The Last Days of Video

by Jeremy Hawkins

  She didn’t know what to say, and wishing she could direct the conversation in some other direction, she needled him with a playful elbow. “Shut the fuck up. It is not a great life.”

  “I’m honestly envious.”

  “All we do is sit around and bitch that Parker Louis Can’t Lose isn’t on DVD.”

  He sighed. “Sounds like heaven.”

  All she could think to say was: “But Match, you’re famous.”

  He chuckled amiably. “I don’t want to be famous. I really don’t.”

  Again he stared off into space, and she wondered if he was seeing Hitchcock—she looked toward the center of the room, half-expecting to find the fat director sitting on the bed.

  “Match?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You asked for my help.”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of help do you need?”

  “Oh. I don’t know.”

  “You’re seeing things,” she said.

  “That’s true,” he said. “I am seeing things.”

  “I’m your friend,” she said. “I want to be here for you, for whatever you need. It’s . . . sort of what I do for my friends.”

  Match looked at her, nodded. “That would be nice.”

  “Is there any way you can, I don’t know, take a break? A short vacation?”

  “No way,” he said. “With only twelve days left, I can’t leave now. Just a bit more shooting. Then we’ll be done.”

  She nodded. Twelve days. Could they make it twelve days?

  “Alaura?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve thought about you a lot over the years. You’re very pretty.”

  “I . . .” she stammered. “Match, I just got out of a relationship. I’m not really looking for anything, you know, new?”

  Match flinched. His eyes seemed to cloud over.

  “Nothing romantic,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Oh,” he said. “No, that’s fine. But could you, I don’t know, stay here with me?”

  “Here? In your hotel room?”

  “There’s a roll-out bed in the closet. I could sleep on that.”

  She looked toward the closet door, which was huge, nine feet tall, like she was visiting in a giant’s lair.

  “I really do need your help,” he said.

  She smiled. He was looking at her now. But his forehead was sweating again. He scratched at his beard with his fingernails.

  “Of course I can stay,” she said. “Whatever you need.”

  Then she remembered. If she didn’t say something now . . . this was as good a time as any to bring it up . . .

  “Match, there’s something else. I wish I didn’t have to.”

  “What?”

  “I hate to ask. I really hate to bring this up.”

  “You can ask me anything, Alaura. You’re helping me, after all.”

  “Okay,” she said, and she took a centering breath. “The thing is—my store needs money. Star Video, where I work. The video store industry is really struggling, as I’m sure you know. We really need to raise some money, or we might go out of business.”

  Match frowned, confused, like she’d just spoken in Chinese.

  “No,” she said quickly, realizing it hadn’t come out the right way. “I don’t want money from you. I’m not asking you for money. I just thought, I don’t know, with you in town. With Tabitha Gray and Alex Walden and Celia Watson, I don’t know, maybe we could organize some sort of . . . fundraiser? A benefit? For Appleton’s struggling independent video store.”

  She buried her head in her hands. She couldn’t believe what she was saying—that she’d found herself in this insane situation, that her old friend was on the brink of madness, perhaps over the brink, that a fundraiser was her big plan to save Star Video, and that she had handled it all wrong.

  Then she felt his shoulder press against hers.

  “I have an idea,” he whispered.

  Y TU TABITHA TAMBIÉN

  Four days later, Waring authorized the purchase of a small but theater-worthy popcorn machine for Star Video. It was a dingy old monster, and it made a ton of racket—essentially, it was the concession stand equivalent of Waring’s Dodge. Jeff had found the thing on Craigslist being sold by an old movie theater, three towns over, that was going out of business. Jeff had driven in the Dodge to pick it up that morning, and he’d paid for it with funds raised from selling some of Waring’s least-damaged posters on eBay, including the autographed Apocalypse Now poster for four hundred dollars.

  Now the red, yellow, and faded-chrome device was sitting on Star Video’s counter next to the Cashier du Cinéma. It hissed and burbled, and white starbursts of popcorn tumbled out of the metal pot suspended at its center. To Waring, the popcorn smelled incredible. Like his youth—like every movie theater he’d ever gone to with his mother, who had always, without exception, bought them a large popcorn to share.

  Waring looked at Jeff and Alaura, who were both watching the machine and smiling like it was the Narnia wardrobe.

  Highlander played on the store’s central television.

  “This movie reminds me,” Waring said in their general direction.

  “Huh?” Jeff said.

  “I’ll go ahead and say it: I don’t believe in global warming.”

  Alaura rolled her eyes immediately, but Jeff frowned in confusion. Waring suspected that the pimpled peon had been raised by his conservative mountain family to be skeptical of global warming, but that now, as the recipient of two months of a liberal Ape U education, he had converted to a staunch believer.

  “No way!” Jeff said, confirming Waring’s suspicion.

  “Don’t take the bait, Jeff,” Alaura said after a brief chuckle. “He’s just yanking your chain.”

  “Nope,” Waring said. “Doesn’t seem much hotter.”

  “But levels of carbon in the atmosphere?” Jeff said. “And heat waves? And ice caps melting?”

  “Just a hoax, I think,” Waring persisted. “Last winter was maybe the coldest for a hundred years. How do you explain that?”

  Jeff could not explain, as Waring had anticipated, but the kid eventually stammered that major weather fluctuations might be triggered by global warming.

  “So now cold temperatures are caused by global warming?” Waring countered. “That’s loco, homeslice.”

  “You’re obviously in a better mood,” Alaura said to Waring, her lips now protruding in that sexy, annoyed pout of hers, but with a hint of a smile. “What got you onto this?”

  “You mean besides my general distaste for ideological Hollywood fads spurred by flavor-of-the-month liberal documentaries? Highlander II. Highlander II got me thinking about it.”

  “Highlander II?” Jeff said, bewildered.

  “It’s an awful movie, obviously. Truly awful. I caught it on Spike the other day. There’s a scene where the Highlander, and I’ve never understood why they cast Christopher Lambert, who sounds about as Scottish as Kevin Costner sounds British in Prince of Thieves, anyway, there’s a scene where the Highlander uses the great power thing he won in the first Highlander movie,” and Waring pointed to the television, “this movie, to save the world from the destruction of the ozone layer. The sky is red, and people are all but bursting into flames in the street. Just got me thinking.”

  Alaura was ignoring him, and she started unwrapping the classic red and white popcorn tubs that they’d be using to hand out free samples to customers.

  “But the ozone layer was a real thing,” Jeff said to Waring. “Wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Waring said, smiling at his flustered employee. “Remember, I was cognizant while all that ozone business was going on. You were a wee baby, Alaura. And you, random extra from the town in Footloose, you weren’t even sperm.”

  “But what does that prove about global warming?” Jeff said, his voice cracking slightly—the kid seemed totally at a loss, which of course had been Waring’s intention.<
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  The front door of Star Video opened, and Match Anderson entered.

  The man gazed wide-eyed at the store and stroked his beard, Waring thought, like a dazed wizard.

  “Match!” Alaura said, rising from her stool.

  Match’s eyes widened, Waring saw, as if he was surprised to see her. “Oh, hello there!” the young director said.

  Waring watched Alaura sprint around the counter. She was smiling like an idiot. She hugged Match, kissed his cheek. Waring sneered. He didn’t like the cut of this guy’s jib, not one bit. Match’s clothes looked like he’d spent last night in a bus station. His beard grew unevenly on his drooping face. He was not, in general, nearly attractive enough for Alaura, and on top of that, an offensive arrogance oozed off of him. If his nose were raised any higher, he’d fall backward.

  Alaura had supposedly been sleeping in Match’s hotel room for the past few days, though she’d been pretty tightlipped about the whole thing. Like usual when it came to men.

  “I came here to see you,” Match said after a long pause, looking around at Star Video’s high ceilings and tall shelves and nodding authoritatively. “This place is really great.”

  “Thanks!” Alaura said.

  “Smells good, too. It’s cool you have a popcorn machine.”

  Alaura grinned at Waring, who forced a smile back at her like a haunted mirror.

  “Are you done filming for today?” Alaura asked.

  “No. Waiting for magic hour. A few more shots on campus. Tabitha running across the quad. Jimmy Stewart running after her.”

  Alaura looked at him quizzically. “Jimmy Stewart?”

  “No,” Match said, shaking his head and laughing at himself. “I mean Alex Walden. Alex Walden running after her.”

  Waring’s director’s chair groaned as he stood to escape to The African Queen.

  “Oh!” Alaura said. “Let me introduce you to the guys. Waring!”

  So Waring submitted to introductions and hand shaking, as he knew he should. He knew he had to play nice, just like he was reluctantly polite at the Open Eye Café in order to secure his daily red eye.

  “I’m supposed to thank you,” Waring said, remembering that Alaura had instructed him to thank Match profusely at his first opportunity. “What you’re doing for Star Video. I appreciate it.”

  “Doing?”

  “The celebrity auction?”

  Match swiped his index finger through the air between them, scrunching his face and laughing. “Dumb Match! Of course, the celebrity auction!”

  Waring studied the bizarre bearded man, who had directed one excellent independent film and two awful Hollywood abortions. Match seemed, to Waring, brimming with that numb-brained smugness he’d always expected of filmmakers. Or was it worse than that? Match’s mouth hung open as he gazed again around the store, now totally disengaged from the conversation his entrance had initiated. Glossy bloodshot eyes. And from the expression on his face, it almost appeared that Match hadn’t at all remembered that only four days earlier, he had suggested the celebrity auction to Alaura as a fundraiser for Star Video—auctioning off dinner with his lead actors, as well as discarded props from the set of The Buried Mirror.

  “Anyway,” Waring said, straining behind his mandatory smile, “like I was saying, please thank the actors for us. We’ve set up a display, right over there, to feature all of their films. And your films, of course. We’ll also be auctioning a bunch of these old posters I have. And of course, mmm, it’s great that, you know, the studio is willing to rent out the Siena for the event and to match the bids—”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” Match interrupted. “Good PR for everyone. We’ve had issues with the local government, which has ticked off the studio. Anyway, I’m hoping that a few hours of the actors’ time will buy us some community support.”

  “Mm,” Waring said, nodding and still smiling furiously.

  “Actually, I just remembered,” Match said, now looking at Alaura. “I came here for two reasons. First, do you have aliens?”

  “Aliens?” Waring said.

  “The sequel to Alien,” Match explained. “I’ve always loved the Alien movies. And the studio has approached me about directing another sequel.”

  This surprised Waring, who had believed that the Alien franchise was dead and that Match was not really a director in demand.

  “Aliens is my favorite movie,” Jeff announced.

  Waring turned and stared at his moronic young employee, who was standing behind the counter.

  “Your favorite movie?” Waring asked. “Of all time?”

  “It’s one of my employee picks.”

  “Wow, Jeff. That’s ridiculous.”

  Jeff shook his head. “At least I believe in global warming.”

  “Who doesn’t believe in global warming?” Match said.

  “Der Führer,” Alaura said.

  “I’d get fired if I said that in Hollywood.”

  “See!” Waring said, delighted that his earlier point had now been scientifically verified.

  “I didn’t say Aliens is the best movie ever,” Jeff explained. “I said it’s my favorite. There’s a difference. It was one of the first R-rated movies I ever saw, and I thought it was the definition of cool. Great effects. Kick-ass protagonist. I’ve watched it hundreds of times.”

  Waring turned up his hands, then let them drop—totally exasperated by Jeff’s defective reasoning. “Next you’ll tell us that you enjoyed the Star Wars prequels more than the originals.”

  “No,” Jeff said, his mouth twisting like he’d sipped turned milk. “I’d never say that.”

  “And now I’m thinking about Jar Jar Binks,” Waring said. “Thanks for ruining my entire day, Jeff.”

  Jeff shrugged, unwounded by this exchange.

  “Hell,” Waring went on, “I think Match’s first movie was a better action flick than fucking Aliens.”

  Waring slowly realized that this comment was not the rousing endorsement of Match’s first film he might have hoped for, and that, in addition, Waring had also implied a subtler judgment against Match’s later films. Waring hadn’t meant it that way, because he’d actually liked Losers. A lot. It was a solid, solid movie. Waring bit his upper lip, trying to think of a way to erase what he’d just said. Match frowned down at his standard-issue black Converses—Alaura shot Waring a vehement look—and Jeff seemed to take this as his cue to walk to the back of the store and shelve movies.

  “So can I check out Aliens?” Match said, smiling painfully.

  “Sure,” Alaura replied, and after glaring again at Waring, she darted away to retrieve the show box.

  “Well?” Waring said, now alone with Match (and much less nervous than he’d expected to be in this situation). “What was the second thing?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You said you came here for two reasons.”

  “Oh, yes. The second thing.” Match pointed a finger at Waring—and his embarrassment seemed to vanish instantly. “It was to ask you a huge, huge favor.”

  “Me? Favor?”

  “Yes. I was wondering if you could recommend a bar.”

  “A bar?”

  “A place where people drink,” Match clarified. “For the cast and crew. Things have been a little tense on set. For various reasons. I was hoping to have a gathering. A party. I mean, our wrap party’s in, like, eight days, but still, I thought a night out drinking would be good. For morale. You know, at a local place. Nothing fancy. I was wondering if you could take everyone.”

  “Me?” Waring repeated. “Take them to a bar?”

  “Yes. I just figured, you know, since we’re doing you a favor with the celebrity auction thing. Everyone wants to go. Including all the actors. I’m giving them tomorrow night off.”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  Alaura reappeared with Aliens. “Match,” she said, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Well, I’ve already told everyone that it’s happening, so . . .�
�� He looked again at Waring. “What do you think, man? Can you help us out?”

  And as if mentioning the actors had ripped open a hole in the space-time continuum, Tabitha Gray and Celia Watson, flanked by a security detail of six muscle-bound men, entered Star Video. Waring’s legs went gelatinous. He gripped the counter for support. Celia Watson, who was perhaps the smallest person Waring had ever seen, and who made him feel immediately disgusting for finding her deliciously attractive, because until just last year she’d played a bubbly teenage detective on that stupid Disney Channel show, though he was fairly certain she’d recently turned legal-years-old . . . Celia Watson disappeared at once into the labyrinth of Star Video.

  Tabitha Gray—the most beautiful woman in the world—approached Match Anderson. She did not look at Alaura or Waring, curled her fingers around Match’s hand, and kissed his cheek. Then she smiled at Waring in perfect imitation of herself.

  “Guys,” Match said, looking in awe at the celestial being holding his hand, “meet Tabitha Gray, star of The Buried Mirror.”

  Meanwhile, Jeff stood in the Mystery/Suspense section, organizing movies that didn’t really need organizing because he’d already organized them twice that week. But after Waring’s disastrous comment about Losers, Jeff had felt a blinding spasm of embarrassment, similar to moments at church talent shows when a well-intentioned old lady would sing painfully off-key. So Jeff had retreated, and he was lost in his work, making space for Mystic River and reflecting on why he should feel such embarrassment if he wasn’t the one who’d misspoken, and then contemplating, for some reason, if he’d ever make it back to Tanglewood Baptist, because he hadn’t been to church in weeks, when he heard the click-click of high heels somewhere nearby.

  “Hi,” said a clear, flutey voice to his left, near the Drama section.

  “Hello?” Jeff said, turning to look.

  It was Celia Watson, the young supporting actress from The Buried Mirror.

  Jeff stared at her. His voice was paralyzed in his throat.

  Celia Watson began to giggle. But it was not a cruel giggle. At least, Jeff didn’t think so. Her unexpected appearance—it was surreal, as if the image of her in front of him was too flat, a poor copy of Celia Watson. She was only a little over five feet tall in heels, and frightfully skinny, and strangely she wore a neon green dress over blue jeans. Was that in style these days? Her hair was longer than he’d ever seen it, and it was platinum blonde instead of the brunette he’d been expecting. And as his vision adjusted to the uneven store lighting that seemed to cast Celia into silhouette, he realized that her head seemed several sizes too large for her body.