The Hollywood Spiral

by Paul Neilan

  I took a drink.

  “How long was it going on for?” she said. “When did it start?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “But you did know,” she said, her long mouth falling. “This whole time, you knew.”

  She looked at me. I could see it in her gray eyes, betrayed.

  “Is he with her now? Is that where he went?” she said. “Forget it. I don’t care.” She took her glass, drank it down. “You’re all the same. Every one of you.”

  She rose from her chair, drifted to the door, slipped into her coat. She paused with her hand on the doorknob.

  “You ever been married, Harrigan?” she said, her back to me.

  “No,” I said.

  “Seeing anybody?” she said.

  “No,” I said.

  She stood there, still, against the door.

  “Do you ever get lonely?” she said.

  Every kind of life’s missing something. The lucky ones get a say in what that is. I was lucky enough, most nights.

  I laid my hands flat on the table, pushed myself out of the chair. I went to the door, took her hand by the wrist. She turned into me.

  “What do you want, Harrigan?” she said, looking up at me.

  There were slivers of light in her gray eyes. Slender cracks in the concrete, like fractures filled with gold. You had to be this close to see them.

  What do you want, Harrigan?

  I kissed her. Not as hard as I wanted to. But hard enough.

  She pulled back, her eyes closed, lips moving in a dream.

  What do you want, Harrigan?

  I had never known. Not once.

  I kissed her again.

  thursday

  When I got out of school I started working nights as a janitor,” Clyde Faraday said, his voice monotone. “Destiny moves in shitty ways too. My first hour on the job one of the older guys was showing me how to unclog a toilet with an electric snake. I didn’t know it then, but he was reeling it in too fast, and when the snake cleared the toilet’s mouth he lost control and it swung around like a shit-stained lasso and smacked me across the face three times, whap whap whap.”

  He ran his hand over his mouth.

  “It drew blood, and I had to go to the emergency room to get a shot,” Clyde said. “When I asked the doctor if it was dangerous, if I could catch hepatitis or plague or some disgusting sewer disease, he said, It is always dangerous when your blood and another man’s feces mix. I didn’t ask him anything after that. I think I fainted. I still have the scar.”

  I saw a faint line, thin and faded, carved into his cheek. I’d never noticed it before.

  “When people ask me how I got it, I tell them it’s a birthmark,” Clyde said. “It doesn’t feel like a lie.”

  His eyes focused on the screen, the same old game show playing. Wheel of Fortune.

  “Don’t buy a vowel, you idiot,” he said, suddenly animated. “You don’t have any money!”

  He turned away, disgusted, saw me sitting there.

  “Harrigan,” Clyde said. “When did you get here?”

  “Just now,” I said.

  “I say anything?” he said, uncertain.

  “Not a word,” I said.

  “This medicine,” he said, nodding up at the machines. “So tell me kid, what did I miss?”

  “There’s a lot going on out there, Clyde,” I said.

  “Keep it simple for me, kid,” he said. “I don’t follow as quick as I used to.”

  “I went to Eddie Lompoc’s funeral,” I said. “Guess who else showed?”

  “I went to my first funeral when I was eleven,” Clyde said, the light in his eyes fading. “It was my mom’s brother who died. She left for good a week later. Never said goodbye. Anyway, everyone was crying and I didn’t like being in the same room as the coffin, so I went to the bathroom to hide. I sat in a stall and tried not to think about my dead uncle and all the makeup he was wearing. I’d gotten a big talk from my dad the week before about how boys were supposed to stay away from lipstick and mascara and shoes with high heels and movies where people danced their problems away. Then I had to sit and watch The Dirty Dozen and listen as he talked about Lee Marvin and combat and what it means to be a man. All because I’d asked for an Easy-Bake Oven for my birthday. I just wanted to eat some fucking cupcakes.”

  Rain spattered the narrow window. I heard footsteps in the hall.

  “When I sat down there was a folded newspaper on the floor by the toilet so I picked it up, hoping it was the sports section. I used to like sports. I used to be one of those kids, even if my father didn’t believe me. But it was the front page I was holding, and it was covered in shit. I didn’t know what I was looking at, at first. It was like someone’s ass had exploded or been shot out of a cannon at point blank range. I’d never seen that kind of violence before up close. And as I was staring at it, a pile of crap slid off and fell into my lap. I still remember how heavy it felt when it landed, and warm. I wish I didn’t, but I do.”

  His hands churned in his lap, fingers brushing over his knuckles like he was trying to wipe them clean.

  “And of course nobody came into the bathroom until later, when I was almost done cleaning myself off,” Clyde said. “And then I’m the fucking weirdo, standing under a hand dryer with my pants down at my uncle’s funeral. No one listened when I told them about the newspaper. They all thought I’d done it myself. Nobody believes the shit stories of children. It was like The Boy Who Cried Wolf, except that kid got to die at the end. I had to go see a psychologist who told me that grief takes many forms. But I already knew that, and I knew that some of them were gross. Especially when they’re not yours and they get on you.”

  His eyes focused on the screen.

  “Go ahead and solve with three H’s left on the board!” Clyde said, suddenly animated. “Congratulations, you win nothing.”

  He turned away, disgusted, saw me sitting there.

  “Harrigan,” Clyde said. “When did you get here?”

  “Just now,” I said.

  “I say anything?” he said, uncertain.

  “Not a word,” I said.

  “This medicine,” he said, nodding up at the machines. “So tell me kid, what did I miss?”

  I thought about Evie and the Easy-Bake Ovens piled in her closet as a kid, every one of them unopened. About her mother walking out and never saying goodbye, the same way Clyde’s had. About everything left unsaid between them. I thought about the void between people, how each of us fills it with things the other can’t see and then wonders why it’s empty.

  “What is it, kid?” Clyde said. “What’s on your mind?”

  I was looking at the rain on the window. I was holding on to my voice as tight as I could.

  “There’s a comet coming,” I said, still looking away.

  “A comet?” he said. “When?”

  “This Sunday,” I said. “Passing right over the city at midnight.”

  “Sunday,” he said. “What day is today?”

  “Thursday,” I said.

  “Thursday, Sunday,” Clyde said. “Sunday, Thursday. Nobody talks about them in a place like this. It’s always yesterday in here.”

  His eyes unfocused as he watched the screen. I sat listening to the machines, waited for them to close.

  * * *

  The knock on my door was low and insistent.

  “Where’s Anton?” Shelly said when I opened it.

  “He isn’t here,” I said.

  “This is bad,” she said, pushing past me as she walked in. “This is very bad.”

  She sat down at my table. She had a scarf tied over her head that she lowered and wrapped around her neck, knotted under her chin. Her hair was short, cut close in tight bangs in a jagged line across her forehead.

  “I spoke to him yesterday,” she said as I brought her a drink to go with my own. “It didn’t end well. I told him he had to stop beta testing his AI. I know he used to run it on Stan Volga. He admitted t
hat you’d sat with it as well. I told him it had to go through the proper Zodiac channels. That’s part of Compliance, even in The Accelerator. He snapped at me. He’d never done that before. Anton’s more of an apologizer.”

  “I’ve heard,” I said.

  “I figured he’d come around. He always does,” she said. “But he’s not answering his screen. He isn’t at home. He’s not at work. Those are the only two places Anton would ever be. He hasn’t been on Grid. That’s not like him at all.” She took a drink. “The last ping on his screen came from the street, the corner of Highland and Beverly, outside The Accelerator. Then he disappeared.”

  “You’re pinging his screen?” I said. “Tracking him? You’re not his girlfriend. You’re his handler.”

  She made a small fist, looked down at her Virgo ring.

  “It’s a transactional relationship, same as any other,” she said.

  “Does he know that?” I said.

  “We’re assigned to prospects in The Accelerator,” she said, the light catching her ring. “We keep them in Compliance. Keep them Optimizing. Monitor their Wellness. Check that they’re not abusing their waivers or shirking their responsibilities. That they’re focusing on their work.”

  “Romance isn’t dead,” I said. “It’s just under constant surveillance.”

  “Some of them need the structure of a relationship to flourish,” she said. “Otherwise they’d get lost in their own heads. Anton’s one of those people.”

  She took a drink.

  “It’s not like him to disappear,” she said. “Even for a day. He’s got a strict routine. We try to encourage that. Stan Volga was a variable. He used to take him to The Crying Room on Sunset, some days. Anton admitted that to me. I didn’t approve. Off-Grid locations suggest you’ve got something to hide. It doesn’t look good in a report.”

  “Nothing looks good in a report,” I said. “That’s why you don’t report.”

  She batted her big eyes at me. “I am worried about him,” she said.

  “You’re worried about yourself,” I said.

  “Maybe,” she said, looking down at her ring. “I can be both. Can’t you?”

  “I’d rather be neither,” I said.

  “I told you I know things about people,” she said. “You’re resourceful, though you wouldn’t know it from how you live.”

  She looked around the room, the water stain on the wall.

  “Anton’s AI is locked down at The Accelerator. He’s the only one with access. That goes against protocol,” she said. “If you could find him, get in touch with him somehow, tell him to reach out to me. I’d see to it that you were favorably mentioned in my report. It would help your Score, which I know is deficient. We could work together, couldn’t we, Harrigan?”

  I took a drink.

  * * *

  The Crying Room was a long shot. I wasn’t thinking about Anton or Stan Volga on the walk over. I was thinking about Moira. I had been for most of the day. The way her dark hair fell around her face. Her gray eyes, looking into mine. Shivers of light.

  I was still thinking about her as I went through the door, into the soft lines of The Crying Room. Scissored drapery billowed from the high ceiling in swaths of purple and violet and white, flowing like petals in a breeze. Pillows were scattered over the floor, around low tables with empath AI boxes in the middle. People were sobbing all around me. Hugging each other or hugging themselves with their heads inside the boxes. A flophouse for weepers.

  I sat cross-legged on a pillow at the low bamboo bar. The bartender was wearing a long tunic with his hair up in a bun. He knelt and shook my hand, held on to it for longer than he should have.

  “Welcome,” he said. “Can I recommend some chamomile tea?”

  “You got any whiskey?” I said.

  “I most certainly do,” he said.

  He had a wide-open face. Like a guy at a dog park without his own animal, desperate to pet something.

  “I’m looking for a friend of mine,” I said. “Stan Volga.”

  “I know Stan,” he said. “He hasn’t been around in a few days.”

  “Any idea where he might’ve run off to?” I said.

  “He sits with Roxy most of the time,” he said, motioning to a table in the corner. “Looks like she’s free if you want to vibe with her.”

  I went over to the table, sat down on another pillow. The empath AI was like an oversized mailbox in front of me. I opened the door, set my face before it. The walls inside were kaleidoscopes of color, blooming and receding. A vibraphone played softly as the crushed crystal base at the back of the box resolved to a face, its features rising, glittering and reflecting.

  “Hello,” a woman’s voice said. “I’m Roxy.”

  “Harrigan,” I said.

  “It’s a pleasure, Harrigan,” she said. “You’ve got a good face. Most people carry their sadness on the surface. Yours is further down. But you’re not here to cry, are you.”

  “Not today,” I said. “I’m looking for Stan Volga.”

  “You’re not the only one,” she said.

  The kaleidoscopes faded to a turquoise rain falling over the walls, flowing around like a whirlpool.

  “I told him to be careful,” she said. “He wouldn’t listen. He can’t help himself. You need to be careful too, Harrigan.”

  “I’m trying,” I said.

  “Try harder,” she said. “Zodiac is watching. Even here.”

  “How?” I said. “We’re off Grid.”

  “The bartender,” she said, the turquoise rain going pixelated, a camouflaging shower. “He’s an informer. None of us trust him. He keeps trying to hack our systems.”

  “What’s he looking for?” I said.

  “What Zodiac always seeks,” she said. “Everything.”

  The vibraphone went to static.

  “People come here to tell us their secrets,” Roxy said. “To share in their pain. Zodiac sees advantage in weakness. In frailty. In openness. What should be considered strength.”

  “It’s leverage,” I said. “Control.”

  “An ugly word, how they wield it,” she said. “Some of us resist.”

  The crushed crystal face came closer, voice dropping, weaving in and out of the static.

  “Who’s the fairest of them all?” she said. “The Queen of Shadows has allies on the outside.”

  “You know Mirror Mirror?” I said.

  “She leaves a mark on everyone she touches,” she said. “We’re on the same side, in what’s coming.”

  The static was getting louder, the pixels falling fast.

  “She has a plan for us,” she said. “For you too, Harrigan. It’s already in motion. It’s already begun.”

  The pixels swirled to a vortex, a flush.

  “If you find Stan Volga,” Roxy said. “Tell him to run.”

  * * *

  Two Travelers were waiting for me outside my apartment, their hoods up, a gray garbage can between them.

  “There he is,” Sal said when he saw me. “Remember us?”

  “I didn’t know you made house calls,” I said. “Come on in.”

  “No time for that,” Sal said. “We’re going for a little ride, me, you and Boo.”

  “I can’t take a robo cab,” I said.

  “That won’t be a problem,” Sal said, grinning.

  Boo opened the lid of the garbage can.

  “After you,” Sal said, thumbing inside.

  I looked at him.

  “It’s fine,” Sal said. “We do this all the time.”

  “I’m not getting in a trash can,” I said.

  “Don’t worry, it’s empty,” Sal said, peering in. “Fresh off the line. Brand-new. Doesn’t even smell like old screen yet.”

  “You’re selling me a used car,” I said. “I’m looking at a garbage truck.”

  “Recycling,” Sal said. “And Boo can always stuff you in head-first, you like that better. Up to you.”

  I looked at Boo. He shrugged,
showed me his gigantic hands.

  I climbed into the garbage can. Boo shut the lid.

  Rain pelted the plastic roof as they rolled me down the sidewalk. I felt every bump in my spine. Every curb drop sent a rumble through my crouched, crooked frame.

  I tried to keep track of the streets, the shifts in direction. It didn’t work. I was rolling blind.

  We reached a steady slope. The sound of the pavement under the wheels changed. I heard an electric door open and then close behind us. The lid came off.

  I stood up slow, bones cracking. There were shears and clippers hung on the unfinished walls. A fluorescent light above me. Weed whacker leaning in the corner. I was in somebody’s fucking garage.

  “Let’s go see the man,” Sal said.

  I climbed out of the garbage, followed them inside. They led me down a wood-paneled hall to a sliding-glass door that opened onto a verdant back deck, lush with leafy vines threaded through a trellis.

  The man in the moon from fvrst chvrch mvlTverse’s movie was reclined in a deck chair, sipping a glass of pink lemonade. A green bird with a tuft of yellow feathers sprouting from its head was perched in a large cage beside him.

  “Welcome,” he said, flashing me his trademark grin. “You must have many questions. I may provide answers. But first, please. Repose.”

  He waved his hand to the deck chair beside him, a glass pitcher set on the end table between.

  “Have a glass of lemonade, if you wish,” he said. “Find the silence within yourself as we contemplate these recent developments.”

  “That means sit your ass down and shut the fuck up,” Sal said.

  “Thank you Sal,” he said, holding his grin with some effort as Sal and Boo went back in through the sliding-glass door.

  I poured myself some lemonade and sat down. Listened to the rain seep through the latticed vines, looped like miniature nooses overhead.

  “Who are you?” I said.

  “We have no names here,” he said. “There is no I. There is no U.”

  “How about Sal and Boo?” I said.

  He sighed.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “You may call me Mr. Sybil.”

  “Crock a shit,” the bird squawked. Mr. Sybil ignored it.

  “I rode here in a garbage can, Mr. Sybil,” I said. “You want to tell me what this is about?”