Damon had seemed to consider his point since he’d made stranger production decisions for even stranger decisions in the past. When they were cutting corners and leaning towards “gonzo” and fewer cinema parodies, Damon had once told him of a dream he’d had about movie sequels, and the “inherent danger” of too many roman numerals marching off a poster and around the sun until they snuck up behind you at every important moment of your life, disrupting crucial memories forever. “Too many sequels make movies… untethered,” he’d warned Larry. This had all made sense to Damon, and they retired their roman numerals for a while, even stopped production on Spurtacus VIII, just to be safe. Damon took a $3,000 hit with that move, and Larry mourned a script that had pretty much written itself:
“I fucked Spurtacus!”
“No, I fucked Spurtacus!”
So Larry pressed on, pleading with him that CGI blood introduced artificiality at the precise moment it can do the most damage to the film, that computer-generated blood was worse than a computer-generated person, that, even in its infancy, the disastrous effects of computer-generated blood on horror and action films could not be overstated, that computer-generated blood is worse than a stuntman missing a punch by a mile but still making a smacking sound, that if they only had a way to look into the future right now, at this moment, everyone would see that he was absolutely right! But they added the fake blood anyway. And Larry knew, if they were going to start faking the fake blood, it was only a matter of time before someone used a computer to fake an ejaculation. And on that day, he’d drop the microphone and quit. Or tell someone to drop the microphone he’d told them to hold.
“Burning daylight, man!” Stevey yelled.
“And we still have to shoot outside in the pool!” Glengarry yelled.
“Come on! What’s with you today, Larry?”
“Who’s Sammy?” Suzie asked Joe sincerely when she climbed back on.
After a minute, there came that point during the shoot Larry dreaded, the one the actors called “Hands Up,” named after the moment on the roller coaster where you clear the big hill, stick your hands in the air and just enjoy the ride. Hands Up represented the moment when they stopped acting, straining for foreplay, trying to make things all sexy, and actually engaged in intercourse. Once the sex started, since the vast majority of them had experienced sex before, of course, from a filmmaking point of view it could be dangerous to let their instincts take over and ride out the rest of a scene. Dangerous because they would essentially stop working. They were on their own time after that. The best way to snap someone out of Hands Up was to stop the scene, pretend you ran out of film, or, a more recent tactic, that the battery had died. But lately Larry just liked to frown at random parts of their bodies as if he discovered something strange and horrible.
This made them panic and try harder all over again.
They resumed filming, and Joe started his tired-ass routine all over, ramming himself down her throat as far as he could go, making her gag, popping it out, making her gag. Larry rubbed his face hard. All the dudes did this now. Every goddamn time.
Then came the part of his act that drove Larry right up the fucking wall. Joe pushed the head of his cock against the inside of her cheek, then began rapping it with his knuckles. Larry had no idea what this was supposed to prove, and he couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to see it happen, let alone try it, but Joe must have loved it even more than himself. It was sort of his trademark.
He knocked on her face, harder and harder. The echo now like mortar fire in Larry’s head.
Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap…
They were driving behind the cop when Billy asked her what had changed.
“I don’t know. It just seems like we’re arguing all the time and…”
“No, jerk. With his car.”
“Whoa. You’re right. The ‘K through 9th grade’ on his back window is gone!’”
“No, I mean – Wait, what did you mean about arguing though? We don’t argue. No, you’re right, you’re right. We’re just in a funk.”
“Here. Watch me change our mood with different theme music for trailing this clown. First, here’s… the Scanners soundtrack.”
“That makes me want to lean my head out and catch a stop sign with my face.”
“But now here’s the change...”
She cranked the radio on the song.
“And now here’s... the theme music from Magnum P.I.”
“Perfect.”
It was perfect. And with their soundtrack secured, they followed Bigbeep around the neighborhood in an ever-widening spiral. They couldn’t get too close since the horn still honked occasionally for no reason at all. In fact, “No reason at all,” was exactly what the mechanic muttered, the third one to give up trying to figure it out.
“So, what the worst place? You never answered me.”
“E-e-e-e-e-e-rie, Pennsylvania,” he sighed. “Such a backwards ass town that the state bird is a pumpkin. As many E’s as you can stand to scream. I can’t think of a worse place to live.”
“How about Pittsburgh?”
“Let’s compare. Ready? Go.”
“Here. The highlight of my day is feeling my heart skip when I come around the corner and mistake the dark outline of dogshit stations for a human being in the shadows.”
“What the fuck is a dogshit station?” he asked her.
“You know, a pole with a box on it. Dispenses bags? Catches dreams.”
He laughed.
“You’re supposed to drop your dogshit in there,” she added.
“Even if you don’t have a dog?” He was truly confused.
“No one uses them. It really just serves as a warning not to get within a hundred yards.”
“Okay, I can top that. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Spring of ‘81. Sunny and warm. One day, I’m reading in a camping chair that’s painted the colors of the American flag. I’m down by the river that runs past my apartment building, and behind me I hear a child, no more than 10, say, ‘Look at that stupid fucking goose!’ Then I hear her mother say, ‘That’s a vulture!’ I put down my comic book and turn. It’s a kite. With two big eyes painted on it. I broke my lease the next day.”
“Are you from there?”
“No, from here.”
“Where’s here?”
“Same as there.”
“Come on.”
“So what if I’m from here? People say you have to accept your hometown, know where you’re from to know where you’re going and all that. Bullshit! That’s for people with a city, or a country, not the in-between, not ‘burbs, strip malls, not us. The people that exist there, or exist here, they’re in-between, too. Unremarkable in every way.” He actually sounded proud.
“So why move to another one?”
“Because of its name. You can think of some good rhymes.”
“Huh? Okay, you win,” she said. “You know why?”
“Because I’m having a good beard day?”
“Because you’re having a weird beard day. Like you could grow one. Step on it! You’re gonna lose him.”
“Who?”
“Officer Bugbear.”
“You mean ‘Bugbeard’?”
“Turn left,” she said, all business again. “And don’t smile so much.”
“Why?”
“If makes you seem unhinged.”
“I’m as sane as the next guy who’s trying to kill a cop.”
“No, literally unhinged. Like the corners of your mouth will connect in the back and the top of your head will fall off.”
“Oh. What a relief. I thought you were saying I was crazy.”
“Don’t be so self-defecating.”
He almost reached for her hand. Then the horn got stuck again, reminding them that they were too close, and he backed off the chase.
“So, I have an idea,” Billy said to the first unrequited love of his short life. “When is the next Triple Feature over at the Sundance Kid?”
“In th
ree days. She’s Having A Baby, Baby Boom, and Three Men And A Baby. Didn’t you read my flyer?”
“Ugh. Seriously? That doesn’t sound right.”
“That’s what’s on their poster,” Bully shrugged.
“I just can’t believe they’d do that. Those are all, like, rated fucking G. Who would go to a drive-in for kids’ stuff?
“I know what I saw. So, you never answered me. Would you do that jump? If you had the chance?”
“Maybe.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. The chance would have to present itself.”
“How would it do that?”
“Well, you know those new tow trucks? With the ramps on back instead of the chains?”
“I guess,” she lied.
“I would need one of those. If someone parked one of those just right, by a line of cars, I could do it. Out of nowhere, I’d zip in on my bike and fly over everyone’s heads. That’s the only way it might work. But the timing would be one-in-a-million.”
“So you’d do it, is what you’re saying.”
“Sure.”
“You’d leave it up to fate is what you’re telling me.”
He considered this and they pulled up to Radio Shack and both hopped out. They needed a couple final items. But first Bully reached back in to drag a bag of Dog Chow and a gas can from the back seat to the trunk. Taking the keys from Billy, she popped the lock. A sluggish rustling and thumping began, but she held it open just a crack while she poured the dog food in with a gas can’s funnel. The trunk stank like mold from when they’d run a water hose into it earlier that morning. A little like gas, too.
Inside the store, they accosted the teenage suit-wearing clerk like they usually did.
“Question!” Bully shouted. “Where do villains in movies buy their stylish knife holders that they revel in unrolling all dramatic in front of their victims? The Bed Bath & Beyond guy had no idea what we were talking about.”
The clerk shook his head. He’d dealt with them a dozen times now.
“I guess he’s gonna be no help finding a movie assassin’s three-level tackle box with the foam cut-outs for guns either,” Billy laughed.
“I told you, you guys should go to where chefs shop,” the clerk said. “Those places are wannabe serial killer gold.”
“I had a similar experience looking for falconry equipment,” offered a nearby browser, unsolicited. He was head to toe in flannel and playing with a plastic robot arm. “I ended up having to go to a welding shop.”
But Billy was still stuck on the serial killer comment.
“I think you’re on to something, man. ‘Don’t get mad, Mad Doctors! Come to Serial Killer Gold. For all your sinister basement tool needs!’”
Bully laughed, and the shopper backed up a step. Billy tried to keep a straight face.
“But no, seriously, do you have a poster that looks like a decade of newspaper clippings to save time on making a Crazy Shrine?”
Nothing.
“Hey, do you know anybody who will provide a service cutting out all the individual letters from magazines to threaten people, you know, for kidnappings, ransom notes, or whatever? Seriously. Because that shit takes forever.”
After the clerk gave up on them, they wandered around, looking for toys with colorful remote controls to scavenge. Billy had his eye on a gas-powered helicopter, but it was three hundred bucks. He tapped it and nodded at Bully. The guy in the flannel had finally left, so Bully went to keep an eye on the clerk, who had gone back into a storeroom to use the phone. His face was visible in the glass sliver of window on the door.
She watched the clerk for a long time, then finally whispered to Billy, “He’s not looking. He’s on the phone with his girlfriend talking all sexy.”
“How can you possibly know this?”
“Are you fucking kidding me? I can read his lips! A decade of watching drive-in movies from a mile away has finally paid off! I’ll start the car.” Then she headed out.
Billy did one more lap, saw the guy still on the phone, then put the helicopter under his arm and moved for the door. He’d just cleared the threshold and was aiming for their corner of the parking lot when he realized a couple things were different.
Her car was gone. And a police cruiser was pulling into the space she’d left behind.
The officer stepped out and froze. Billy held the helicopter out as if he was going to drop it, then tried to make light of the situation.
“Hey, I’ve always wondered about something. Are you still littering if you set something down real slow?”
“You betcha.” Click.
“One more question…”
“No more questions. Now put down the Space Shuttle and place your hands behind your head.”
Space Shuttle? Billy was insulted. Every toy was a “Space Shuttle” after a recent launch. Until the Challenger explosion anyway.
Then the clerk came out, setting off the door chimes and the cop looked away. Billy ran like the fucking wind, knowing the back alleys well enough to quickly win the foot chase. He didn’t stop running until he got home and back on his bike. And he didn’t stop his bike until he got back to her.
“Do you hate all cops?”
“I hate cops, firefighters, paramedics, bounty hunters, security guards... and probably astronauts.”
“Come on, what did a firefighter ever do to you?”
“Fuck ‘em. They’re lucky they’re around fire all day. Otherwise, they’d just be a bunch of assholes in stupid hats.”
“My uncle’s a firefighter.”
“Firefighters rely on the cool aspects of fire to act tough. But what if they were fighting, say, bubbles? That’s what I thought. Just a bunch of punks who wash their trucks too much.”
“Yeah, but you can’t die from third-degree bubble. Or catching bubble.”
“Catching bubble! I’ll bet you fifty bucks that hundreds of kids die every year trying to catch bubbles. You know, tripping over shit, getting balls impaled on fences.”
“Fuck that. You’re on.”
Two thugs, one big, one little (the modern-day, post-Heat versions of thugs anyway, with the business suits, black Isotoners and flak jackets), high-step over the line of bodies like the tire obstacle at a Police Academy, two silver shotguns swinging at their sides. Everyone is doing it right so far, hands over heads, breath fogging the floor, not even a whisper to raise their blood pressure. They hear their partner in the vault wrestling with the last garbage bag. The big thug and little thug always give the middle guy the physical duties, mostly because his size is “just right.”
“Answer me this,” Little Thug goes on. “You even had a run-in with a cop before today?”
“Yep,” Big Thug says. “I was 15. My brother was 16 and just got his license. We both hopped into my Dad’s Chevy van, armed with Super Soakers so we could scare-”
“Yeah, you’re under arrest,” Little Thug laughs.
“No, no, wait. Okay, sure, we wanted to scare some people, yanking open the sliding door and lighting ‘em up with a stinky dose of Northwest Ohio egg water. But that’s not a crime. So my brother slows down, and I hose this punk on a bike from head to spokes. Which was a fuckin’ favor since it was about 90 degrees out. So, yeah, we come home, and we’ve pretty much forgotten about it, except my brother, who’s drinking water out of the end of his barrel at the dinner table. Then there’s this knock on the door.”
“Busted!”
“Yep. The boys in blue. My dad answers the door, and they tell him about some ‘drive-by’ and some ‘terrorizing of local youth,’ and they give him a description of two scrawny whelps, right around our height, wielding, get this, ‘pump-action shotguns.’ My dad yells for my brother, who’s still suckling the end of his gun like a freakin’ hamster, and we all step outside. And before we know it, the cop actually has his .38 out, barkin’, ‘Put the weapon on the ground, son!’ My brother and I drop, and my dad laughs, ‘Seriously? It’s green and purple for
Christ sakes.’ The cop sputters some bullshit like, ‘Someone could paint a gun to look like a toy, sir!’ And my dad snaps. He takes a step too close to the biggest one, and suddenly my dad’s on the ground, arm dislocated over his head, three knees in his back. But my brother, who always moved a little quicker than me, God bless him, he gets off one good squirt, super-soaking one of the fucker’s legs, right before he’s choked out.”
“What happened to your dad and your brother?”
“Nothing. Charges dismissed. But here’s the worst part. They kept the toys. Even after one of them fired a ‘round’ into the grass and reported into his radio, ‘Weapon discharged, no danger, over.’ Right now they’re in an evidence locker surrounded by heroin and AK-47s. Breaks my fuckin’ heart. I’d walk right into that station if I knew I get them back.”
“You want to?”
He thinks about it. Then they pull up the bottom of their ski masks to breathe easier. Big Thug slips a boot under the security guard’s ribs and flips him over. The guard carefully opens one eye, then the other.
“See this cocksucker?” Big Thug hisses.
“Yep.”
“He was chewing gum when we walked in. I think it distracted him.” Big Thug kicks him in the kidney. “You got gum?”
The guard stares, coughing through the pain.
“Chew it.”
The guard’s jaw starts working like a horse with an apple.
“Hey,” Big Thug whispers, tugging on his mask, “Do we have to do so much cop bashing? I mean, I know it’s all part of the…”
Little Thug smacks his hand away and motions down with his gun.
Big Thug finds the guard on the floor again and laughs. “Blow a bubble.”
The guard tries, air and spittle whistling. Big Thug cocks his shotgun for incentive. It’s spray-painted green and purple with a water bottle taped to the top.
The Last Projector Page 14
