The Last Projector

by David James Keaton

  “Mm-hmm.” Jacki will walk in toward the television, interested in something.

  “Dogs are good for us. Did you know I hit a dog with my car the first day I got my license? That’s what made me want to be a paramedic...”

  “Please,” Jacki will interrupt. “Not that story again. I can’t take it.”

  They will stand silent a moment, until she tap, tap, taps the heavy glass of the TV with her toe.

  “So, do you still get an empty feeling when the movie is over or what?”

  “Not really. Maybe.”

  He’ll walk to the window and look down to see an El Camino parked in front of the hydrant. There will be a tiny hand drawing on the glass from the inside, exhaust chugging out the tailpipe. When Jack realizes the car is still running, his muscles will slump a bit in disappointment. Then he’ll jump, startled at the sound of his television tipping over.

  “Sorry,” she’ll say. His lack of peripheral vision will make it easy for her to pocket some things that had caught her eye as he works to set the TV back on the cinderblock.

  “Do you remember when I told you my dad made me catch stray cats in the junkyard with him?” he’ll ask her.

  “I don’t know. Yes? I thought you said it was stray dogs though.”

  “No. It was cats, we’d catch cats hiding in the tires in the junkyard. Living in the rain water like otters. Ten more generations and they’d have flippers.”

  “You ever read Tom Sawyer?” she’ll ask.

  “No.”

  “No?

  “Probably. You ever heard The Byrds ‘Old Blue?’

  “Please, no more dog songs, Jack. There can’t be any left, right?”

  “We lowered him down with a golden chain, and every link, we called his name...” Jack will sing.

  “Well, I think you’d love Tom Sawyer, Jack. Long time ago, I read it, and Toni just started reading it to me at bedtime these days. And it turns out I remembered it all wrong. ‘Spunkwater’ wasn’t the cure for warts. It wasn’t the cure for anything. It was the chant Tom Sawyer said after he stuck his hand in the stump.”

  “Okay?”

  “And it was a dog not a cat. And Tom said, ‘The dead cat chases the dead, and the warts chase the cat.’ Or maybe it’s the dead cat chases the rat. Either way.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Jacki?”

  “I don’t know,” she’ll admit again. She will say this a lot. “Toni skips a lot when she reads.”

  “My dad made me hunt stray rats once,” Jack will say.

  “I thought it was cats,” Jacki will say through her teeth. “How can there be such a thing as ‘stray rats?’”

  “Spunkwater doesn’t cure anything, huh?” he’ll say, sounding too interested. “If it did, you wouldn’t need guys like us.”

  Jack will be able to tell by her eyes that this is not a bad prospect.

  “Never mind. Look. I gotta go.”

  “Goodbye, Jacki.”

  She’ll start to turn around.

  “Hey!” he’ll say. “Sorry about whatever I’m supposed to be sorry for.”

  “But you’re not really sorry, are you?” she’ll say, turning back again.

  “You shouldn’t have cheated on me,” Jack will shrug.

  “And you never should have punched me in the stomach.”

  “That wasn’t you. At the time.”

  Jacki will be furious at this, and it will be like three hours have passed instead of six years.

  “I cheated on a dead man, you crazy fuck. God damn it, it had nothing to do with you.”

  “Same thing. And, yes, it did. Ever think about why you didn’t tell anyone about it?”

  “I know, I know, because it wouldn’t have done any good. You ever think about who else besides me Derek may have... any other projects he may have, uh…”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Just thinking, you know?” she’ll say. “So, what about you?”

  “What about me what?”

  “Any obsessions, a righteous cause? Pulling flies from webs or cats from dogs’ mouths...”

  “Well, there was this one thing,” he’ll say, smiling and stepping a little closer. “See, there’s this procedure we had at the hospital, and you might have also seen this sticker on the door at most retail stores, calling it ‘Code Adam?’ Well, that’s also what you’re supposed to say over the loudspeaker whenever a parent is missing a child. And the parent is then asked by security what color shoes the kid was wearing. So then every employee can watch so no kids leave and they look for any child wearing those color shoes-”

  “What’s so important about the shoes?”

  “The theory is, an abductor might bring a change of clothes, might even bring another coat and hat, but the abductor wouldn’t know what size shoes to bring, get it?”

  “I get it. Okay, so, always remember the color of Toni’s shoes? Gotcha. Anyway...”

  “Here’s the problem, Code Adam doesn’t take into account the easiest way to abduct a child.”

  “Which is how?” she’ll ask, suddenly worried.

  “By spanking them. You spank the child you’re abducting and then no one looks twice when Adam is crying or fighting back. Or put a Halloween costume on them. Kids wear those all year round... and, of course, take off the shoes. I need more time to continue this research though. Small price to pay for the lives I’ll save.”

  “Don’t they call those things ‘Amber Alerts’?” Jacki will ask, moving away from him. “But it sounds like a plan, Jack. Really.”

  She’ll head for the door, and he will follow. Following her will feel good, like old times.

  “Let me walk you out!” he’ll say way too loud, like old times.

  Jack and his dog will follow Jacki down the hall, then down some stairs. Jack will be unsteady on his feet, his left hand never far from the back of the dog’s neck. Outside in the parking lot, Jack will nod toward the idling car.

  “Could I say goodbye to her?”

  “Why not,” she’ll say, not really asking.

  “You know,” he’ll say, “I tried to write it all down once, but every time I typed the word ‘dog’ my fingers typed ‘god’ instead. After the hundredth time, I finally ripped the damn keyboard loose. I still type on it, even though they won’t let me back in the library.”

  “Great story, Jack.”

  “How did you know my name was ‘Jack’?!”

  They will both laugh at the old joke, then Jack will lean over as Toni rolls down her passenger’s window. Toni will reach out, and, mercifully, the dog will lick her hand instead of his.

  “He’s a good boy, ain’t he?” Jack will say.

  “I get to have one when I can keep my fish alive!” Toni will offer.

  “They’re easier than fish actually,” he’ll tell her. “A fish can’t sniff out its own food and feed itself if you forget about it.”

  “Where’s your ice cream truck?” Toni will ask. She will be old enough for jokes now, old enough for a lot of things.

  “Oh, I don’t drive those anymore.”

  “I saw one last night. It’s so weird! Lights were on inside, in the back. It looked… like someone’s bedroom driving by.”

  Jack will smile.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what it is.”

  Jacki will get into the car and close the door. Then she’ll reach across Toni and roll up her window while Jack’s finger traces her handprint from the outside.

  Minutes later. Jack’s dog will be leading him around the room, seeming to be looking for something it lost. In spite of its terrible life so far, the dog will get better at figuring out when things have changed. Or are missing. But it will have no way of communicating this with its new owner. Then Jack’s attention will be drawn to a flash of movement on the windowsill. He’ll walk over to find his Venus Flytrap closed tight, but sagging in an entirely new position. He’ll hold it up to the light and see the outline of a fly twitching inside.

  After a second
or two, he won’t be able to help himself, and he’ll suddenly grab the plant and rip it apart to set the fly free. Then he’ll drop the shredded leaves, pot, and crumbled wings to the floor and close his eyes, realizing he’s killed everything during the rescue.

  Days later. Jacki will be walking through a quiet neighborhood with a matchbook and a photograph in her hand. She’ll read the matchbook again as she comes to a certain mailbox to confirm she’s found the right house. Holding the photograph up to her nose, the sunshine will illuminate a young, dark-skinned girl very similar to Jacki. And her mother. And her daughter.

  The picture will have an “X” through it, like the rest of the small, framed photographs in Jack’s apartment that will be balanced precariously on his crappy television.

  Jacki will take a deep breath and stare at the front of the house. A little girl will be peeking out one of the windows, sounds of laughter inside. Breathing deep, she’ll walk up to the door and knock hard and with the confidence of someone delivering the worst news of all time.

  A different little girl will open it.

  Jacki will smile, but the little girl will cross her arms defensively.

  “Hi. Is your mommy home?”

  “Why?”

  “There’s something that I need to...”

  But she’ll trail off, smile slipping from her face. A woman will be coming down the hallway, and Jacki will notice the round melon of her stomach protruding from under a “Hard Rock Café” T-shirt. Both her daughters will run for her legs. A closer look, and Jacki will see the woman has been suckered into buying a shirt that read “Hard Ralph’s Café” instead.

  Suckered twice, she’ll think, checking out the belly again.

  “Can I help you?” the woman will ask.

  Jacki will just stare, and the woman will look up and down the street.

  “Are you looking for Eric?” she’ll ask Jacki.

  “Who? No, I’m sorry. I’ve got the wrong house.”

  Jacki will turn and quickly walk away from the woman and all those daughters. She’ll head down to the end of the block, almost tripping over a small mutt chasing nothing. Then she’ll turn a corner and stop at a splintered tree lying in her path. A worker in an orange helmet will smile and wink, then fire up his massive wood chipper. Jacki will jump from the deafening roar, and reach into her pocket for her headphones. She’ll put them on and sing along to Sisters of Mercy’s “You Don’t Exist When You Don’t See Me.” The worker in the orange helmet will do a double-take when he notices the wire from the headphones dangling down her arm is plugged into nothing.

  She’ll walk straight through the exhaust and debris billowing out of the wood chipper’s chute, ignoring the panicked shouts and warnings of the worker. Smoke, dust, and wood will blow out all around her, walk with her, filling her eyes with the welcome sting of splinters and fire.

  Seconds later, a decade earlier. 45,000 feet above sea level. A siren warbles as if dying, then a voice crackles on the speakers.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Pete Heart speaking. I regret to inform you that we’ll be arriving fifteen minutes ahead of schedule and will have to cut the in-flight movie short. I can, however, tell you how it ended.”

  Jack looks around to see how upset everyone is to have the story ruined like this, but no one seems to care.

  “So, here’s what happened. The man was punished,” the Captain continues. “The woman was punished. The villain got away with it. And the dog, oddly enough, did not survive the explosion. I’m sorry, just a second…”

  The sound of an “overspeed” alarm was beeping in the cockpit and coming through the speaker, and now the passengers were looking around at each other in shock.

  You never fuck with a dog, no matter how grim the film, Jack thinks, not understanding it wasn’t the alarm that was upsetting them. Not unless you want to lose the audience for good.

  “What did I miss?” a passenger on his elbow asks.

  “Well, if you really give a shit about these things. See that guy? ‘Stan’? Well, ‘Stan’ was actually ‘Dan,’ which means he was Sam all along. And ‘Larry’ was ‘Jerry,’ meaning ‘Dick’ was ‘Nick,’” Jack explains. “But this revelation is muted by the fact that, even if DNA can’t conclusively prove they are the same person, they’ve now done all of the same things by reenacting their pasts with more effort than they ever lived their lives.”

  “What movie are you watching? What about the talking dog?”

  “I’m sorry,” the Captain interrupts. “I’m being told that our flight path has been rerouted because of the storm. The movie will resume shortly. Did I ruin anything? Sorry about that!”

  Jack stopped one block short of his home, bike sputtering as his toes tapped the crossroad near the stop sign by Mary’s house.

  She was waiting for him, and she didn’t say a word as he calmly dismounted, walked over, kicked her loose from the dirt, plucked her like a 60-pound sunflower and carried her under his arm across the street to home plate. He thought back to some script doctoring work he did before his porn gig. His 37th occupation. He would chop typos and clichéd hard-ass speeches from other people’s screenplays with an abandon he could never muster for his own, all the while humming along with Robert Palmer’s “Bad Case of Loving You” or Harry Nillson’s “Coconut”:

  “Doctor, doctor, gimmie the news, you got a bad case of tough guy blues… I said, ‘Doctor, ain’t there nothing I can take? Doctor, to cure this spelling ache…”

  Or sometimes he’d talk to the script like it was there for its annual checkup:

  “Listen, you, we got to get you down to one cigarette per scene. Not every character needs to smoke or flick one to punctuate every dramatic moment.”

  There was about half a radio hanging from Evil’s handlebars, and Larry walked it over to the diamond, checked the dial on the way. He listened for dialogue from the drive-in he just left behind, settling for Don Henley’s “Building the Perfect Beast,” a surprisingly deep album cut for A.M. Even more surprising on half a radio.

  Yeah, there were too many cigarettes in those movies. Almost as many explosions.

  He wished there was a way to force a movie to keep smoking until it got sick, so it would never smoke again. He remembered when his mother did that to his brother. Years later, when he was getting drunk at a seafood buffet at his own wedding, he shouted, “Hey, Mom, you know that thing you did to me with cigarettes? Please do it to me with shrimp!”

  But when he was being a humble script doctor and only dreaming of pornography, there was one overused prop he was never able to chop.

  He always left in scenes with tequila, especially the worm.

  He was enamored with the worms. Maybe because he never drank one before. Ate one. Whatever you did with them. In porn, you could always use a bottle over and over, but he still hadn’t taken a nip, even when the bottles were still being used on the right end of his talent, still performing the task they were created for.

  He looked up and down the street. He loved being out and about at this time of night. It was around 3:33 a.m., give or take a minute. This was the launch window where the least amount of humanity was always roaming. It was easy to pretend it was the end of the world. In apocalyptic, last-man-on-Earth movies like The Quiet Earth, Omega Man, and, yeah, even Last Man on Earth, they always depicted this sort of scenario as misery. But it always looked utterly intoxicating to Larry. Bliss. Speaking of…

  He pulled his bottle and flicked some leftover porn fur from the cap. There was still the worm to consider. There was always the worm.

  Until the worm has turned.

  He tipped back the bottle, and he swallowed. He heard the worm showed you things sometimes.

  Evil was in the back of an ambulance, struggling to talk to the paramedics. They turned off the sirens to play music instead. He heard the words “That was a deep, deep, deep cut!” and got scared. Then he realized that they were talking about a Billy Squier song.

  “Yo
u know, a deep album cut?” one of them said. “Something that shouldn’t be on the radio, but is…”

  “Whew. I thought you said something else and we were going to have to do real work.”

  “…album cuts, b-sides, flipsides, the song you request from the DJ knowing he’ll never play it?”

  “Yes. I get it. What about ‘em?” the other one asked.

  “Take this song. Maybe you don’t notice it on the radio because you have the album, and you know it well?”

  “Okay.”

  “Well, that’s proof that you’re just like that Bugs Bunny cartoon with that giant pencil just drawing shit around you as it goes, making it up on the spot.”

  “Huh?”

  “When you hear a deep cut that would never be on the radio, that’s the writer up there, in the zone, cranking music in the background.”

  Evil pondered this a moment, then tried to tell them that he shouldn’t have to be listening to Billy Squier in every scene for the past few days, especially this scene, just because his name used to be “Billy.” He tried to say a lot of things, get in on the discussion, but it was hard to talk with the bones in his jaw mostly sand. Someone switches stations. A low, Elvis-like croon comes from the speakers as “Messiah Ward” plays again.

  “They’re bringing out the dead now, and it’s been a strange, strange day…”

  “Is that the crazy motherfucker from The Birthday Party? When did he go solo? How new is this?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

  “If they don’t want us to drive like maniacs, dispatch shouldn’t put songs like this on.”

  “Put my song back on.”

  “Okay, like this song! No way that’s on the radio right now!”

  “This song? This has got ‘hit single’ written all over it. A girl running? It’s a tale for the ages.”

  “It was nine songs in on Emotions in Motion. Never hit the airwaves. I’m telling you, there is some sort of future manipulation going on. To somebody up there, this song is nostalgic. This shitty bit of album filler that’s like two songs from the end of the second side, that’s a memory. That’s why a radio only plays the hits, get it? It’s a loop! A smokescreen!”