“Get on 80 and head east. Keep driving until you can’t drive anymore. If I were you I’d get something to eat first. You’re looking pale, Ben. The last thing we need right now is you falling unconscious behind the wheel.”
I must have pissed him off, or maybe just irritated him enough so he was closing in on disappointment, because he didn’t wait for me to say anything else, he didn’t even say goodbye. There was just a click and he was gone. I was alone, just me and this new car. I set the phone aside and pulled out into traffic, doing everything I could to forget Gerald’s warm smile last night when he told me it was a surprise, and Juliet’s seductive smile when she asked, Don’t you want to buy me a drink?
25
I spent the next eleven hours driving. Yesterday I’d thought I was sick of the endless roads and highways, but it was nothing compared to the miles and miles and miles I was seeing now.
Hoping for a distraction, the radio kept me company. When I found a station I liked—these were mostly hard rock stations, the kind that played Zeppelin and Floyd and Cream—I’d stick with it until it started cutting out so much I could hardly tell what song was playing. Then I’d do another search, find another station, and keep it on again as long as I could. Really it wouldn’t have mattered what songs were playing, just as long as there was something in the background that took my mind off the past forty-eight hours. But it didn’t work. I kept thinking of Jen, Casey, Gerald and Juliet. I kept thinking of the two men who had jumped me, who had taken my glasses and the cell phone, and who had said it was for my own good. And then there was the life back home, the world that was constantly going no matter what was happening to me and my family. William and Cassandra Johnson had no doubt found a new painter by now, had contracted him out to make the Tudor look just like they dreamed. Marshall was probably doing his thing too, figuring nothing was wrong. The same about the people at Jen’s work, the people at Casey’s preschool.
I no longer had the carton of Marlboros I’d bought yesterday; those had been left in the Dodge. I picked up a new carton at the first gas station I came to, smoked every twenty minutes.
The desert was endless, nothing on the jagged horizon except the promise of more rock and sand and dead looking grass. Sagebrush dotted the view along the highway, a busy cover of silver-gray. The sky was mostly clear, an occasional aimless cloud blocking the heavy and angry glare of the sun for a few minutes at a time.
I was approaching Elko around seven o’clock when the sky was really starting to lose its light and the sun was lowering into the horizon. I wasn’t even hungry but forced myself to stop anyway, to gas up and use one of the many twenties at a nearby restaurant. For some reason I expected the food to taste better because it was in a place where there were car dealerships and movie theaters and doctor’s and dentist’s offices. It didn’t.
Back on 80 then, passing through Deeth, Wells, Oasis. I entered Utah, went through Wendover, surrounded by more sagebrush and desert. The radio, while proving a close but unreliable companion, was beginning to get on my nerves. I kept glancing at the phone on the passenger seat, waiting for it to ring. As much as I hated Simon I could at least put up with listening to his dark and unctuous voice than to be left with my own thoughts.
Then, just as I was passing the Great Salt Lake, he called.
“Miss me?”
“What do you want now?”
“Oh, nothing. Just figured you were lonely. How’s the drive so far?”
I didn’t say anything. As I was nearing the city, traffic had begun picking up. There was less distance now between me and everybody else, and like usual, the assholes going five miles below the speed limit blocking lanes.
“Are you a Mormon, Ben?”
I’d been wrong before, I realized. I would have been content with my own thoughts.
“Is there a right or wrong answer?”
“No, just curious.”
“Then no.”
“Ah, but do you believe in God?”
“I don’t know. I used to go to church. We sometimes still do.”
“But going to church and believing are two different things, no? Besides, in our modern age, God is all but nonexistent. Yes people go to church and say they believe in God, but He’s not what they worship. Do you have any idea what they worship instead?”
I was silent, already tiring of Simon’s voice.
“Speaking of church and God,” Simon said, “I meant to ask you what you thought of the bible back at the motel? Did you get the Book of Job reference? Maybe it was a bit too much, but I thought it added nice foreshadowing. Don’t you?”
Still I was silent.
Simon sighed. “Do you really want to make this difficult?”
“What do you want me to say?” I asked.
“For starters, how about you answer my original question. Do you have any idea what people worship instead of God?”
“I have no idea,” I said. The radio was still on, attempting to numb my mind in the background. I switched it off.
Simon said, “Sure you do,” the grin clear and proud in his voice. “We live in a celebrity-driven world. We worship actors and singers and even politicians who are just like us, who set their hearts on becoming famous and just managed to catch a break and now bitch and moan about being in the constant spotlight. It’s quite pathetic, really, when you think about it. Oh, by the way, a few of them are even watching you now.”
“Explain what that means. You said before that I’m playing a game to fulfill the desire in others’ hearts and souls. What desires are those?”
“Please, Ben, don’t be stupid. You know exactly what they are. Which brings us to what else people worship. Television, music, computers, even automobiles. Tell me, which porn stars do you worship? I’m sure you have at least one or two you think about when you’re jerking off.”
“I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
“Yeah, well, Simon says you have no choice, so you have no choice. Now spill it. And don’t tell me Jenna Jameson. Please be more original than that.”
I said nothing and just continued driving. Now that I’d entered a place where the population was over one hundred thousand I’d taken off the cruise control.
Simon said, “All right, how about you at least tell me something else. I’d asked you before why you went back to painting. And you never did answer me.”
“I want to speak to my wife and daughter.”
“Soon, Ben. You’ll speak to them soon. But that won’t be for at least another day. Depends on how long and how far you drive. You’re doing quite well, by the way, not going too much over the speed limit and such. Last thing you need right now is for some cop to pull you over, yes?”
“My wife and daughter,” I said. “Let me speak to them.”
“Sure, Ben. But first tell me which one you love more. Tell me that and I’ll have them on the phone in a minute.”
I disconnected the call and tossed the phone on the passenger seat. The action didn’t hit me until a few seconds later, when my mind caught up with everything, and I thought: What the fuck did I just do? I could already picture them approaching Jen with wire cutters, could picture her crying and screaming for them to stop.
“Stupid,” I murmured. I punched the top of the steering wheel. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”
The cell phone vibrated. I grabbed it at once.
Simon said, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“I don’t want to play your stupid mind games.”
“I understand that, Ben, but the thing is, you don’t have a choice. Unless, that is, you want either Jennifer or Casey to die. Is that what you want?”
My voice was hardly a whisper: “No.”
“What was that? I can’t hear you.”
“No.” A little louder now, but not quite.
“That’s better. I’ll let this one slide, because your little stunt took balls, and I respect that. I’ll tell you, no one’s ever hung up on me like that bef
ore.”
I didn’t know what to say to this, so I said nothing.
“Okay, Ben, you win. I’ll talk for a little. I’ll educate you on the nature of human beings. I’ll even give you a brief history of television and reality TV. Say, you watch reality TV?”
I knew just what kind of risk my hanging up on him was before; it had been stupid and reckless and I’d been convinced for a minute there that both Jen and Casey were as good as dead. Now I had to step cautiously. Simon said he was giving me a free pass but that didn’t mean shit. He was irritated—this much was clear from his voice—and I had to do everything in my power to calm him down.
Simon said, “Well?”
I started to speak, realized my throat had gone dry. Glanced down at the two empty water bottles on the passenger seat, wished I’d picked up more during my last stop. “Sometimes,” I said finally. “Seems like nearly everything on TV today is a reality show.”
“Yes, it does seem that way, doesn’t it. And do you know why that is?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, Ben, I’m sure you do have some idea. But regardless, reality TV has been around since the beginning of TV. It’s simply showing humans acting natural. It’s called the news.”
“The news.”
“That’s right. What does the news do? It reports ongoing events. And nine times out of ten, what are those events based on? Come now, Ben, you can do it.”
“I ... I’m not sure.”
“This is pathetic. You’re not even trying.” Simon did another one of his over dramatic sighs and said, “Crime, war, corruption—that’s what makes up nine out of ten news stories, give or take. Ever since the beginning we humans have been intrigued by the suffering of others, the corruption of others. Basically, anything that’s happening to anybody else but ourselves. We love to watch that, and do you know why?”
A yawn hit me, the first sign that I’d been driving much too long. What I really needed, I decided, was another cigarette, which I’d light up the moment I was done with this fuck.
Simon was waiting for me to respond, so I took a long moment to think about it and then said, “Voyeurism.”
There was a sound in the background, an echoing sound that at first made no sense. Then it hit me. Simon was clapping.
“Excellent, excellent. You get a star for today. That’s exactly right. We’re the only species that likes to watch others without those others knowing it. That’s what the news is. That’s what reality shows are all about. But remember, we’re a celebrity-driven world, so these stupid producers think we want reality shows with celebrities, but that’s not really the case. Voyeurism is what it’s all about. Watching normal people, just like you and me, and seeing how they react to different situations.”
I’m nothing like you, I wanted to say but didn’t. Instead I asked, “So that’s what this is, huh? Just another reality show? When do I get to sign the release forms and negotiate my contract?”
“I’m sorry, but what was that? Was that a joke? Did Benjamin Anderson just make a joke?”
I was silent. I’d begun miles and miles back—mostly in my hotel room at the Grand Sierra Resort—to understand Simon only wanted to push me as far as he could. If I started pushing back there might be problems, and not just for me, but for Jen and Casey. And with the constant touch of my wife’s wedding ring in my jeans pocket, it was enough to keep me quiet when Simon started up.
“No,” he said, after a couple of beats, “this isn’t another reality show. Far from it. Reality shows are never ever really real. That’s the fault in them.”
“But all of this,” I said, keeping my voice steady, “is being set up by you and whoever else. None of it’s real. You’re just a ... a producer telling me what to do.”
“Perhaps I am a producer, Ben, but you are so much more than an actor, or a contestant. You are a true and real human being. You’re a man of wax, for Christ’s sake. You stealing that Snickers bar was just as real as you fucking that now dead prostitute. A few strings were pulled in the pro’s case, but you were the one that stuck your cock in her.”
“But I had no choice,” I said, my teeth now gritted. “You forced me to do ... to do all of that.”
“Did I force you, Ben? Did I really? I don’t think so. The gun was, figuratively speaking, at your wife and daughter’s head, not yours. You could have refused anytime.”
“But—”
I stopped myself, knowing it was a lost cause. He was trying to get under my skin again and I wasn’t going to give him that. Let him go ahead thinking whatever the fuck he pleased. I didn’t care just as long as I got through this and saw my family again.
Simon said, in a musing voice, “You know, it does go back even further. This obsession of ours to watch other people, our lust for seeing violence. Do you know anything about the Roman Empire, Ben? Over two thousand years ago, the greatest civilization to ever rule the earth? Believe it or not, they were attracted to extreme violence. It was entertainment to them, a way to pass the time, and they couldn’t get enough of it. Historians have scratched their heads trying to come up with a reason how an empire so civilized could love watching what they did. But we know the truth, don’t we? We know why they did what they did. We know what made them so great.”
I remained silent, just watching the cars in front of me, the dark red of their taillights.
“Well, I guess that’s enough for now,” Simon said. He suddenly sounded bored. “For the time being, just stay on 80. Stop whenever you feel like you can’t drive any longer. In the morning get back on 80 and keep heading east. I don’t suspect you’ll reach your destination by tomorrow, but stranger things have happened.”
I asked, “Can I please speak to my family?” saying the words without really thinking, and Simon’s chuckling response was no surprise.
He said, “You’ll just never learn, will you, Ben,” and then he was gone.
26
I ended up staying at a Motel 6, just off the interstate in Rock Springs, Wyoming. By that time it was one o’clock in the morning and I didn’t think I could go any farther. I’d been picking up maps at every gas station I came to, because God only knew where Simon was having me go and I wanted a reference if I happened to get lost. From the Wyoming map I saw I could keep going to Wamsutter, but that was at least another hour, if not more, and I just wanted sleep.
In my room, I stripped out of my clothes because they’d begun to reek of sweat and body odor. Of course I’d applied the Old Spice Simon had provided, but I’d been sitting in a car for the better part of eleven hours and was beginning to become sick of my own smell. In the morning I’d find a store, buy some clothes, even a jacket.
In the meantime I crawled under the covers in my boxers and just lay there in the dark. I’d taken out Jen’s wedding ring and now cupped it in my hands. It was the only thing besides the black and white photograph that proved to me my wife and daughter actually existed. I didn’t even have the pictures I’d kept in my wallet (the frayed one my dad had given me so long ago, that gracious gift he’d been planning for over ten years) to remind me of what their faces looked like, and all my memory gave me now was the image that had been seared from that black and white picture.
“I won’t forget you,” I whispered to the cold dark room. “I’m coming for you. I love you both so much.”
And I just lay there and tried keeping my thoughts focused on my wife and daughter, on the promise of seeing them again. It was enough to keep me steady, to keep me calm, and to keep my mind off what else was happening so that I eventually drifted off to sleep.
27
One nightmare fades into another, and I’m in college again, just a lowly freshman trying to do well in his first semester of classes. My roommate’s name is John Keel and he smokes too much pot and plays too many video games, but somehow he’s maintaining a B average in all his classes, which just blows my mind. I’m studying every night, going to guest lectures even when they’re not mandatory
, and somehow I still just barely manage to keep my head above water. John’s cool with a bunch of the upperclassmen, knows them somehow (it doesn’t really occur to me the reason for this until much later), and he’s always going to parties on the weekends, keggers mostly where you pay five bucks for a blue plastic cup and an unlimited supply of warm and skanky beer. John invites me every weekend and I go a few times but just stand in the corner, content to watch the juniors and the seniors talking and laughing, the guys hitting on the girls, the girls hitting on the guys. I haven’t been with anyone since Marissa dumped me, and to be honest I’m still kind of nervous at starting over. John says all I need is to dip my dick and everything will be okay, but that’s just the kind of shit he says, the way he lives his life.
For fall break I go home and help my dad on a house over the weekend. Both my parents ask how school’s going and I smile and give them the thumbs-up, because my grades aren’t bad though they could be better. I know that if I want to go to law school my grades have to be phenomenal, they have to stand out above everyone else’s, and I’m starting to wonder why I even bothered with this crazy dream to begin with. That I was born poor and that I will always be poor, no matter how hard I try to change my station in life.
Back at school, I go to classes, I go to the library to study when I’m not in classes. John’s always at the room, the sweet scent of marijuana constant, playing his Sega or Super Nintendo, having a great time. Halloween’s coming up and he invites me to a costume party this one fraternity’s having, and John’s thinking of going as Super Mario, do I want to go as Luigi?
Halloween rolls around and our costumes suck but we go anyway. We pay our money and get our blue plastic cups and try to have a good time. They have Jell-O shooters, dyed orange and black, and I have one or two but that’s about it, I don’t feel like getting trashed for some reason. I only have two beers anyway, and I’m just standing in the corner like usual, watching everyone else in their togas and gorilla suits and cowboy getups, the girls in French maid and nurse and angel outfits, their skirts so short and tight that I think maybe I’ll head back to the dorm, get on the Internet and look up some porn. I’ve been doing it ever since high school, have been surfing the web because on it there’s an endless supply of naked chicks doing naughty things, and sitting in front of the screen with a box of tissues beside me always calms me, always gets my head straight.
Man of Wax (Man of Wax Trilogy) Page 10
