The Last Projector

by David James Keaton

  Evil had left the ramp, but in his head the announcer was declaring, Evil has left the building!

  “…then at precisely 2:35 p.m., with the ticking bomb locked onto his neck, Mr. Bells drove to the ZNC Bank branch in the shopping center on Peach Street. Mr. Bells walked inside the bank, appearing oddly calm on the bank’s surveillance cameras, even twirling chewing gum on his finger and attempting to blow bubbles, though his mouth was too dry. He quietly informed the clerk that he had an explosive device attached to his body, and then proceeded to show her the sword. He demanded $250,000, but received only $8,702. When Bells exited the bank, one customer followed him out, perhaps believing it was a hoax, clearly thinking something was odd about Mr. Bells’ behavior, besides the plastic sword he wielded, the colorful contraption around his neck, and his inability to blow even a single bubble…”

  Evil felt his headphones slipping. And even though he had a police dog clamped tight onto the handlebars of his dirt bike as he launched into mid-air, it was the loss of his true love’s voice in his ears that distracted him the most, even more than what she was confessing, even more than her tone of indifference. This is what they called in sports, “taking your eye off the ball,” and his landing would prove those coaches right.

  “Jack’s apartment building. Same night. Jacki stops in his hallway, debating which door to knock on all over again. The girl or the lion? she thinks. She picks the right one and gets the girl, who has mercifully switched from ice cubes to bubblegum. But working her words around the gum makes this girl’s mouth stretch a little wider, and Jacki starts wishing for the ice again. Or the even the lion.”

  “How many times is she going to go back to his apartment?”

  “Apartments.”

  “Apartments. It’s getting ridiculous.”

  “It’ll all make sense later. Just listen. ‘He’s not here,’ says Bubblegum Girl, formerly Ice Cube Girl. She’s wearing no pants and an oversized T-shirt again, this one with a pimped-out ambulance and the words: ‘This Is How I Roll.’”

  “That’s not what my shirt says.”

  “‘Is he ever here?’ Jacki asks, trying to look past her. ‘Sometimes,’ she says, cracking a bubble like a gunshot. ‘What? You don’t believe me?’ Bubblegum Girl opens the door wide so Jacki can look past her. Jacki looks inside, reading the back of the girl’s T-shirt instead. It says:

  ‘Paramedics: It’s Not That We Want You To Get Hurt. We Just Wanna Be There When You Do.’

  “Are you going to actually write this on my shirt or what…”

  “‘Is this a one-bedroom or a two-bedroom apartment?’ Jacki asks her. Bubblegum girl blows a bubble, but chews it up before it really has a chance to grow. ‘Two bedrooms. Same as every apartment in the building. Same dimensions as a prison actually, which is crazy. Why do you ask?’ ‘I don’t know, I just thought this apartment was bigger... or smaller... I can’t remember which.’ She backs up and turns away. ‘Never mind. Thanks.’ Then the door closes behind her, and she quickly walks to Jack’s other apartment across the hall. She knocks on the door and waits. Then she tries Door Number Three. When no one answers, she turns the knob to find it unlocked and steps inside. Nosing around, she finds the second bedroom and turns on the light. Laid out on the bed are medical files, X-rays, an EMS flip-chart, and several field guides for dog breeds. Now nervous, she finds the closet and opens the door, and on the walls of the closet are rows and rows of photographs of women, mostly Polaroids, all young, attractive dark-skinned women asleep in hospital beds. All of the faces have red X’s through them. Except for one in the middle.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Right? Jacki looks closer, even though she doesn’t need to, and verifies this is a picture of her, curled up in the twisted metal of the car crash six years earlier.”

  Crash site. Same night. Jacki is standing over her tree-stump with a flashlight. There’s a ring of plants growing around the ragged edge, and she leans down with the light in her mouth to touch one of the bulbs. Not expecting the plants to move, she bites down on the flashlight when one of them does, sending it shooting out of her teeth as she jumps back in shock and almost lands on her ass.

  Retrieving her flashlight, she leans over again, slower this time, and sees that the plants are young Venus Flytraps, most of them with their maws open, waving in the night air, eager for something to eat.

  These things don’t grow here, she thinks. Not without help.

  Her attention is drawn to one of the traps that is closed, and she puts the bright end of her flashlight behind the bulb. The flytrap glows red, revealing a dark spot in the center of the half moon. She pinches it between her fingers, and feels the plant vibrate. It’s a fly, she realizes. And even though she’d heard her daughter sing about how a fly can live for days in your belly before it’s digested, unless you swallow the spider to catch it, she has to fight a scream every time it buzzes. As she calms her heart rate back down, Jacki presses the flashlight into her palm and turns it over to watch the back of it glow red, too.

  She’s honestly surprised to find no shadows hiding in her hand, but there is something in her belly, something that wriggled and jiggled and tickled inside her, just like the song promised.

  Jack’s Car. Same night. He’s driving home. He’s frantic, eyes practically pinwheeling in panic. A Jeff Buckley song, “The Sky is a Landfill” plays on his stereo.

  “You sing in praise of suicide, we know that you’re useless, like cops at the scene of a crime...”

  Suddenly, he slams on his brakes and swerves to stop on a corner at the base of a grassy hill. An old man in shorts, sandals, and socks up to his knees is running a lawnmower off the edge of his lawn to spin around and head back up the hill. The old man sees Jack idling and putters to a stop, looking confused. Jack leans out the driver’s window, waving and shaking his head.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Jack laughs. “I thought you were out of control. I thought… I thought that was a baby carriage.”

  The man wipes sweat off his face, looking down at his lawnmower then back at Jack. He switches off the motor.

  “Uh, nope. This ain’t no stroller, chief. I was just running to finish this hill before it gets dark, my man.”

  “Sorry, the sun was going down, and I…”

  “Ha! I think you’ve seen The Battleship Potemkin too many times.”

  Jack frowns, shakes his head.

  “No? How about The Untouchables?”

  “Oh, yeah! The baby on the steps,” Jack nods, and the old man seems slightly annoyed by Jack’s recognition of one film instead of the other. “Anyway, my fault. Sorry to scare ya.”

  The old man smiles and reaches down for the starter cord. He sees Jack still staring.

  “Don’t worry, chief. This ain’t an umbilical cord!” he sputters. “I don’t blame ya. Every time I see someone jogging and pushing a stroller at the same time, I panic and think it’s the Lindbergh baby kidnapping!”

  The old man pulls the cord hard, and the lawnmower starts back up with a roar. Jack coasts away, embarrassed, changing stations on the radio until he finds an obnoxious DJ shouting out a weather report over a rock beat.

  “...remember there’s a sun delay on I-65 heading north...”

  “What the fuck?” Jack asks the radio.

  He ducks down to squint through the windshield at the sky. It’s still gray and overcast, like it’s been all day.

  “Sun delay?” Jack says, fear growing in his voice. “What the fuck does that mean? Is the sun slowing down? ”

  “...so be careful rush hour drivers, if the sun is in your eyes, take it slow...”

  “Oh.”

  Jack is worried that he’s losing the ability to comprehend simple clues of his surroundings, something Rick’s been telling him all week. He switches stations and finds The Who. Another fucking dog song.

  “You were holding a greyhound in trap number one. Your white coat was shining in the afternoon sun…”

  “Nop
e, too close to home, limeys.”

  He switches stations again and lands on Peter Gabriel’s “The Rhythm of the Heat,” right at the tribal drum solo part of the song. The drumming now playing catch with his brain, Jack is convinced the world has conspired to cause a breakdown. He turns off the stereo before he can argue with it anymore.

  Hospital emergency entrance. End of the night. Jack walks through the double doors looking more like a patient than an EMT. He sees the two Mikes leaning against a wall in the middle of a loud conversation and heads towards them.

  “...that’s where the phrase, ‘You can’t teach a dead dog new tricks’ comes from,” Little Mike is saying.

  “What’s up, men,” Jack interrupts, not really interested. “Seen Rick?”

  “Ain’t my turn to watch him,” Little Mike says. “Hey, you’re early for once.”

  “No,” Jack sighs, rubbing his head. “I just couldn’t remember if we were on or off tonight. I’ve been getting my schedule screwed up lately. Speaking of, what the hell are you two doing here?”

  “Haven’t seen Rick around at all,” Big Mike says, ignoring the question.

  “Hey, I’ll go with you!” Little Mike offers, suddenly excited. “All you need is a getaway driver, right? You can do all your usual nasty stuff in the back.”

  “Yeah, no, thanks. That’s kinda illegal,” Jack laughs. “Wait, what stuff in the back?”

  “What do you care about illegal?” Big Mike asks, sharing a glance with Little Mike.

  “No seriously,” Jack says. “What the hell are you guys doing here? Did you get a call? Any dead dogs on the road? Any dogs in your truck…” Jack trails off as he notices Derek working on some vomit in the corner of the emergency room with his mop. Big Mike turns.

  “That’s right,” Big Mike laughs. “Take a good look. That’s your future, homey.”

  “More like your futures,” Jack says. Then, “What did you mean?”

  “He used to work here, didn’t he?” Little Mike asks no one in particular.

  But Derek is suddenly there in front of them in three big steps before anybody can answer, finishing Little Mike’s thought for him.

  “That’s right. I used to be one of you. I’m a motherfuckin’ cautionary tale,” Derek laughs. “Back when things were different. They only needed one of me for every two of you assholes.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Jack says. “Who needs two assholes?”

  “No bullshit,” Derek says, missing the joke, getting in Little Mike’s face. “There was only one medic per vehicle, instead of a ‘pair’ of them like ya got now.”

  The Mikes roll their eyes at this.

  “I’m telling you,” Derek goes on. “It was hard back then, when you had to do it all. Give ‘em mouth-to-mouth, check their, uh, blood pressure, play with the sirens, use black tape and rope instead of band-aids, all the while driving with our knees because our hands were so busy. It was a bitch. You ever see one of those street musicians playing the guitar with one hand, a tambourine with the other hand, a drum with his kneecaps, and a harmonica strapped to the front of his head like a football mouth-guard?”

  “I love those!” Little Mike shouts.

  “Well, that was me. That was all of us. And the ambulances were a lot smaller, too. Had a side-car like a motorcycle where you put the bodies.”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “They have something like that in England actually,” Jack concedes, but no one hears him. He thinks about how recklessness has forever overshadowed true motorcycle skills.

  “Anybody can jump a motorcycle,” Evel Knievel himself once said. “The trouble begins when you try to land it.”

  That walking X-ray was a sage, he decides.

  “Yep, it was a juggling act back then, that’s for sure,” Derek says wistfully, looking off into the distance, even though there’s only blood and vomit and white walls.

  “You are so fuckin’ full of it,” Little Mike says, head shaking. “You never were no paramedic. I remember your first day. Three years back. You were walking into the wrong rooms, bumping into shit with that same mop bucket. I thought you were drunk. It took a week before I realized you worked here. Twice I tried to put you on a gurney.”

  “Fuck you,” Derek hisses, poking both Mikes in the chest in turn. “And don’t think I don’t know what you two are up to. I know you guys have been following me.”

  “What are you talking about, rummy?” Big Mike scoffs.

  “I seen you. I seen you both. You were parked behind some pine trees, just down the street. I could see both your shadows. One big. One small.”

  “Uh… right,” Little Mike says, turning to Big Mike and trying to pick up where they left off. “So, anyway, I bet the guy…”

  Derek slaps their shoes with his mop to interrupt one last time, then wanders off, disgusted with all of them. He catches Jack watching him go and forces an expression of mirth that’s something like a smile after a stroke. Jack just stares, lost in thought about what he’d found online about Derek in the sex-offender registry, trying to forget the face in the mugshot, frowning so hard his forehead looked injured. He remembered when he first heard Evel Knievel say, “Chicks dig scars,” and how he was disappointed he wasn’t saying, “Chicks dig cars.”

  The scars would have to be within reason, he thought. Like tastefully applied by the special-effects girl just around the jaw line, or the cheek bones, one sexy line through the eyebrow. Really, good luck with the chicks if half your nose is gone and they’re reading your sinuses like tea leaves when you sneeze.

  After a minute, Big Mike smacks Jack’s shoulder hard to get his attention.

  “Wake up!”

  “So I bet the guy…” Little Mike is still saying to Big Mike. “…how much to make a dead dog shit?”

  “You know what?” Jack claps his hands to stop him. “I need to confess something. Despite the subject matter of your conversations, you two walking disasters inspire me. You really do. For some reason that I’m sure is my fault and my fault alone, I find your babbling ripe with symbolism. Deep shit that usually applies to whatever I’m dealing with. You help keep my head on straight. It’s like your fucking job!”

  The Mikes look at each other, smiling but baffled.

  “Except today,” Jack continues. “Today, you win. Today I have no idea what in the holy hell you’re talking about. But it doesn’t matter.”

  Jack walks away.

  “Hey! They can’t all be gold!” Little Mike shouts after him, then turns back to Big Mike. “So, naturally, I’m knuckle deep in this Rottweiler’s ass, right...”

  Jack calls back over his shoulder.

  “Hey, tell Rick I need to talk to him. Please.”

  “Outta gas, eh?” Big Mike smiles. “Told you the job ain’t forever.”

  “Just not up for it tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t you guys listen to the radio?”

  “Nope.”

  “Nope.”

  “The sun isn’t coming up tomorrow.”

  Then he’s gone.

  VIII.

  The Last Projectionist – Special Weapons and Tactics – Watching a Lumberjack Contest for the Wrong Reasons – Henny Penny – Where the Rubber Hits the Road Is Everywhere – Tony Baloney Has Eight Lives Left – The Rap Is The Thing – To Protect and Serve Man! – Tastes like Chicken Shit with a Badge – Remember That Dream with the Ribcage and the Rubber Ball or Whatever? – Stick a Needle in Your Blood and Your Blood’s Gonna Scream – Dyslexic Paramedic with a Dog Complex – Quadruple Walker – Hell Comes to Heck Town – They Eat Kids like Crackerjacks – Skins Vs. Shirts – The Biggest Shadow Animal of All Time – Bardstown Therapist – More Like Waiting for Godon’t! – Evil Gets the Girl – Catches Dreams… and Swallows – Redrum Makes the Best Ribs – A Plastic Infinity – The Broken Siren Is Finally Back to Normal – Daddyunclegrandpabrother – Bully Celebrates Veterinarian’s Day in the Hospital –
Doppelgänger Radar – Larry Steals Evil’s Dirt Bike – Green Wire and Purple Bubblegum

  “I’m gonna stomp your head in the ground

  if you don’t stay out of my hen house

  You dirty old egg-suckin’ hound”

  -Johnny Cash “Dirty Old Egg-Suckin’ Dog”

  “How did I get here?” Larry asked nobody in particular, shifting his movie to another arm so his nose won’t bleed on it.

  Along the white, concrete walls were movie posters. Huge, “four-sheets” they called them. He traced the word “Fly” but didn’t recognize the name on the marquee below it. He knew the original and its sequel, of course, but this poster was too green.

  “‘David Cronenberg?’” Larry whispered. “Must be foreign. Or a different kind of Fly.”

  “Sort of foreign,” came a voice behind Larry that rebounded off the poster. “He’s Canadian. Which normally means nothing. But this guy is real different.”

  “Are you in charge here?” Larry asked the monster green fly like a madman.

  “What do you mean?”

  Now the voice was coming from the whirling mechanism in the center of the room. Larry stepped towards it right as a man appeared from behind the projector wheels. Larry gasped and clutched his reel to his chest like a Teddy. The man was big, wearing overalls and a leathery face, built like someone who did hard work with his hands. But he smiled like a grandpa.

  “Where am I?” Larry asked.

  “Where do you think you are?”