by Brian Hodge
"It's not your fault. I went along with it. But, shit, I just made the same mistake again with new product! Now I'm going to have to pull Three and Four before the week's up, guarantee or no guarantee. Golan's losing a bundle everywhere. You'd think they'd get it—you'd think I'd get it. That kind of picture's about as appealing anymore as dead babies on a stick. People want to see—"
"Right," said Roger. "Larry, we'll catch you on the way back."
"I would have booked They," said Joe.
"I know you would," said Roger.
"Who wouldn't?" said Larry. "After the Academy Awards—"
"Later," said Roger. "Lunch is only till one."
They left Larry babbling about the fickleness of the public, the unwillingness of people to leave their 'combs at night, even for a movie—especially for a movie—and so on in that vein. The last they saw of him he was climbing a stepladder to change the marquee, his head still wagging, as if trying to talk himself out of jumping.
Joe wished him luck. If he goes under, where does that leave the rest of us? The next nearest revival house was all the way out by MacArthur Park; word had it that that one was about to be subdivided into a Spanish-language multiple. Is it really so futile? wondered Joe. Do people forget so fast—all the people, everywhere in the greater L.A. basin and, one might infer, since this is the number one film market in the U.S., the whole plugged-in country? And on and on. Lately there was no end for him to this kind of thinking.
They turned in at the plate of steaming nachos, between Vitamin City and The Rubber Bisquit. You could almost smell the aroma. Roger passed his hand through the 'gram, winked and pantomimed sniffing his fingers. Joe's gut did a belly flop with a half gainer twist, righted itself and bobbed along on a tide of nausea. It was the processed cheese they used, he decided. It looked pale and stringy, like…what?
The Jumping Bean's lounge was dark. The waitresses wore imitation space stewardess uniforms and Aztec headbands which glittered in the strobing of a TV screen above the bar, between black velvet paintings of South American Indians in full feathered regalia. The Indians were pictured pointing solemnly toward what was supposed to be the Enterprise taking off or landing, one or the other, over Lake Titicaca. Roger led the way to a table in front, next to a window that faced the fountain.
Joe noticed the silhouette of a woman who was just now entering Indects, Inc. across the way. She was wearing the identical yellow silk blouse he had bought Rose Marie for her birthday. Probably got it at The Body Shot around the corner, he thought, same as I did. Seeing the woman, he felt his taste confirmed.
"I'm worried," said Roger, sliding over tuck-and-roll leatherette.
"So am I. The horror festival just wasn't fashionable. In fact it was distinctly unfashionable—that's the point. I understand now. People want to see what they can talk about at cocktail parties. It's that simple. And horror doesn't make for amusing conversation, apparently. Even if they're drinking Bloody Marys."
"Two Bloody Marys?" said their stewardess-waitress.
"No, no," said Roger. "Pitcher of Margaritas, two glasses. And two Specials. You serve food here in the bar, do you?"
"Yes, sir."
"As I was saying," Joe continued. "Not even Cronenberg's Oscar for Cities of the Red Night was enough to draw them in. They'd rather see more of the same. The triangular family, 'comb cohab, the ninety percent divorce rate, the Kiddie Lib Amendment—you know, stuff they can relate to without straining their imaginations. In other words, stories about themselves."
"That's not what worries me."
"Well, it should. It's as if they're all part of some big, incestuous family, connected by cable so they can talk to each other about their own lives. Why should they want anything different in the theaters? Even as damned few of those as there are now. That's what I'm telling you! Maybe I've been wrong all along. Maybe there's no market for revivals of any kind. You've been letting me kid myself. So I'll never find that so-called famous scene I've been looking for for ten years, which is probably the real reason I've been doing this for so long. Maybe I'm not supposed to find it. I appreciate it, man, but it's a dream. There's no—"
"Listen to me."
Roger reached across the table and gripped Joe's arm. At the same time the waitress reappeared and slipped two huge platters under their sleeves, effectively cutting Joe off.
"Careful, fellas. Hot plates."
Roger locked eyes with Joe as she poured the first two drinks from the carafe. When he finally took his arm away, there was melted cheese on his cuff. It stretched out in a strand from the flour tortillas, which were mashed flat and grilled, about as Mexican as matzos. Like…something, thought Joe, and ground his teeth together, chewing salt.
"You can do it. If not with Larry, then try some other theaters. We have enough money to keep going. It's not as bad as you think. But Joe." Roger glanced out the window again, toward the shop. "You've been working too hard. I think you should take some time off. In fact, why don't you start this afternoon? Besides, you—you ought to spend more time with Rose Marie."
"You're crazy."
"I can handle the store. What's to handle? They come in, pick out their tapes, I ring it up. Big deal."
"I can't. I'm obligated to get the print ready. And then I'd better rethink this whole arrangement. Because if all I'm doing is throwing good money after bad…"
"You never get to see her anymore, isn't that true? Admit it. You need time together, time to—"
"Why do you keep saying that?"
Roger glanced outside one more time and then lowered his eyes, as if about to perform an unpleasant duty. There was a beat of silence between them. Across the bar, someone slugged a dollar into the jukebox and Blind Boy Ruff's recording of "The Incoherent Blues" began to throb out of hidden speakers. Roger bit into a nacho, put it aside. He cleared his palate with drink. He blinked coolly across the table at his friend. "It's none of my business. But why the hell did you let her start going there in the first place?"
"Who? Where?"
"I've heard stories. After that Sixty Minutes piece last weekend…" Roger's face fell. "Don't tell me you didn't watch it."
"I was working till midnight, you know that."
"Christ." Roger's lips tightened. "They sent a video crew in there with Connie Chung last month. I guess you didn't notice. I didn't want to say anything at the time. But now—you better talk to her."
"Talk to Rose?"
"It's not all sweetness-and-light and Jesus washing away your sins, according to Connie Chung. It's king-sized elephant shit. 'Today is the first day of your newborn independent life.' What in the holy hell does that mean?"
"You mean the quote in the Indects window? That's not what it said. It said—
"I read it. I was standing right next to you." A peculiar reflection of fear and concern appeared in Roger's eyes. Joe had never seen it there before. It was kind, almost patronizing. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. What matters is that she's throwing your money away. You can't have that much left on your card. At least you should be worried about that. It's none of my business but…"
"You're right. It's not."
Roger fell silent and plunged into his nachos.
On the television screen above the bar a promo flashed for the next NBC Big Event, Melissa Gilbert starring in Shelley Winters: A Life, to be followed by the premiere of something called Lee Vaunce and the Smoker with Gary Coleman and Redd Foxx. Momentarily distracted, Joe wondered whether both would be over by the time he finished up tonight. He hoped so.
"God damn it, Rog, I don't have any idea what you're talking about." Was Roger saying that Rose had joined Indects? That she'd been going there, right next door, without even bothering to say hello? "You expect me to believe that? You think I don't know my own wife after fifteen years?"
Joe threw his nacho down.
It was why Roger had thought she might be stopping by for lunch; Roger thought Joe already knew. It could be the reason for the new chil
l, the way she kept her distance at home now. Whenever he did manage to see her. A long time since they had talked. She was usually asleep by the time he got back, still in bed when he left in the mornings. Because of his work. It fit.
He couldn't eat. He rolled cheese off his fingers with distaste. Like an afterbirth, that was it, he thought morbidly. He finished his drink and poured another.
"I wouldn't have brought it up," said Roger. "Except that you're my friend."
Roger averted his eyes. Outside, the boy with the horn-rimmed glasses passed. Joe continued to dispose of Margaritas. Roger did not stop him.
"I better get back," said Roger finally.
"I'll take care of it," said Joe.
Roger took out his VisaMall card.
Joe held his palms up and shook his head stubbornly until Roger took the card back. "Did you hear what I said? I said I'll take care of it."
He waited until Roger had gone. Then he got up and went to the pay phone. He put in his card and punched his home number. A song called "Running In Darkness" was playing on the jukebox. It was loud. He almost couldn't hear. But there was definitely no answer. He returned to his seat and stared out at Indects, Inc. as Roger crossed and reopened the store.
Someone came into the bar and started a mild argument with a waitress. Joe did not look up. Outside, a bell of spray from the fountain began to blur his view of the reading room. The Margaritas were doing their job.
"Check the card," said a thin, intelligent voice.
"I don't need to check your card," said the waitress. "You were in here this morning. You don't have enough credit for a book of matches."
"Check it again. There's credit on it now."
The waitress inserted a card into the register. "Nine dollars and some change," she read sarcastically. "Am I supposed to be impressed? What are you gonna get in here for nine bucks?"
Joe realized he had nearly a whole plate of untouched nachos in front of him. He glanced up. It was the boy with horn-rimmed glasses, and he looked hungry.
"It's all right," Joe said to the waitress. "He's with me."
"Suit yourself," she said.
"I can't eat any more of these," said Joe, pushing his plate across the table. "You're welcome to them."
The boy shrugged and slid into the booth, flopping his copy of MECHANICAL ADVENTURES onto the tabletop, cover up. The lead story was entitled Escape From Uranus.
"I have to get back to work in a minute, anyway."
"Me, too." The boy reached for the salt shaker and dug in.
"You like machines, huh?" said Joe. "Computer technology, things like that?"
The boy made a noncommittal gesture. "What else is there?"
"I don't know about that."
"Well, I do," said the boy, chewing thoughtfully. "You have to. To survive."
"I'll have to think about that one. My name's Joe Ivy, by the way." Joe extended his hand but the boy had a fistful of grease and cheese. "That's my shop over there, the one—"
"I know. I saw you in front of the reading room."
On impulse, Joe played a wild card. "Ever been in there?"
"Sure."
Joe caught the waitress's eye. "Refill here," he called, positioning the plate between them.
"And a machaca burrito," added the boy. To Joe he said, "Don't worry. I have credit."
"What exactly do you know about the reading room? How it works, what they do in there? It's for my wife. She's been asking me to find out."
The boy studied him, swallowing.
"I guess I could stop in and ask them myself." If you won't tell me, he thought. Snot-nosed bastard.
"They don't tell you much. But I figured out how it works."
Joe waited. His teeth were aching. "It's a self-improvement course, is it? Some new kind of religion?"
"It's whatever you want it to be."
"How do you mean?"
"It's the books."
"THE WAY OF THE WACH? I should pick up a copy. You've read it?"
"They won't let you take it. You have to read it there."
"Why?"
"Because. They don't want you to grok how it works. I know, though. The secret's in the pages. They're plastic—that's why they're so big. Each page is two sheets laminated together, with ink in the middle. Only it's not ink. It's a colloid of telepathic bacteria of extra-terrestrial origin, brought back from orbit by the Enterprise II in '93. They like to say the message of the Way was discovered by their founder, Mason Flowers, on his private space probe, but that's part of the hustle. Crusty Havoline wrote it up in his MECH AD Science Fact column. I guess they figure we're too dumb to make the connection. It wasn't on TV. Not even Connie Chung knew about it. But I bet Flowers has an in with NASA. He got a few cc's from somebody on the Enterprise, and now he grows his own in the Indects labs. It's easy. All you need is a biologically neutral culture medium…"
"Excuse me," said Joe, "but are you out of your mind? I hope you don't mind my asking."
The waitress brought a new platter of nachos and a machaca burrito. The burrito had obviously been microwaved; the outer layer of tortilla was dry and flaking—not very appetizing. But the boy accepted his lot, spooned on salsa and inserted one end of it into his mouth.
"I got credit on my card, didn't I?" he said around squirting bites. "You tell me how I did that if I'm crazy."
That was a point, Joe supposed, albeit a stupefyingly tenuous one. Or was it? Across the Mall, an elderly woman in a mock-Enterprise jumpsuit shuffled into the Indects, Inc. storefront. Keeping up with the times, he thought, such as they are. Even on her last legs. He wished he were outside so he could hold the door for her.
"How much do they charge for—for this self-improvement course?"
"That I couldn't tell you. But it doesn't come cheap."
"That part I can believe."
As the jukebox began playing "I Love You, Honey, But the Season's Over," Joe found the waitress, let her deduct the meals from his card and left.
He waited outside by the fountain.
More people came and went through the door to the reading room. No one he recognized.
He realized that Roger could see him clearly from inside the Pit. It would be easy to tell Roger that he'd decided to take his advice, but like pulling teeth to give him the satisfaction. He backed off casually, checking his watch as if on a last-minute errand, and made his way to the edge of the parking lot.
It took him a few minutes to spot Rose Marie's car.
As he neared it, heat waves from the summer sun glanced off the yellow selenium top and rose skyward, distorting the surrounding cars and the buildings in the distance so that the stamping machines on the skyline, unmanned while their crews took time off for lunch, appeared to waver and begin to melt over the newest row of unfinished honeycombs.
He came up to the car, which was his car as well, and was aware of an unaccountable but overwhelming feeling: as if one of his best friends, someone he loved, perhaps, had taken from him something unique and irreplaceably valuable. The trouble was, he couldn't remember precisely what it was. So he knew that whoever it was would be unlikely to admit it. This feeling grew as he stepped close enough to touch the burning metal, to see the familiar upholstery and objects on the other side of the rolled-up windows, the souvenirs and residue of the years they had used and driven and maintained it together as a part of their lives. A great sadness passed through his chest then like an unexpected wind from somewhere out on the edges of the world or of space. He felt ridiculous; he did not know why; and he was not sure what to do about it.
Suddenly he heard a clanking sound.
It was too soon for the stamping machines to restart their relentless building work. From morning till night he could not escape their booming and grinding rhythm, not even in the back room of the shop, except during the early afternoon break. It was still early afternoon, wasn't it?
He took a few steps and peered into the next aisle of cars.
And saw the
boy, he of the science fiction magazine and horn-rimmed glasses, crouched behind an '89 Toyota Corolla Shuttleback. Next to him, in the shade of the car, was a stack of silver saucers. They were, he noted as he drew closer, not exactly silver saucers. They were hubcaps.
As he watched the young man pried off the Toyota's right rear hubcap and piled it with the others.
Joe hid behind the yellow car and followed the boy's movements through the dirty safety glass of the windshield. He saw him lift an armload and hurry away through the rows, routinely checking each car he passed and rejecting the smaller baby moons and snap-on wire wheel covers as if they were too much trouble to bother with. Then, in the clear, he hunched over and duck-walked quickly to the gate. To the crash-pad.
Joe trailed him, staying out of sight.
No car was entering the gate just now, so it was easy. Drop the hubcaps on the compactor scale. Insert your card, tucked away in your back pocket with the July issue of MECH AD. Wait a few seconds for the machine to ring up your credit based on today's price for automotive alloy. No need to establish vehicle ownership, since so light a weight obviously doesn't involve an engine block—it could as easily be a creased fender, a dented hood; hence no serial number to match. Withdraw the card, pocket it, smile with satisfaction as the compactor does its job, and move on. That's all there is to it.
Joe was astounded. It was so brilliantly simple. The crash-pads, mostly located along freeways and busy city routes, were provided for instant disposal of wrecked or disabled cars. With the growing traffic in and out of Mile Long Mall, one naturally had been installed here for the convenience of shoppers. There was even a new car dealership, Mies Fiodur's Mini-Track City, located at the South Lot exit. Joe knew him. In fact, it was where he had purchased Rose's car. The dealer was prepared to give on-the-spot trade-in credit against a replacement, minus a cartage fee for towing to the nearest compactor, if the customer hadn't made it that far. But surely no one at GM had anticipated the uses to which their recycling machines could be put, given a little resourcefulness. Leave it to the kids, he thought. They always find a way.
Joe tipped an invisible hat to the boy, saluting him, and started back.
