The Last Projector

by David James Keaton

  “He said, ‘Why don’t you get a proper dog?’

  And I said, ‘Rover, ignore this copper’

  And I pick up a stick”

  -John Hegley, “Very Bad Dog”

  Larry circled the strip mall, stopping his Grenada under a sign that read “Load Bearing Wall.” He smiled with the memory of five previous signs he’d stolen. Their film budgets were microscopic, and the joke of having that particular construction sign above the bed in one of his projects was a gift that just kept on giving, albeit literally with diminishing returns. He saw they’d attached it with heavy-duty bolts this time, and he almost went to his trunk for his tools before he remembered he didn’t have that job anymore, having murdered his boss just hours before.

  His car spit out a muffled backfire in protest.

  Is it pronounced gren-ah-dah or gren-aye-dah? he thought. You say potato…

  Pulling out, he saw that King Ink, the tattoo shop on the corner, was closed and boarded up. Once, Larry went with a girl to this very same parlor to get a Japanese character buzzed into her neck. When she first said, “Japanese character,” Larry worried it was going to be Godzilla. But worse than that, it was Japanese glyphs she’d selected just because they looked cool, with no clue whatsoever about the translation. He would have respected a tiny Godzilla stomping around on the back of her head a lot more than such a trendy roll of the dice. When it was over and the “artist” was rubbing the wax into the angry black slashes on her neck, that’s about the time Larry noticed he had one, too. Right under his ear. Right where a sucker punch would have turned his lights out. A tiny Godzilla.

  To be fair, Larry didn’t have the same aversion to tattoos back then. In fact, he had offered his own monster for her to use. Everyone had one monster they learned to draw on their Trapper Keepers, ballpoint beastie noodling during phone calls, or personal freaks etched into desks, and he’d been drawing his for decades. It was a one-eyed creature with three more one-eyed creatures spewing from its mouth. A couple horns, some pointy wings to scare it up a bit. But mostly it was the head that Larry loved to draw, that cartoon eye like a boat with a sunrise in the middle. He always started there. Everyone got caught up in the extra eyeballs coming out of its mouth, but Larry didn’t know how else you could put more eyes on a one-eyed monster without all the little monsters, too.

  They didn’t last more than a decade after that. And once she was gone, Godzilla disappeared beneath the waves. When Larry thought about it later, he couldn’t believe anyone would immortalize a childish monster doodle on their bodies.

  Then he realized that’s really all tattoo artists ever did. All day, every day.

  And that’s what they had done to his wife.

  Besides that random word on her arm that he couldn’t decipher, she also had this little elfin thing on her ankle with a sprinkle of mushrooms around its feet. It disgusted him. Some nights he seriously considered an anesthesia-free removal. Especially around mushroom season.

  “That’s why you should never fuck around with a guy who does tattoos,” he told her once when she was crying about her new boss at her grocery-bagging job who insisted she cover it up. “You paid for a variation of something some asshole first drew in kindergarten.”

  “I know this,” she told him. “That means he’s had a long time to get it right. And you should talk!”

  But it wasn’t the mysterious letters on her forearm, or even the forest creature that sickened him the most. It was really the mushrooms. See, one time during a real humid summer, she got this rash on her legs that was diagnosed as “fruiting bodies.”

  Fruiting? What the what? You say po-tah-toe, I say…

  That horrific phrasing, mixed with the idea of actual mushrooms growing on her legs, snowballed in his brain, even made several guest appearances in his dreams. He would imagine her legs sprouting big, spongy fungus caps, concentrated patches that she would run her razor across, clipping them at the base with almost a knuckle-cracking sound and a puff of spores instead of blood. To this day, he would still gag just thinking about it. As a kid, he once had a dream that his fingertips were swollen with mucus and mice, and how he’d squeeze them in order to drain the weight and lift a pencil again. And that dream was pretty fucked up. But it was nothing compared to the mushroom dreams. Research turned up a magazine at the library with an article about a “Mushroom Man,” but was afraid to open it. But he got suckered into tuning in to a documentary which promised wonder and amazement as it followed the life of a noble “Tree Man,” cousin to the Mushroom Man. He’d only recently gotten that abomination out of his head, especially the insects living between his horned fingers.

  But those mushrooms. They distracted him from the word on her arm, a word that he’d seen before, that he usually mistook for Spanish.

  Even though he hadn’t seen her in years, Larry thought those mushrooms should probably be clipped, just in case they were poisonous. Just in case they spread.

  He pulled into the driveway of their old house and watched her shape dance in front of the blue glow of someone else’s movie. Nope, not one of his, he was certain. Never one of his.

  A sign on the side of the highway said “Ramp,” and his heart started hammering.

  Not that kind of ramp, he told his heart, looking to the night sky. Is tonight another supermoon? Watch her ask me to jump that, too. “You’ll know when,” she told me.

  He took the ramp anyway, turning so hard on his bike that he tapped a knee against the road. Someone had placed a memorial wreath with “Wild Tony Bee” written in flowers, and it angered him for no reason.

  No way someone died there, he thought in disgust, pointing a toe forward like a jousting lance, and flipping the wreath into a ditch. He felt bad for a second, until he remembered his new name. He took the next corner even lower to the ground, imagining an announcer swallowing the microphone, “Introducing… Evil… Boll… Weevil!”

  Evil Boll Weevil. That’s me! Put it on a t-shirt…

  He might have heard a novelty song use that name once, but he was 79% sure he thought of it first. That was plenty for copyright purposes.

  Evil took the next turn so low that his elbow touched the road. The heat and dust of the asphalt smeared the words he’d written on his skin. It was an idea his brother had, when they were watching that NASCAR bullshit back before they knew better (hell, it was better than WWF). His brother said, “You know how the drivers have all those ads all over ‘em? Let’s do that to you!”

  He wasn’t sure at first, but then he remembered something his brother’s hero, Evel Knievel, proclaimed once in an interview:

  “Chicks dig cars.”

  So he stood in the mirror and let him cover him in imaginary sponsors. They decided to go with companies that would stand the test of time, those whose immortal products were the pinnacle of technology, never to be surpassed.

  Coin-op arcade games.

  They put “Tempest” on his tricep, “Zaxxon” on his bicep, “BurgerTime” on his belly, “Asteroids” on his ass (written backwards and upside down since he insisted on doing that one himself), a couple “Froggers” on his thighs, “Joust” on his forearms, a huge “Defender” across his back, “Spyhunter” on one shin, “Spyhunter II” on the other, “Lunar Landers” on the tops of his feet, and “Excite Bike” everywhere else there was room.

  And right over his heart, “Time Pilot.” Because that was their favorite. Even though it never made good on its promise, and playing it kept him right here in nineteen-eighty whatever no matter how many times the sun went down.

  He recited something else his brother’s hero had said, right before he tried to jump the moon and wiped out in front of thousands:

  “I am the last gladiator in the new Rome. I go into the arena, and I compete against destruction.”

  On the next turn, he finally got too low, and the gas sloshed so hard in the tank that he stalled out the bike. Standing straight up, he finally noticed the present Bully had left behind. It was
swinging from the handlebars, and for a second he thought it was another dreamcatcher to make up for the one she’d destroyed. No, this was even better.

  It was the shark-tooth necklace. His own original neck bomb. The Sword of Damocles hanging over his bed. He gingerly laid it over his throat, locked it, then kick-started his dirt bike for the last time.

  Larry was going to play “Jack,” probably until the end, so he went over the scene in detail, but out loud this time, coaching himself as well as his crew, with the camera running nonstop, just in case they caught lightning in a bottle. Or at least lightning bugs.

  “So, Jack and Jacki are sitting at a table with drinks between them, while Toni drops some quarters into a deer-hunting videogame. But it looks like a racing game that you sit in, because around here, you hunt deer with your car, right? And Captain Beefheart’s song ‘Electricity’ is playing on the jukebox because Jack got there early. ‘So this is the infamous L.A.P.D. Smokehouse, huh?’ she says. ‘You’ve never been here?’ Jack asks. ‘I always meant to, but I thought cops owned it or something with a name like that.’ ‘Naw, I think it stands for Louisville Area Beer Distributor, but then the “B” got messed up on the sign? Or maybe everybody kept remembering it wrong, so they went with it. “L.A.B.D.” isn’t nearly as catchy.’ ‘Sounds like some kind of mutt,’ she says. ‘So, do you like it?’ ‘It’s cool,’ Jacki says, looking around. ‘Walking distance to a bunch of stuff, I guess.’ ‘Yeah,’ Jack mutters, looking around, too. ‘So, is the name “Jacki” short for something or what?’ ‘Yeah,’ she laughs. ‘It’s kind of weird. “Jacki” is actually short for “Jacinto,” after the Battle of San Jacinto? “Jacinto Ramirez.” That’s me. Sounds like war, doesn’t it?’ ‘Isn’t that a boy’s name?’ ‘Guess not,’ she says through her teeth, looking up at the ceiling. And right then, the jukebox seems to triple in volume!”

  Larry started to sing in his best bluesy growl.

  “‘…high voltage man kisses night to bring the light to those who need to hide their shadow deed… hide their shadow deed… seek electricity...’” He couldn’t keep it up and had to cough a second, then, “Yeah, that’s the song belching out of it, and Jack asks, playing with his matchbook, ‘Then how do you say it?’ ‘The town? It’s pronounced “Hah-Sin-Tow.”’ ‘So why isn’t your named pronounced ‘Hacky?’ he asks her. “‘Cause… it’s not,’ she says. ‘You’d have to sound like you’re clearing your throat.’ Got it?”

  “No. Can you repeat everything after… everything.”

  Sherry, the new Jacki, and Larry’s actress for the night, was chewing on the end of her thumbnail, not really getting it at all. She’d done a good job on a couple of the hospital scenes, but he feared she was losing the plot. Still, Larry hoped that her frustration would translate well for the final film.

  Final film.

  The little girl was a natural though. She was Sherry’s niece, and Larry was going to make it work because the chances of finding a little brat who could memorize all her lines with a minimum of tantrums were gonna be slim.

  “‘Hack-ee,’” Jack will say, Jack being me, and he’ll be coughing at the same time. Jacki, being you, will have to smile and say, ‘Yeah, something like that.’ Get it? Got it? Good.”

  He ran to push a chair in front of the back door to let in more mosquitoes. Larry was so excited, he dropped the camera on his foot. The camera wasn’t that heavy, but it caught his big toe just right through his ragged tennis shoe. He would have screamed if the little girl hadn’t wanted so bad for it to happen.

  “So, why are you named after a boy or a battle?”

  “Jesus Christ. Okay, it’s actually even stranger than you think,” Jacki sighs. “We’re sort of named after the cannons that were used in that battle.”

  “Wait, who’s ‘we?’”

  “Me and my sister,” she says, smile slipping.

  Jack pulls a pen from his pocket, then opens a matchbook to write.

  “And why again are you and your sister named after weapons and wars and all that? Did your dad want boys or something? Of course he did. He’s Mexican, right?”

  “No,” she says, smile gone for good now. “He named me and my sister, Anna, after the battle and General Santa Anna. And there were these two cannons that won the battle for America – hold on, you heard this before?” she asks, picking up speed.

  He doesn’t answer, knowing it won’t matter.

  “Well, they called the cannons ‘the two sisters,’ and they were donated from somewhere in Kentucky, actually. No, wait, Kentucky Street, Ohio. Anyway, I think we were named after those cannons because they were delivered to General Houston on April 11th, our birthday and...”

  “Just a sec. Your sister was named after the General that lost the battle?”

  “Never mind. You’re right. I guess he wanted boys,” Jacki says.

  They sit in silence a moment, both realizing she just unloaded a lot of personal information.

  “Dad was complicated.”

  “…hide their shadow deed… hide their shadow deed… seek electricity...”

  Jacki nods toward her daughter who’s still hunting electronic deer with a car. Toni’s studying the game’s giant pink plastic steering wheel as she angles for everything on the screen that moves.

  “What about her? What’s the name ‘Toni’ short for? Anthony, right? Didn’t you learn your lesson?”

  “Sure didn’t,” she sighs, clearly annoyed. “Toni was named by her father ‘cause, yes, he always wants something else. Or at least he wanted something other than what he got.”

  Jacki looks at her watch, and Jack understands he’s talking about a family, not just a child.

  “So, why did you ask me here again?” She shakes her head. “Don’t answer that. I’m sorry, that reminds me. We’ve got to go see her dad about her...” she lowers her voice to a whisper. “...birthday party.”

  “Okay, I don’t know if you remember me, but a long time ago, I came to your hospital room after…”

  Suddenly, she frowns and leans across the table. Jack freezes in fear.

  “Don’t move,” she says. Then she reaches up, palm out, and smears a plump mosquito the length of his cheek, leaving a bloody streak of war paint to divide his face.

  “Sorry,” she says. “But that thing was getting fat. I don’t know how you didn’t feel it.”

  He taps his cheek and looks at his fingertips.

  “Damn, that was kinda horrible,” he marvels. “A nice hard smack would have been infinitely better than that.”

  They both laugh.

  “I can’t believe how disappointed I am right now that the night didn’t end with you smacking me in the face,” he goes on.

  “Sorry,” she says again.

  He stares at her, so much to say on the tip of his tongue, but there’s no way now, with his own blood and mosquito guts all over his face. He finally realizes who she reminds him of, besides the girl back in England, of course, the one who got him deported a lifetime ago.

  She’s the girl in the movies where the hero thinks he sees the love of his life, then she turns around, opens her eyes, and it’s just someone who looks like her instead. Something like that. He wants to tell her this, too, but thinks better of it. Because, actually, whenever Jack watched a movie like that, he always thought the wrong girl would do just fine. He never understood why the hero never started conversations with everybody, doing all that heroic shit and all, he would tell everybody…

  But now Jacki’s gathering up her things, picking up her jacket, and Jack considers a funny story, maybe even a confession, to keep her there just a little longer. He suddenly wants to tell her how he’s always thought of himself slightly different from everyone else because the worst aspects of his personality were born from starting everything so late in life and worrying that he’d never catch up, that and the fact that he was born with two extra molars, and right as he gets the courage to pull down his bottom lip and lose her completely, mercifully, she takes
the matchbook away from him and drops it into her pocket.

  “All my digits, house and phone, are on the-” he starts.

  “I know. I’m sorry, but we gotta get going.”

  She shakes her head as she watches her daughter happily clicking the gun, pretending to shoot out every light bulb in the place. Jack imagines them popping one at a time, until he’s left alone in the dark.

  A gun and a steering wheel on that game? he thinks. Jesus Christ.

  “So, what do you think her dad will buy her this year?” he jokes, social skills now totally defunct. “A football helmet, a bazooka, or a hunting license?”

  Jacki stops and lights a match from the book she took from him. She lights it without tearing it free, then holds it up so he can see the flame burning through his numbers.

  Later that night. A girl’s voice echoes down the hallway of Jack’s apartment building.

  “That hurt, motherfucker! C’mon, Jack. Where you going now? What’s in the bag...”

  A door opens, and the sound of another party fills the hallway as Jack quickly exits, carrying a long camouflaged bag over his shoulder. He tries to slam the door behind him but a girl’s bare foot kicks the door back open. Jack walks across the hall with his gear and stands staring at another apartment door. A stereo belts out a song that isn’t even out yet. Or maybe Jack is singing it. Either way, it’s impossible.

  “You little fun remover… fun removal machine…”