Dominoes in Time

by Matthew Warner

  Dominoes in Time

  Matthew Warner

  Dominoes in Time, this edition Copyright © 2019 by Matthew Warner. All Rights Reserved.

  Thunderstorm Books published the first edition, a signed hardcover limited to 36 copies, in October 2015. Cemetery Dance Publications reissued it as an eBook from November 2015 to April 2019. The author is reissuing the book herein under his own imprint.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover Copyright © 2015 by Deena Warner

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  MW Publications

  Staunton, Virginia / United States

  Visit us at MWPub.info

  mail@mwpub.info

  Matthew Warner

  Visit the author at MatthewWarner.com

  Also by Matthew Warner

  NOVELS

  Empire of the Goddess

  Cursed by Christ

  Plan 9: Official Movie Novelization

  The Seventh Equinox

  Blood Born

  Eyes Everywhere

  The Organ Donor

  NOVELLAS

  No Outlet

  Die Not In Vain

  COLLECTIONS

  Dominoes in Time

  Horror Isn’t a 4-Letter Word: Essays on Writing & Appreciating the Genre

  Death Sentences: Tales of Punishment & Revenge

  PLAYS

  Chess is Blind

  Pirate Appreciation Day

  How the Martians Stole Christmas

  FILMS

  Dr. Ella Mental’s Mad Lab Picture Show (with John Johnson)

  The Lovecraft Chronicles (with John Johnson)

  The Good Parts

  Criswell Predicts! (with Mr. Lobo)

  More information: MatthewWarner.com

  Foreword

  Let’s play a game of telepathy, you and I. Take a moment and remember the most significant event—or sequence of events—of your life. Being born doesn’t count.

  Do you have it?

  Now, without asking you what it is (as if I could magically do so through the page) I’m going to don my feathered Carnac the Magnificent turban and make a couple of psychic predictions.

  1. The event was highly emotionally charged. Otherwise, you wouldn’t remember it so clearly.

  2. The event shaped your identity. You wouldn’t be the person you are today if it hadn’t occurred.

  If the event was especially painful, I suspect #2 is a hard pill to swallow. There are several episodes from my past I wish I could change. My parents’ divorce is one. I wish I hadn’t tried so hard to maintain ties with my father. As it was, we traded barbs for five long years after he deserted the family. I wish I cut him off on day one. Shut the cellar door on him and never opened it again. It would have spared me a lot of uncertainty and anguish.

  Except if I had, my life would have turned out differently. I might not have felt an immediate connection to my future wife. We met at a Halloween party, where I overheard her talking about her own divorce, which she was in the middle of. If my heart hadn’t gone out to her, I might not have drunkenly sauntered up to her later. I draped my arm around her shoulders and said, “I need help standing up.” Almost sixteen years of marriage later, you might say this was the best pick-up line, ever.

  Without Deena, obviously, our children wouldn’t have been born. And without her support, my writing career would’ve been a much rockier road. Not to mention I wouldn’t have learned from her how to program websites; I wouldn’t now be living in the Shenandoah Valley; I wouldn’t have done any of a thousand other things.

  The narrator of “Backwards Man,” who tells his tale here, asks if each event in time is meaningful, like a single domino falling over in a long chain of dominoes. If so, then my worst experience is one such domino in time. As awful as it was, its motion caused the good ones afterward to fall on the table.

  I believe the best stories are those in which the writer asks his characters the same question I asked you above. What is the most significant event of your life? The key domino. Whatever the answer, that’s the story to tell. Otherwise, the writer wastes the reader’s time.

  Sure, the story can be funny and silly. As Katie says in the movie Horton Hears a Who!, “In my world, everyone is a pony, and they all eat rainbows and poop butterflies.” The tone doesn’t matter. What does matter is how the plot shapes the character—and in turn how the character, a master of his destiny, shapes the plot. This is how the lie of fiction tells the truth, even if its characters are ponies who eat rainbows.

  And that’s my philosophy as a writer.

  Only now do I appreciate how much my past has inspired my stories. While collecting some of my previously published ones here, I realized they fall under a few themes: romance (and marital fidelity), babies, ruminations about the past, and worries about the future. So I’ve grouped the stories into these sections under appropriate titles. Unfortunately, not many of the selections are funny and silly. None are about ponies or butterflies, although there is an exploding bathroom. I’m sorry for that. But I hope you knew what you were getting into when you saw the cover.

  Ain’t it Romantic?

  Picture Perfect

  For the second time that day, the makeup artist stuck an eyeliner pencil into Chrissy Gleason’s eye.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Chrissy lied. “But let’s take a break.”

  Linda was no more cut out for this business than she was.

  Chrissy watched the overweight woman retreat to a low stone wall outside of the photo shoot area, where she sat down and cried. Chrissy felt for her, but she couldn’t help—not with a hand clamped over her face. Dammit. Her whole cheek would need to be touched up now, possibly delaying the shoot. The Wedding Bazaar photographer would be pissed—renting and decorating a country club’s grounds wasn’t cheap, after all—and when the modeling agency found out, they would be pissed, too. And worst of all…

  “Oh, dear. What on earth happened to you?”

  … the snob queen of the world would have another weapon in her arsenal.

  “I’m fine, really.” Chrissy took her hand away and tried to appear normal, but her eye wouldn’t open. She glanced at herself in Linda’s makeup mirror, set up on a table beside the azalea bushes. Her lids were swelling shut.

  “No, you are not fine. How can you finish the day like this?”

  The queen snob leaned in close to see, imperfectly concealing a smirk. Chrissy hated her golden tresses and high cheek bones and perfect boobs. Hated her perfect makeup and the smell of her hair spray. And hated her name, of course. Raquel Domina. The worst stage name in the world, yet people frigging loved it, just like they fell for the rest of Raquel’s artificial glamour.

  “Can I do anything for you, my dear?”

  Yeah. Die.

  But what came out was, “Really, I’m fine. Just leave me alone.”

  Linda bustled over. She yanked tissues from a box and jammed them into Chrissy’s face. “I’ll take care of her.”

  “Excuse me, I was just trying to help,” the snob said. “Shall I tell the photographer you can’t finish the shoot?”

  Chrissy glared at the other model with her good eye. “Don’t you dare.”

  But Raquel wasn’t even looking at her. Too busy examining her own reflection and primpi
ng her bridesmaid’s dress. They were both supposed to be bridesmaids. Soon they would walk down the aisle with the vacuous male models now straightening their tuxes across the way.

  “Monica’s going to call with the details of that underwear shoot tomorrow,” Raquel said. “Are you going to be able to do that?”

  “What do you mean, am I going to be able—”

  “Chrissy can handle her own affairs,” Linda said. “You’re not her agent.”

  “Oh, shut up, Linda,” the snob said. “You’re just the makeup girl, and not a very good one.”

  Linda’s hand shook as she gave Chrissy another tissue. At least she wasn’t applying lipstick right now.

  Chrissy stood up. Her eye was opening up a margin, thank God. “Excuse me. Raquel?”

  “What.”

  “If you don’t walk away from here right now, I’ll fix both of your peepers to look like mine. Permanently.”

  Raquel pursed her perfect little mouth. “Fine.”

  She stalked away. Chrissy was afraid she would head to the photographer to complain, but Raquel wasn’t that stupid. Thankfully. The client would throw them both off the set.

  No, instead, the vindictive little bitch called their staffing coordinator, Monica.

  Chrissy didn’t find out until that afternoon. She was in the makeup area, changing clothes for the next shooting session. Her eye was fine by now—a little red, but fine—and Linda’s hands had stopped shaking long enough to touch her up. Chrissy had waved off Linda’s thanks for sticking up for her. “Just do your job and keep Raquel off our asses, okay?”

  Chrissy was sitting in her chair when Monica’s call came. She was trying not to listen to the incessant yammer of the girl across from her about some photo shoot in Monte Carlo. The yachts, the dancing at the night clubs, the rides in the stretch limousines, the cute men with their foreign accents who were all vegetarians, and the free cocaine you could score. Oh, and did you read that article in Harper’s, and do you think longer tees are going to be in this season, but so-and-so said dark denim might be the look instead, and blah de blah de blah.

  Linda nudged her with the cell phone. “It’s Monica.”

  As she took the call, Chrissy saw that the other girl was talking randomly into the air.

  “What’s this I hear from Raquel?” Monica said. Keyboards clacked and phones rang and in the background. “Someone injured your eye?”

  “That bitch.”

  “What?”

  “I’m fine, I mean. Linda just poked me with a pencil. Raquel thought it was the end of the world.”

  “Has it messed up the shoot?”

  “No.”

  “Good, because I’m sending you to that underwear job tomorrow.”

  Chrissy sat up straighter. “You’re sending me to Desmond’s?”

  “Don’t say it so loud. Raquel will get jealous. She’s not going.”

  Chrissy couldn’t believe it. Desmond’s was way too prestigious of an account not to send Raquel. Far better than today’s Wedding Bazaar gig, that was for sure.

  “You’re kidding. I would have thought Raquel has… well, more experience.”

  “You have a more natural look. But don’t tell her I said that, or I won’t help you like this again. Got it?”

  “I got it.”

  The faux wedding soon resumed. Chrissy couldn’t stop grinning. The photographer noticed this and kept focusing in on her.

  From the sidelines, Raquel watched. She looked as suspicious as a cop.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Linda didn’t accompany her to Desmond’s, which was just as well. As much as Chrissy liked her, she couldn’t afford to have her screw this up. Instead, the blundering makeup artist returned with Raquel to Wedding Bazaar for a shoot of their wrist corsages. This meant the hand model went, too—some woman even snobbier than Raquel, if that were possible. Wore gloves everywhere and refused to open her own doors lest the activity give her unsightly calluses. She even, swear to God, kept her hands elevated in order to minimize the blood flow and keep them pale. This meant her hands were usually carried at about stomach level. It reminded Chrissy of a cop’s “interview stance” and other unpleasant memories.

  But back to Desmond’s. The place had a brass-plated, glassed-in foyer, as well as brass-colored toilets and brass-plated receptionists. They treated her like dirt and expected her to put on lingerie in the hallway. And they got snotty because she was only ten minutes early. It paid well enough, though. It would look kickass on her CV—and most importantly, it got Raquel jealous—so that was just fine.

  The photographer had all the interpersonal skills of a hairy potato. Kind of looked like one, too. It was up to Chrissy to suggest poses. Pretty astounding when you considered this place was supposed to be the best thing since Victoria’s Secret. She felt like a match.com reject on a blind date. But that was okay. She’d been on plenty of dates like that. Truth be told, when she wasn’t modeling, she wondered if she really was a reject.

  The only thing Mr. Hairy Potatohead did that made her uncomfortable was when an assistant lit up a cigarette on break. The guy was just sitting there on a windowsill in the corner, away from everything and with the window cracked. Mr. Potatohead came storming across the room like someone let a dog loose.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” He snatched the cig from the assistant’s mouth and threw it out the window. It fell to the street below.

  “Uh, smoking?”

  Here, Chrissy expected a tirade about the building’s anti-smoking policy, or even a rant about cigarette smoke prematurely aging his model’s skin. But no, what he said was, “You could burn up my equipment. My work! Nothing’s more important than my work.”

  The assistant was just some guy—twenty-three, maybe, just out of college. Baggy jeans, five o’clock shadow, and a skull cap. He didn’t know any better. But photographers were gods. Belatedly, the assistant noticed the room had gone utterly silent. Maybe he wondered, like Chrissy did, how such a milquetoast could change so abruptly into a prima donna.

  “Get out of here, you cretin.”

  “But—”

  “Out! Out!”

  Chrissy had a hard time plastering on the fake smile for the next session. Each camera flash gave her a headache. She frequently had to blot off perspiration.

  She was relieved when they wrapped for the day.

  The phone was ringing when she got home. She answered it as she fended off her Great Dane’s slobber attack. She had neglected to refill the food bowl, so Marmaduke was more than happy to see her.

  “Oh, Chrissy,” Linda sobbed into the phone. “Raquel was so awful. What am I going to do?”

  “What happened?”

  “She said my hands are trembly. She called Monica and tried to get me fired.”

  As they talked, Chrissy refilled the dog’s bowl and sorted through the mail. They were still on the phone fifteen minutes later when she looked into the bathroom mirror and noticed the blemish near her mouth.

  Her first thought was that it was Linda’s fault, that Linda did something to the foundation makeup yesterday. But that was silly.

  “Are you feeling better now?” she asked after Linda stopped crying.

  “Yes. You don’t think Monica will fire me, do you?”

  “The only people Monica fires are models who get ugly.”

  “I wish Raquel would get ugly.”

  After they hung up, Chrissy leaned in close to the mirror and examined the flat, red bump at the corner of her mouth. It didn’t hurt, but touching it caused it to redden. Was it a cold sore?

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  By the next morning, the bump had grown from zit-sized to dime-sized. It wasn’t flat anymore and instead bulged from her cheek by a quarter inch—which meant Linda wouldn’t be able to conceal it with makeup.

  “Don’t bother coming in,” Monica said when Chrissy called. “Go straight to the dermo.”

  Clause 4(a) of her modeling contract said she must comply. A model
’s looks were the agency’s property and investment, after all. But the day’s lost wages and health co-pay were her own problem.

  “Fine. I’ll tell you what he says.”

  Except the dermatologist didn’t have much to say. It could be this; it could be that. Very interesting. Yes, indeed. He sounded like an entomologist excited about some new species of bug. He also spoke to her like he didn’t believe a model would know the word “entomologist.” But the doctor obviously didn’t know what the hell he was seeing. Not a staph infection; not a wart. Hmm.

  He stuck her with a biopsy needle. “I’ll call you in a few days with the results.” Then he tried to freeze the bump off with a Q-tip dipped in liquid nitrogen. He prescribed a cortisone cream and sent her on her way.

  “Great, just great,” Chrissy said as she examined her face that night in the mirror. The bump looked exactly the same.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The next morning, it looked worse. Now it was the size of a quarter. She concealed it with the largest Band-Aid she owned, then commuted to the modeling agency.

  Monica closed her office door before making her take the bandage off. “Wow. That looks like shit.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “I can’t send you out on a job like this.”

  “Not even a footwear shoot?”

  “We have the foot model for those.”

  “So you’re telling me I’m fired until this clears up.”

  The door opened as Chrissy was in mid-sentence. The words escaped her mouth before she saw who had overheard.

  Raquel Domina stood there with a hand on the doorknob, mouth agape. She was wearing a flowery summer dress cut low to emphasize her fake cleavage. “Fired for what? Oh, my goodness, is that a second head growing on your face?”

  “Get out,” Monica said.

  Raquel laughed before leaving the room.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Some girls ate bonbons and watched sappy movies when they got depressed. Chrissy worked out and watched sappy movies.