This Location of Unknown Possibilities (23 page)

WISDOM AND BLOOD

1.

F
rayed, bleary-eyed, and talked-out when main unit's window shot wrapped, Marta could only focus on saying terse farewells and racing to the Star-Lite—cinder block and sterile, yes, but a monastic and winningly anodyne sanctuary nevertheless. Leaving Joan's meant the solace of a freedom she couldn't wait to breathe in. She'd hoard the per diem funds and skip another meal; becoming so swept up in work—call after incessant call—meant begging off for a half-hour break, a decadent, out of the question luxury. All day she'd grazed on cereal bars, chocolate, and pinches of trail mix instead. Her taut and leaden midriff complained, as though she'd swallowed a wheelbarrow of hay.

Beside the simple, remedying pleasure of solitude, Marta needed to be away from the tentative hugs and hushed reassuring there-theres—or worse, embarrassed wordless loss of composure—arising once an outburst became public spectacle. Her jaw clenched in certainty that any moment or the smallest of catalysts—dropped keys, a paper cut, another photocopier jam—would trigger frustrated tears. They'd erupt with geyser force; there'd be no stopping the sobbing torrent, and in that instant she'd be revealed as infantile and green, merely a novice incapable of coping, a tearful woman in a man's bellicose arena.

Growing rhinoceros hide might happen eventually, but defenselessness ruled today. Marta harboured a big squalling baby beneath a competent surface; she was determined to let no one catch the least glimpse.

Shutting the door of Room
#10
, though, guaranteed a saved face: should the gale of weeping arise, the scene's setting in utter privacy would preserve the outermost facade of her pride.

2
.

A
ll day Joan's had been closed in and discomforting, and escaping—walking into the sunset cinematically steadfast, no looking back—seemed the only sensible response.

Marta repeatedly imagined a shoulder-to-shoulder group in a stalled elevator compartment. Over the tiniest gap of minutes, a brutal new, albeit short-lived, social order would coalesce, leadership and second-in-command jockeyed for, oppositional party formed, weak followers assigned negligible duties or told to shut up. Upon the eventual release, the regime would disband, each individual fleeing the doors frantically with a single goal in mind: a quiet place, an Eden of solitude that no other body, voice, or personality could invade.

Throughout the shift's unending transmission of calls—complete with a random assortment of soothing musical genres when some kind soul placed her on hold—Marta had felt vulnerable and bullied when she believed she ought to be calloused, agenda-setting. Apparently she needed to “play hardball,” “be in the big leagues,” and “step up to the plate,” the routine catch-phrases spouted by industry people during those conversations, but lacked the crucial gut instinct and “game face” that would result in the mandated, foe-demolishing “A game.” Buffeted by sport and the idiot kill-or-be-killed jargon it generated, she returned to fantasies of the classroom ease.

That peculiar mettle wasn't foreign so much as unnecessary in her professional life, the official one anyway. In classes she lectured and facilitated thoughtful dialogue; at times when the subject was politically sensitive, the conversations normally remained even-tempered. There, the AC circulated calming motes of an implicit agreement: hotheaded impoliteness—anger, accusation, exasperation, abruptness—had no place within the Quaker-like community's serenely intellectual boundaries. A fiery attitude belonged to a lesser society, one that would sell its eye teeth for contestant status on
Big Brother
and the ilk, where bellowed outbursts, tearful makeups, and threats of physical altercations transformed into the gold of ratings success.

Speaking with self-important strangers in Vancouver and Los Angeles during the day, Marta sensed the pricks of their impatience; their tones shot out assertions difficult to miss:
Get to the point, I haven't got all day
;
Why are you wasting my precious time?
;
I'm valuable, who are you?

The jarring rhythms of the conversations—cutting her off in mid-sentence, marooning her in on-hold limbo, demanding that she repeat sentences, misnaming her Margo and, inexplicably, Minta—hurt Marta's feelings and left her floundering: clout and the upper hand obviously claimed trophy status, but Marta wished for an even playing field, as Blanche from Vancouver would say before hauling in “Okay, let's get down to brass tacks” for the tenth time. The woman—if that's what she turned out to be: Marta imagined a clammy underworld deity with sunken, seen-it-all eyes set in a boneless androgynous face–wouldn't recognize finesse if it bit her.

In sporadic moments of calm logic during the shift, Marta believed communal laws governed the conversational tenor, making it no different than any other group idiom. With that, she decided not to take the aggression personally: speech sounded abrasive because that was how these people communicated with each other. A behavioural script, her soft science major students would call it. The same rule applied to car salesmen and realtors, she supposed, all a matter of perspective. An outsider eavesdropping at an academic conference would group the whole lot as pompous windbags of pedantry, while in truth only a small percentage deserved the title. The pushy rudeness she perceived at the other end of the receiver was probably similar: a couple of the calls had been with ill-mannered individuals, while the rest reflected no more than the lingua franca of movie industry segments.

Still, when actually conversing with the casting director (by turns overbearing and aggressive, as Lora had warned; a woman who peppered sentences liberally with “up our game”) or her nasal assistant (short-tempered; expert at cutting retorts; capable of a scornful tone that Marta saw peeling paint) in Vancouver or anyone in the production hierarchy above Jake (
impatient
at the head of a lengthy list of undesirable traits), Marta found that remembering the soothing, explain-it-all mantra of plurality and cultural difference moved out of reach, an impossibility. Acceptance—this is not rude, not bad manners, not wrong, no, just a specialized form of communication—imploded. Rising from the wreckage: condemnation.

She began to think of those unreasonable, far off voices as sadistic, halfwitted, and stunningly coarse; longing to spit tacks and blurt out obscene strings of invective, she bit her tongue instead.

Marta pictured herself as a starchy diplomat's assistant uninformed about and therefore unprepared for the social habits of the brutal, cannibalistic tribe assigned to her. She craved a map of enemy terrain, or else a guidebook,
Industry Rules of Conduct
. But that access, she learned, came bundled with a proverbial caveat: easier said than done.
Go with the flow
—the disposition she aimed for—proved equally unapproachable.

By the end of a day of parading mercurial moods, she'd given up on adjusting to their ways or adopting them. Rather than engaging with the speaker at the opposite receiver as a person whose heart pulsed with warm blood and valuable insights, she grew as sullen as a teenager, monosyllabic voice progressively stripped of goodwill, lastly a series of utilitarian functions: “Yes,” “No,” “I understand,” “Will do,” “Okay.” Every “Thank you” strictly pro forma. The responses mimicked Jake, she recognized, unsure whether such impersonal efficiency indicated a sign of victory or defeat.

GO!

1.

J
ake ran through a mental checklist: bean counters and bureaucrats from higher up (appeased), new pages of the shoot (set to go), replacement Lizzie (coming into focus), Pinky (yes, the housekeeper confirmed she hadn't caved; ears blocked to pitiful mewls, she'd fed Gleek spartan diet portions).

The niggling rest could wait until the morning. The sun had set. Eagerness to put the business side of the laptop to sleep burbled throughout his limbs.

2
.

H
andling calls, emails, quick conferences with Lora, and trips to set, Jake had still managed to carve out a potential time and place for the evening's extracurricular session.

Even with the slim pickings—a shade short of a famine overall, and (once burned, twice shy) not an eligible woman to be plucked—he'd exchanged promising details with a pair of guys: a local who claimed to live on a family peach farm and a wine tourist in a hotel fifteen minutes to the south. Johnny Peachpit, likely skittish and a probable no-show, or the tense “on the DL” hotel guy with scant details and a shortage of photos to trade: with his gut instinct retracted and mute, Jake opted to let the fates choose. He grabbed a penny for the scattering of coins on the desk and tossed it. Tails. He typed, “Good to go. Address?” and waited for Peachpit's reply.

The promptness blew away the hovering pessimism; Jake's heart picked up the pace. Getting dicked around by slow replies was a fatal telltale, he could claim from experience; it meant the player on the other end had opted to yank his chain. Or toy with him: and cat/mouse feels worthwhile only when you're the cat.

Jake jotted down the information: “South, on the way to Deadman Lake, turn right at sign, The Singhs, fruit stand, parked tractor.”

To the alleged tourist holed up with blue balls at the deluxe resort, Jake typed a message, “Not happening, bud. Gd luck.” Karma inspired the courtesy; no one likes to be left hanging.

Sex outdoors—a camping site, a parked car, a park, even an alleyway—always packed a charge; and an orchard stretched before him as virgin territory. Jake felt pumped with excitement.

BEAUTIFUL OBJECTS

1.

M
arta collapsed on the bed fully dressed and thankful in the reprieve of darkness. She alternated between staring myopically at the ceiling and turning over, face pressed into the lavender-scented Egyptian cotton quilt that she'd packed at home—a once upon a time luxury item which, like English soap and an ampule of high-tech moisturizer concocted in French laboratories, had become a daily indispensable.

With the single image of a shut door and secured brass chain whispering alluringly, the road to the Star-Lite had passed by unnoticed.

Marta exhaled deeply, relieved at staying dry-eyed, albeit perspiring, inside the tomb silence of the room; not even a foreshadowing of tears crossed her face—no telltale film of excess eye moisture, slight trembling of the lips, or uncontrollable tugging of a frown. Without the stimulus overload and the fraught negotiation called conversation, her former self returned. Even-keeled.

After ten minutes she relaxed: no outburst would arise.

Marta imagined her nervous darting eyes—those of a deer sipping at a stream where predators lurk—steadying, announcing the end of mental disarray. She sat up and clicked on one bulb of the bedside lamp. The hunger she'd staved off with salty banana chips and mixed nuts returned, but late-night restaurants of any stripe seemed improbable nearby. Though Marta believed that late meals were unhealthy—when a yo-yoing maven of daytime TV had publicized her diet guru's rule banning carbohydrates after
7PM
, Marta accepted the wisdom of the latter-year Sermon on the Mount without a second thought—the day's exceptional difficulty granted leeway.

She foresaw a drive on deserted streets, a quest for the glow of a diner,
Nighthawks
circa
2010
promising warmth, security, and comforting light, but serving shade-grown and fair trade organic coffee rather than watery swill soaked with DDT and harvested by exploited peasants. Turning over one page in the wafer of a phonebook made her realize that gorging on junk food from a gas station would be as close to that nocturnal idyll as she'd get.
That can't be worse that pacing in a solitary hothouse
, she thought.

Three thuds on the door followed light taps running across the window.

“Yes,” Marta switched the bedside lamp to full intensity and crossing to the security chain. The only surprise possible would be somebody other than Chaz.

“What are you up to?” Chaz had already changed clothing, and Marta read his new T-shirt: “Chuck's Pub. What Wood You Like?” The beer-slinging barmaid in a short skirt and halter top was a woodchuck. D-cup, naturally.

“Well,” she started, mouth volcanic with complaint. “When I arrived here I wanted nothing except escape from the office. I don't know how you people do it.” The impulse to continue with invective stagnated on her tongue. “Anyway, for the past couple of minutes I've been thinking about chasing down something edible. I looked through the phone book, but practically everything is in Penticton and Osoyoos. Do you have any good ideas?”

“There's chips in my room, but that's it, sorry. Anyway, I thought we might go swimming.”

“Really? I mean, are you serious?”

“But of course, madame. Earlier today you mentioned going to the canal, and it kinda stuck in my head.”

On the highway, Marta resisted and had finally given in to Chaz's request for examples of the bad behaviour of her youth. She'd felt reluctant. His presumption: colourful yarns to spin, revealing glimpses at the rocky contours of a stowed-away wild side.

Marta's face had warmed with embarrassment about a history with a startling lack of delinquent bite—nothing except for mild-mannered disobedience: resisting adult rules in minuscule ways, such as an afternoon of swimming in the reputedly dangerous currents of the canal behind her grandmother's farm. No poignant story of running away from home was hers to tell; and no shoplifting, cheating on tests, risking alcohol poisoning and waking up in a ditch, or obtaining a body piercing on the sly. She'd never been fined for a late library book return. The revelation, then: she'd been judicious and faithful, easily comprehending the wisdom of laws and parental authority, and had little drive for hormonal, Id-orchestrated acting out. That chapter made Marta feel as rebellious as an orthopedic shoe.

After hearing the pitiful bad girl list Chaz, mumbling about a checkered past and pleading the Fifth, agreed to reciprocate, full of defensive qualifications to render the severity harmless.

“It was a long time ago,” he'd emphasized, “so keep that in mind, and not all at once. I barely recognize that guy now. My parents were getting divorced and, really, it's not nearly as bad as it looks.” Had he been caught, the misdemeanors would have landed him in juvenile detention or worse: spray paint vandalism, shoplifting, defacing library books, underage drinking, “petty dealing of party drugs,” “B and E,” including a church, and arbitrary acts of targeted violence which, he confessed, might be classified as hate crimes today. “You know, typical redneck town shit, jocks roughing up the class queer and pushing around the two Asian kids.”

For Marta, also raised in a community of similar size, the rap sheet highlighted appalling efforts.
And, aside from fantasies, she'd never struck a soul.

“You gotta believe me, that person is a total stranger. I'm one hundred percent pussycat now.” Chaz continued to disavow that self and whatever truths it revealed. The final words of his defense: “C'mon, last winter I was a Sister of Honour at a lesbian wedding. A Wiccan Joining Ritual, I mean.”

Inside the cab, they had painted themselves into an awkward, silent corner; Marta's surprise had been interpreted as total condemnation.

Though hungry and frazzled, Marta grasped that the chance to let Chaz off the hook had wafted into the room. With the exception of the bully barbarism, she'd sensed a twinge of her own envy, in any case, not judgment alone: a sensible, well-mannered childhood does not convert into intriguing memoir. “Okay.” She sought alternatives. “Well, how about swimming on the weekend?”

“How about ‘Make hay while the sun shines'?” He slumped, back against the doorframe. “You don't have to swim, just show me how to get there. How's that? We've pushed shooting forward by a couple of hours tomorrow, so you'll have time for beauty sleep if that's your worry. Besides, it's that or
Exxtreme
—with two Xs—
Labradoodles: Caught on Tape!
on TV.”

“Well, you're practically wagging your tail down there. That's hard to resist.”

“Excellent, I'll grab the chips.” Chaz sprang to his feet and saluted a goodbye.

“Ten minutes, okay?” Marta thought of the peasant blouse with the beaded drawstring neck. The gauzy medium weight would be ideal for canal-cooled drafts.

“No problem.”

2
.

T
hey walked in silence by the bug-splashed noses of cars toward Marta's rental, parked next to the Star-Lite's front desk office. Hours past sunset, all the surfaces—asphalt, concrete, stucco, room doors painted red—radiated with dying campfire heat, but chilled breezes rushing down from valley peaks and through orchards whispered promises of a comfortable sleep.

To reach the canal from her grandmother's alfalfa fields, Marta had needed to fight through fifteen minutes of reverted farmland, a parcel of gnarled roots, antelope-bush, tall grasses, and woolly rabbit-brush that snagged clothing. She remembered that service roads ran parallel to the channel, and drove toward Joan's certain that the point of entry would appear, clear as a beacon. Since Chaz hadn't asked, she guessed he trusted her internal compass.

Unaccustomed to driving at night Marta sighed in gratitude for the deserted highway—and Chaz's restraint: little animation, no fidgeting with the radio, no comments about the speed limit. The orchards stood mutely, revealing sentry indivisibility when the headlights flashed across their leaves.

Marta followed the tug of memory and turned right when approaching the town's prominent intersection. Her concern mounted—odds favoured the access road's accessibility for municipality officials only and gates for anyone else. Spotting a small bridge ahead, she signaled right again.

“Whoa, slow down, sister!” Chaz said.

“You held your tongue the entire way, that was impressive. I do have to slow down for a second, only to get my bearings, but I promise to speed up again.”

As breezes rushed through the cabin, they passed by windowless fruit storehouses, forlorn lots, and scrappy back yard orchards. Chaz pointed out a municipal sign, the destination now plain. A yellow metal gate blocked passage.

“Well, that's that.” Marta listened to the idling engine. Beams caught metallic flecks in the paint and made the heavy bar glow with unambiguous purpose.

“Just give me a sec, okay?” Chaz reached for the door handle. “And eat some chips before I scarf down the whole f-ing bag. Deep-fried potatoes, that's the last thing needed by this Buddha belly.”

Marta watched him walking to the gate. Chaz bent before turning to the car with a smile. “It's not locked.” He strode to her window. “Green means go.”

“And that,” she sighed, “is how criminal acts begin.” A statement of formality only: Marta could see that canal swimming was a foregone conclusion.

He's already turned for the gate. “An unlocked gate and not a Do Not Enter sign in sight. I think we'd have a legit case.”

“I have to agree.”

Chaz unhitched the gate and re-secured it once Marta passed through, tiptoeing back to the car with cartoon villain sneakiness.

Pebbles spat noisily and Marta noticed the car drifting slightly as the tires followed the road's gravel curves. She clenched the steering wheel; the surfing motion awakened her nerves. “You know, it's interesting, this canal system was dug before the Depression, when the government decided to develop this town,” she said.
“It planned to create a settlement for World War One veterans. Before that the whole area got by as a minor gold rush hub and a major cattle ranching area. Beef for the Empire.”

“Cool, Professor History. Maybe I'll read about it when the book comes out.” He reached outside with scooped hands; the air pushed his lax arms along the window frame. “How much further?”

“Bridges were built at even spans all along the way. As far as I can remember, they're more or less identical. I can pull over any time, so just say when.”

The curve straightened and she drove with relaxed shoulders for five quiet minutes.

“Okay, next one,” Chaz exclaimed.

“I'll keep the headlights switched on.” Marta slowed as a bridge came into sight.

3
.

W
illowy vegetation clotted the canal's banks; if clandestine swimmers had cut pathways, none parted from the road.

“Wow, it's not the Gold Coast is it? Looks like I'll have to blaze my own trail,” Chaz said, beginning to slide down his jeans. “No, er, cracks about a full moon, alright?”

“My lips are sealed.” Work had blessed Chaz with a farmer's tan. His face and forearms blended into the night while the rest did set itself up for lunar jokes.

“You're sure you don't want to come in?” Chaz stood wearing striped boxer shorts.

“Between log boom death traps at home and the deadly currents of the canal, my family was phobic about death by submersion.” Expecting a piercing and tattoos, Marta was surprised to discover nothing except an ursine endowment of unclipped chest hair in a thick T. “You'd think we'd had a maritime family tragedy that everyone desperately wanted to never repeat. But, really, the water is too cold for me.”

“Okay, here goes nothing.” Chaz shucked the boxers and quickly turning for the water. He hopped over sharp rocks and a yarn tangle of branches, muttering about pain until disappearing. “Mother of Christ, it's . . . okay. Actually it's not that bad!”

A translucent miasma of haze drifted in from distant orchards, and Marta concluded the swampy setting would look better from a distance. She hiked to the centre of the white wooden bridge and peered over the edge to watch the foamy rush of water beneath; bats swooped and fluttered across the wide night sky.

Chaz yelled and gesticulated, but Marta couldn't decipher a word. She waved, growing uneasy. If he swam too close to the bridge and its narrow corridors of swift current, she'd gesture madly to alert him. The set up seemed classic as a would-be tragic accident: “Yes, officer, it was late at night.
Yes, he was swimming alone. Yes, he may have had a beer or two. No, I couldn't hear what he was saying, and by the time I rushed down to the water he was too far from the shore; I couldn't really see him, so rescuing him was out of the question.” She wondered if being a passive witness counted as criminal negligence.

Watching Chaz from the bridge, Marta envisioned herself standing atop the plank railing, cinematically lit, balanced precariously, wearing a bone-white bra and, matching her bruisable, faintly indolic flesh, panties reminiscent of sodden newsprint. The image could be an indelible outtake from
Blue Velvet
, and she—vulnerable, overwrought, mottled with grotesquerie—a woman about to make a despairing or euphoric leap after a sublime moment of trailer court anagnorisis, perhaps, or to undulate crazily while lip-synching to a dubious torch song from the
1950
s.