No. I’m not,” I say.
“Well, you’re going to be, Seamus. Sometime real soon. This is not a guess.”
“Which one are you?” I ask. “The blond with the crystal ball?”
“You can’t talk to her. She’s not even a real psychic. Look, I can transfer you across the hall to the adult chat line if you want, but I’m not about to start getting tingly and breathing heavy.”
I recognize the grit in her voice. “Your mother knew about Reagan,” I say. “You’re the carrot top. The one true gift flows in your veins.”
“Listen, Seamus, this is not how we do things. You call. I tell you your future.”
“I know my future,” I say.
There is a long pause, maybe fifteen seconds, and Tina sighs. “Hey, I can tell you’re in a not good place. I can sympathize, you know. But my boss monitors these calls sometimes. If I’m not predicting the future, it’s my ass. And I need this job.”
“Why?” I ask. “What’s wrong? Tell me your problems.”
“I can’t do that. And listen, I’m not kidding about trouble in your future. Sometimes I see things. For real. I’m getting a weird vibe off you. Trust me. I know about bad streaks.”
Something in her voice disturbs me. Despite all the evidence I have, despite what I know, I’m suddenly certain that she’s the real thing. I cradle the cell phone to my face. “Please,” I whisper. “Tell me what you see.”
She inhales deeply, and I imagine those green eyes gently closing. “Something is chasing you through dark woods. I see you struggling with yourself, confused. I see a dance floor. Strange disco lights. A man with no tongue. Thunder cracks. Blood pools at your feet. It pumps from a still heart on the ground. No wait, that’s not a heart. Sweet Jesus, the heart has eyes and a mouth and there’s a kid who—”
I snap the cell phone shut and drop it to my lap where I hold it very still. Twenty feet to my left, the mall security guard’s golf cart sits in shadow. A cigarette glows red. Slowly, I reach for the key and crank the Ford to life. I maneuver around the mall, past the Donut Hole, to the light on College. Considering that I came to the mall seeking answers, I have to consider this mission an unqualified failure. I should retreat to the safety of my apartment. Maybe it’s the strange buzz, or maybe it’s the temptation of prophecy. But when the light turns green, I aim the Ford at Carolina Beach and head for Snake’s Pit. His bar has got a dance floor and funky lights. Not that I really believe in these things. But if I’m destined to be part of something ugly, I don’t want to be late.
-----
In Which Our Hero Seeks Further Advice. The Memory of
Reptiles. Oliver Stone’s E-mail. An Advantageous Wrong Turn.
Monday Night Football. An Old Friend Returns.
Take care of Lucy, the napkin read.
That’s what I’m thinking about as I step up to the double doors of Snake’s bar. I haven’t been in this building in almost T a year, not since the Baptists shut down Heaven’s Gate and Snake took that drive down River Road. The old neon sign—complete with clouds and harp-playing sexy angels—has been replaced by a piece of plywood nailed above the entrance with the words SNAKE’S PIT painted across it. This is the first of many changes I’m expecting. But when I open the doors and walk into the smoky dimness, right in front of me is the same runway where Moniqua danced naked with her python, where Sally did lasso tricks in nothing but a white cowboy hat. And the gold poles Glori once whirled around still stretch into the ceiling, now useless and lonely. Lining the edges of the raised stage, a brotherhood of a half dozen guys man the bar stools waiting for the return of their goddess. The somber men bow their heads over their beer mugs as Johnny Cash preaches fire from the jukebox.
A bar girl comes toward me in black high heels and a leopard miniskirt and at first she seems completely topless. But as she nears I make out the tassels swinging from the pasties on her breasts. This must be the legal compromise worked out between the Baptists and Snake’s lawyer. She smiles at me and says, “You’re allowed to come inside, y’kno
w.”
The tassels tumbling from her breasts are red and green. Stop and go, I think.
“I’m here to see Snake,” I tell her, and she cocks her head toward the booths back by a pool table, where two players stand side by side, consulting on a shot. The taller one’s missing an arm. Heading toward them, I pass Lucifer’s glass cage, a giant aquarium built into the wall. You really can’t blame Hardy for his phobia of this thing, though the fans think he’s acting when he waves his arms and hollers. The albino python’s face settles against the glass in sleep, and she seems possessed of some secret knowledge. The slim smile on her face makes me wonder if she’s dreaming of wounded baby goats. Though for all I know she may be missing the old days with Moniqua, replaying nights in the spotlight. I don’t know how much memory reptiles have. Or how much regret they are capable of.
Closing in on Snake’s booth, I realize it’s the same one we drank in that last night, after the shutdown. The night his truck cracked that phone pole on River Road. Alix scolded me for letting a friend drive drunk, said I was a bad example for Brook. When I step up to his table, Snake keeps looking at the blueprints unrolled before him and says, “No more autographsss tonight. Pissss off.”
“Relax, Paul,” I say. “The civilians are busy drinking your swill.”
Snake raises his angular face, sunken cheeks folding into a sharp chin capped by a black goatee. Through the thin cigarette fog, he grins. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Unknown Kentucky Terrier.”
“Woof woof,” I say. “You’re funny.”
The windshield scars on his forehead never completely healed, so fine pink lines crisscross his skin. When he’s Snake Handler, the white makeup covers them. He lifts one of his scarecrow arms and shouts, “Hey, Sweetcheeks, a pitcher and two mugs. Got a man dehydrating over here.” I slide into the cone of light spreading over the booth, where I consider the advisability of having more beer. My head feels light and my fingertips tingle. But I’m feeling fine really—I knew Collins was putting me on. Snake rolls up the blueprints. “Christ, I thought you were one of the Dark Disciples come to worship.”
Buddy Cooper Finds a Way Page 4
