Buddy Cooper Finds a Way

by Neil O'Boyle Connelly

  I shut off the water.

  When I step out of the shower I examine the wound in the mirror. It’s a tiny hole really, a purple-blue bull’s-eye at the center of a red cloud. I dab antibiotic cream onto it, but it smells just like Ben-Gay , so I question its effectiveness at preventing infection. Stepping into the living room naked, I feel the cool air of the AC float onto my body and the sensation is fine. My mind feels sharp and my body real. I head for the bedroom and clean clothes, wondering if I should call Al and ask her how Brook is doing, explain how I took care of everything at the lake after she left. She wanted to get back and help Quinn and Trevor with the script.

  I round the corner into my bedroom and I’m surprised at how the blankets have crumpled so large on my unmade bed. But then their shape becomes clear and I realize that what I’m seeing is a body. I’m Goldilocks—someone is sleeping in my bed. Beneath the blankets and turned away, the figure is too large to be Alix, though it could be Rhonda. But then it occurs to me, who else would be in my bed but me? My evil twin has returned. I’m actually kind of happy to see Buddy. I can update him and he’ll be able to help me.

  I lean in, one knee on the mattress, and shove him in the back. “Wake up,” I say. “Hear the good news.”

  The body shrugs and rolls over. Dr. Bacchus, unshaven and with a scab crusted over one eye, says, “What the hell’s everybody clapping about?”

  The shock stands me up. “Jesus,” I shout.

  “I thought it was a dream,” he says, “but then I heard it for sure. People were clapping, right?”

  “What’re you doing in my bed?”

  Dr. Bacchus blinks at me. “Trying to catch a little shut-eye.” He sits up, knuckles his eyes.

  His gaze wanders to the corner window, where a breeze is brushing back the curtain. Beneath the fluttering curtain, glass fragments catch the early-evening sunlight. Just outside the window is the large elm tree Bacchus climbed before.

  “Do you have some kind of door phobia?”

  “I wouldn’t have done this if it wasn’t important.”

  In addition to the scab on his forehead, I notice one of his eyes has a yellow bruise beneath it. He looks like a woman from one of those domestic violence public-service announcements. I ask the obvious question: “Who gave you the beat-down?”

  “That’s part of what we need to talk about.”

  “So talk,” I say.

  He’s still staring at the window, averting his eyes. “How about if I put on some coffee and you get dressed? Then we’ll get down to business.”

  I look down and return to the fact that I’m stark naked. “Coffee’s over the sink,” I say, but then I remember that he already knows.

  Five minutes later, fully clothed, I’m walking into the kitchen. Bacchus is sitting at my table, sipping coffee from an Elvis mug. “We’re almost out of sugar, honey.”

  I pour myself a cup and Bacchus stands, steps over to the back window. He splits the slats of the miniblinds. Looking out into the world, he gives the Salvation Station the once-over. “I saw you over there the other day. How’s Gladstone?”

  “Fine,” I say. “A bit confused, but that’s nothing new.”

  “Yeah. Confused.” Bacchus blows across Elvis’s pompadour, cooling his coffee. “Winston’s insane. That’s clear to you, right?”

  I take a sip. “He does seem a bit paranoid.”

  “His delusions have gone beyond simple paranoia, that was clear from the first second he came back. We’d been keeping vigil, you know. Gladstone had rounded up a lot of support from the gang down by the river and the bridge crew, and I saw no harm in humoring him, playing along until he realized just how wrong he was. Out of the blue Winston sweeps in about three a.m. saying he’s been returned to us from outer space. Or inner space. Something about dimensional shifts.”

  “Yeah, I got that part.”

  Suddenly something strange, something different about Bacchus occurs to me. “You’re sober,” I say without thinking.

  “Damn straight I’m sober. You think I need to drink with all this going on?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Have you seen that flippin’ wall? He worked on that till his fingers bled. For two days, he didn’t eat anything, just wrote and talked gibberish. Pain-Regret-Bliss-Sacred Tennis. And where the hell were you?”

  “Tenets,” I correct.

  “Fine. Sacred Tenants. Whatever. Some of the guys got spooked and took off, hightailed it for the beach or went over the river, but a lot of the boys liked what they heard, I guess. About a dozen from across the bridge moved their gear in after going up into the tower. Gladstone’s pretty much hypnotized, gullible bastard.”

  Shaking his head, Bacchus moves away from the window and settles into a chair at my kitchen table and brings Elvis to his lips. I sit down and say, “I’m still not sure what happened to you.”

  He lowers his mug. “When Winston finally finished with that room, I got him by myself and told him he had to come with me. I just wanted him to go to the shelter and have Lori take a quick look. A quick look, I said. He freaks. He yells for everyone to come and points a finger at me and says, At last, my Judas is revealed, like we’re in some flippin’ play. Then it’s, How will you spend your silver? All the other guys circle around me and Winston tells them that I was out to trick him, get him to the shelter so the UN could lobotomize his brain. Two seconds later a rock, or a brick, something hard, plunks off the top of my nugget.”

  Bacchus tilts his head forward, and I can see the caked-blood stain flaring on his scalp.

  “Everything’s fuzzy from there, but I remember getting shoved back and forth, taking a couple shots in the gut. I woke up in a Dumpster down behind the Hilton.”

  I don’t want to believe Bacchus’s story, but it rings true. Still, some TV-cop part of me wants to disprove his version of events, so I ask, “So why’d you come back?”

  He holds his mug with both hands on the table, turns the King’s face this way and that. “Things have gotten too funky around here. I’ve been thinking about Canada, giving socialism a try. But Winston and Gladstone—screwed up or not—are my friends. I’m not leaving them like this. I’ve got a bad feeling about where this might be going, Buddy, and your help may be needed.”

  The Better Buddy in me answers the call. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

  But I’m not sure Bacchus hears me. “Think this through,” he says. “Right now everything makes sense to Winston because all his stories make sense. He believes everything he’s preaching. The guys who believe are living inside that with him, part of the fantasy. He’s harmless for now, they all are, as long as they can maintain the story. But what’s going to happen when the appointed hour arrives and Scotty doesn’t beam him back to the flippin’ mother ship? What happens when everything they’re believing in turns out to be a crock?”

  Strangely, I picture the splintered wood of the telephone pole that Paul smashed his truck into after Moniqua left. “Bad things happen.”

  Bacchus nods. “Clearly I’m not welcome over there, but you are. So do something. Ease them off the mountain before they get shot down.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can,” I repeat.

  “Nobody should ask you to do more.”

  He takes a final drink and puts down Elvis, then heads into the bedroom. I follow. The curtain blows into him and he sweeps it to one side, looking through the broken window. Outside, the elm branches offer themselves from the darkness.

  “You don’t have to go,” I say. “You can stay here if you want.”

  “No,” he says. “Sleeping on soft surfaces really screws up my spine. My whole lower-lumbar region is shot to hell. I’m better off on the street.”

  “You won’t be safe out there.”

  “Yeah, I know. By the way, there’re some government agents snooping around. Real men-in-black types. I saw their trucks this morning. So keep your head down. I don’t know their angle yet. And some redhead stopped by this afternoon,
a real tall glass of iced tea. I watched her through the miniblinds—had the strangest feeling she knew I was there.”

  Bacchus opens the broken window so he won’t have to deal with glass, and then, with surprising grace, he snakes out into the elm, and is gone. Once again I consider calling Rhonda at Sanctuary House, and my mind fills with wildflowers. But then I think of Alix on the lake, and I just stand at the broken window and watch the night settle in.

  -----

  No Way Out. The One True Marna.

  Real Professionals. A Snake and a Tree.

  World War V.

  Like a chariot ofne slides up to the curb, sleek and black, and on cue the mob of young fans crushes up against it, hands and faces pressing hard into the tinted-glass window. They want into our world. The limo rocks to one side and from the seat next to me Hardy says “Hey!”—like this surge scared him, like this was somehow unexpected. I put one hand on the door but keep my eyes on Hardy. “Are we ready for action?”

  “Roger-dodger, Mr. Cooper.”

  “I don’t have to open this until you’re set,” I tell him. “But once we’re out there, it’s go time. We’ve done this before, pal. You good?”

  “Yessir. Go code. Go code.”

  With a heave on the door, I bulldoze some bodies clear and step out. Two dozen kids, all MTV-beautiful, bounce and cheer, crane their necks to see their heros. A few wave cardboard signs, KEEP THE DREAM ALIVE!, FOREVER ALL-AMERICAN. Some of the fans are no older than Brook, who herself stands dead center in the middle of the crowd. At the moment we share eye contact, I can’t keep my smile from growing wide. But then an overeager boy at my side whacks me in the head with a blue foam NUMBER ONE hand. I turn and consider smacking him, but force the smile back to my face instead, and the action keeps rolling.

  I step aside so Hardy can emerge, prompting a brunette close by to point and shout, “It’s him! It’s the Dream!” He barely gets the door closed before the press of the crowd jams us straight-backed into the limo. They shove pens at our faces like knives, and it almost feels like we’re about to be mugged.

  “Savior!” one girl yells, offering me a blank notebook. “To Betsy with love!”

  I scribble, “Love’s a big word.”

  “To our biggest fan,” a pretty boy with designer glasses says. I’d be surprised if he’s ever been to a wrestling match. I scratch in his autograph book, “Get a job.”

  Hanging over the glass double doors ahead of us, a banner flaps in the early-evening breeze. SWC TAG-TEAM CHAMPIONSHIP! THE MAD MAESTRO & CRO-MAGNUM MAN VS. THE ALL-AMERICAN DREAM & THE UNKNOWN KENTUCKY SAVIOR. I’m still not accustomed to the new name. Strange as it may sound, I’m more comfortable with Terror. Here’s one thing I’m sure of: It takes time to adapt to big changes.

  Next to me, Hardy asks a beauty her name. “Samantha,” she sighs. “Sign it for Sammy?”

  I watch as he actually writes out “To Sammy,” then begins signing his name in big loopy third-grade cursive, painstakingly slowly, enough that everyone notices. We’re losing our momentum in this lull. He gets through H-A-R before Sammy finally plucks her autograph book back. “That’s great! Thanks!” This kid’s got class—Sammy’s a professional.

  Once Hardy no longer has the book, one of the fans in the back shouts, “Kill that caveman!”

  I snarl and shout back, “I guarantee his extinction!” A good line.

  “Yeah,” another fan hollers, “murder him and that fancy-pants British geek!”

  Everything stills for a moment and Hardy stiffens, understands that the silence is his to fill. “We will do our best. Cro-Magnum Man and the Mad Maestro are sneaky and clever opponents. But with fans like you all, how can we lose?”

  In response, the kids shake their signs and applaud until I begin to speak again. “Hardy Appleseed and I have been through a great deal together. As you all know, once we fought as adversaries. But since we joined forces, our tag-team supreme is undefeated!”

  “Twenty and oh! Twenty and oh!” the chorus chants, referring to our record, the culmination of a supposed six-week winning streak.

  As we push through the crowd, just like back at the beach, the fans part to let us pass. And just like back at the beach, when we reach the fringe, right there in front of us is the wheelchair girl. We all stop.

  She’s perfect. A blue bike flag sprouts from the back of the chair, competing for attention against the red balloon tied to one handle. I can’t keep my eyes from sliding to her legs, but no straps bind them to the wheelchair. Her cut-off jeans reveal skin glowing with a Coppertone tan. Her black tank top hugs a body you wouldn’t be surprised to see, a couple years down the road, spinning around a gold pole somewhere. Thoughts like that, I wish I could stop.

  I follow Hardy to her side, where he stops dead on his mark. “Would you like a autograph?”

  She nods, pretending to be too shy to look straight at Hardy, but then casts him a look as she hands over her little black book and a pen. Shaking her head to one side, she shifts the dirty blond wave of hair from her face and bats her Maybellined eyelashes. “My name is Marna,” she explains. “Today’s my birthday.”

  Hearing her speak startles me, though it shouldn’t. My eyes float to the balloon, which predictably announces HAPPY 16TH! I’d like to ask just how old she really is. This is all wrong.

  Pen to page, Hardy acts like he’s thinking, then remembers. “Have you made a birthday wish?” he asks.

  Her hands, tipped by fingernails painted deep purple, settle softly on her thighs, the same way a pianist’s fingers fall to a keyboard. She stares sadly at her legs. So it’s perfectly clear to all of us what she’s supposed to be wishing for. “All I really want,” she says, “is for you to win. Can you win for me tonight?”

  Hardy nods his head. “We will win tonight for you,” he promises. Then to me he says, “We will dedicate our championship victory to Hazel.”

  I wince.

  “Marna!” Trevor shouts. He stands from his director’s chair, raises a megaphone to his lips. “Cut!” he says, one hand to forehead. “Cut. Cut. Cut. Just cut.” He’s coming at us smoothing an eyebrow, leaving behind the crowd of camera and sound men grouped on the sidewalk—about fifteen feet to the side of the wheelchair girl. He yells, “OK, sports fans. Take five.”

  Our fans drop their fake signs and phony smiles and wander away from me and Hardy like we’ve contracted the plague. Brook lingers long enough to send a sympathetic look my way. It’s been a long day, and she knows Trevor’s running out of patience.

  “OK,” our director says. “That was super, you two. Very exciting. Easily your best work. Top, top-notch. But ah, Hardy, who is this person?” Here he points to the wheelchair girl, who rises up effortlessly on those tanned legs. She pulls a pack of Marlboros from her shorts pocket and shakes one loose as Hardy thinks, then she pops the cigarette into her mouth and holds it with lips that makeup spent fifteen minutes perfecting.

  “That’s Hazel,” Hardy says. Hazel winks and nods as she cups a white lighter to her mouth.

  Trevor drums his chin with his fingers. “Well yes, that’s her name, but right now she’s Marna. Mar-na.”

  “She ain’t Marna,” Hardy chuckles. “That’s Marna.” His finger aims at the wheelchair girl—the real one—who’s being pushed by Quinn toward the tables of catered food set up near the Eats All 4U trailer. I’m still not sure why Quinn brought her here.

  Hazel kisses smoke at Hardy. “I’m Marna too. Get it?”

  “This is all pretend, Hardy,” I say. “Just like when we wrestle. From now on, just call Hazel Marna, OK?”

  “I understand,” Hardy says, shaking his head. He looks at Trevor. “I’m awful sorry. I’ll remember this time.” We’ve been through six takes of Act One by my count, though this last one was by far the smoothest, and can probably be saved with some creative editing. All afternoon Hardy’s been forgetting his lines. After two takes they tried cue cards, but Hardy kept squinting and shifting his face back and for
th. He’s much more relaxed in the ring. Part of the problem is Trevor’s insistence on this long opening shot. He keeps ranting about Touch of Evil.

  “I’m not mad,” Trevor tells Hardy. “I’m just here to help you do your best. You did a lot better this time. I’m proud of you.”

  Samantha, the autograph-book fan, walks by holding a Coke, and Hardy asks, “Can I get one of those?”

  Unsure of whose permission he’s asking, Trevor and I both nod, and Hardy heads toward the food.

  “Is there any diet Yoo-hoo?” Hazel asks, trotting to catch up to Hardy, who stares without apology at her breasts, straining against the black tank top.

  Once we’re alone, Trevor says, “Thanks for the assist, Buddy. I have a hard time getting through to that one.” He pats my shoulder, cups the muscle.

  I turn my chin, eye that hand.

  He removes it.

  “Hazel’s too old to play Marna,” I say. “She’s got ten years on her easy.”

  “Oh, the camera takes off ten years.”

  “I thought that was add fifteen pounds.”

  “That too,” Trevor says.

  “No one’s going to believe these kids are wrestling fans,” I tell him. “They’re too pretty.”

  “You worry too much,” he says. “They’ll believe what we want them to.”

  “You’re the director.” After I say this, I stand very still and wait for him to go away. But he doesn’t. He stands right there next to me. He kicks at the ground. He turns the megaphone in his hands. It has a hairline fracture along one side.

  I ask, “How come you don’t use a speaker or something?”

  “Sentimental reasons. This was a gift from my mother. Film school graduation.”

  Standing with Trevor like this, the two of us alone, I understand that I have no genuine animosity toward the man. It’s not that I’m planning to murder him or even that I particularly want to see him dead. It’s just what I’m sort of expecting to happen next. Like with the way my world is running, his death scene is already out there, waiting on the next page. When the time comes, I’ll simply play my part.