This Location of Unknown Possibilities (29 page)

He imagined Jeremy and himself twenty-five years in the past: the summer of
1985
, a time not so far removed from the present—or, for that matter, from Flower Power, Free Love, Women's Lib, Sexual Liberation, and disco. The men on the stumps didn't seem to belong to that era, forty years old then and humming along to Huey Lewis or Bananarama. Maybe time was different—slower, clinging—outside of the ADD of cities and urban itching for the next season's trends, the latest restaurant, and the flavour of the moment.

If casting these guys, he'd drop them in a buddy movie set in the depths of the Dirty Thirties. Something black and white with Bogart, maybe.

Mulling over parallel lives provoked another thought, a jump into the future the same distance. Was it a done deal that he'd become the spitting image of Jack or Jesse, or one of those men he nodded at politely while being steadfast in avoiding close contact with their knee-jerk badgering, their bottomless cup of need? Would he take drives with feverish dreams—hopeful but in fact bereft of hope—of stopping for agreeable hitchhikers or running into pent-up tourists on the down low? And with diminishing cachet would his choice of nightspots decline steadily? Would a flashy car and open wallet lure bar stars and street trash—or prostitutes, the grade of which relied on retirement savings?

Jeremy had told Jake about a patient, one of his down-and-out Eastside types who budgeted for rock-bottom alleyway servicings exactly twice a month. Jeremy unreeled the story for gossipy pleasure, of course, but really, should they be smiling? Would he eventually sit with Jeremy on stumps or equivalent, living disasters, absolute proof to intimidated passersby that decadence came with an exacting toll and the wages of sin is death, and all that evangelical hellfire and brimstone?

Vulnerability to whatever the world throws at you is one thing, he conceded. But hamstrung and thwarted by your own bad habits? Not on his watch, thank you.

Jake backed out of the lot feeling chastised, rebuked by a fickle cosmos—giving, then taking, at whim—and tonight deciding on a Sunday school talking-to about priorities. And though he'd bet with fair confidence that the future would never include weekly bouts of skulking and drinking cheap wine while squatting in the barren cul de sac of a family campground, he felt shaken by the possibility that his philosophy of private life had encouraged a wild misstep, or that, in the favoured scolding parental phrase, his failure to live up to his full potential grew visibly each day. At least he might make room to remap the usual after-hours vocations.

Fuck that noise
, Jake thought.

Scared Straight
tactics might work on all-bark, no-bite teenagers. Lesson givers could kiss his ass. Pot-bellied Mr. Zsi-something, that black-eyed physics teacher gleefully assigning an F in Grade
12
—“Sooner or later, Yak-ob Neu-gent,” the man scolded time and again, voice Eastern Bloc guttural and war-weary despite having fled Hungary right after “dat bald murderer” was sent to the Soviet Union at the start of the Cleaver family's run, “you vill understand dat you can't just coast by on dat smile”—and the cold eye of the universe dead set on schooling him with a wake-up call, had nothing worthwhile to tell him, each no better than a hypocritical circle of hardcore drinking buddies staging an intervention.

Besides, that regret and repent bullshit wasn't part of his vocabulary, never would be. As for raw deals, the universe could hand them to somebody else.

AC blasting, Jake gunned the engine and shot toward the respite of an empty room.

AN ARTISTIC INTERVAL

1.

M
arta scrambled to greet Luna, who peered through Joan's front window, face strained with apprehension about the could-be star turn awaiting steps away.

“C'mon in, we won't bite,” Marta said, wrestling with the off-kilter door and relishing the change in air quality. “Have you kept that mood intact?”

“Oh yeah, I've got fury for days.” Despite the proclamation Luna looked cowed. “This here's Lornette. She's my moral support.”

“Pleased to meet you, Lornette. I'm Marta.”

“It's my pleasure,” Lornette said. Flustered and shy, the freckled redhead appeared ready to curtsy. “I can wait out on the sidewalk if I'm in the way here.”

“So much for moral support. You stay put.” Luna clasped her friend's arm.

“Really, it's fine. People drop by all the time, trust me,” Marta said, seeing Lornette's perplexed expression.

“Alright then.” Marta herded the women in. “I'd better introduce you to the first half of the powers that be. It's those two, Luna, and not me, that you'll be needing to impress. They're the gatekeepers. Wait right here, alright, the chairs are comfortable. I'll be back in a minute.”

Lora shuffled papers in Jake's office and pointed vaguely as Marta approached the desk. “That's her? She looks the part, a bit bigger framed than Dol'rez, I think. Mind you, that was one rack of bones, so who isn't?”

“Luna's friend's closest to the door. You're right, though”— Marta mimed the pretense of a Solomonic evaluation—“but she's in work clothes. Blanketed in the maid's caftan, she'll be a match.”

“This is really doing things back-asswards, you know.”

“Oh, I thought you were agreeable to a trial run.” Marta felt the creep of anxiety about an impending marathon conference call and unbearable voices transmitting hardball attitude from Vancouver and Los Angeles.

“I am, honey. I'm just fretful. Naturally.
You should see my family reunions. Mama hands out Prozac with Abilify chasers!” Lora gathered supplies for the meeting. “I'm surprised you haven't picked that up by now, Doctor.”

Marta smiled, tongue locked in place.

“Okay, let's take a look. Jake can sell the penny-pinching and the time-saving agendas in his sleep, so no worry there,” Lora said. “It all comes down to being a good fit.”

The waitresses sat politely—legs crossed, hands folded on laps—as Marta approached to make introductions. “Luna and Lornette, this is Lora,” she said. The women stood to shake hands.

“Gee, where's Laverne?” Lora asked with a giggle. “Before we get the show on the road, we need the big cheese. After that we'll shoot a few lines and then upload them to other bigger cheeses. And then after that it's all in the hands of fate.”

“Here are a few pages to look over while you're waiting. I've highlighted germane lines.”

“Ladies, don't believe that Miss Manners routine for a minute,” Lora quipped, expertly putting them at ease. “I swear she's after my job.”

2
.

M
arta watched Luna pace and rehearse variations on lines; comfortable playing the sounding board, Lornette sat, listened, and commented in murmurs. They froze, startled, as Jake strode in with Chaz and Nicos in tow. The boisterous men herded toward the back office, barely nodding to the visitors. “Curly and Moe here need a junk food stop,” Jake said.

“Hey.” Chaz veered toward Marta. “We gotta grab some snacks for the road.”

“I left the O-K's breakfast special on the counter by the microwave. It's a bit past its prime now. I'll show you.”

“Who's the tourists hanging around out front?” Nicos said.

“One's a stray Marta here dragged in off the street,” Lora said. “And her friend.”

“And?” Babysitting locals didn't fit on Jake's agenda.

“Oh, the professor's acting out Hollywood mythology,” Lora said. “Just call her Maximillan Carey.”

“What?” Nicos checked his phone.

“No idea. Lora loves her golden age melodramas, though,” Jake said.

“
A Star is Born
, is that better?
Showgirls
? Um,
Glitter
? You know, a small town nobody becomes bigger than life, tragedy ensues? Marta thinks the local will be a good—convenient, that is—replacement Lizzie,” Lora said, “so Luna—she's the one in that lovely nylon waitress slash nurse's uniform—is prepping to read. It's okay, I figure. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?”

“Sure, why not. As long as she's paid her union dues, we'll be fine.” Jake reached across the desk, jerked open the centre drawer, and switched on a camcorder. “Good, the battery's still charged. Okay, you guys can hit the road any time, give us some room to work.”

“C'mon, Jake,” Nicos said. “If it's a go, she'll be acting in front of the entire crew, not to mention a camera. We'll be helping her out.”

“Good point, but you and the Chazster need to be somewhere, like five minutes ago, right?”

“Okay, boss.” Nicos shouted toward the kitchen, “I'm already waiting behind the wheel, Big Boy. Let's get the show on the road.”

“Yeah, yeah, Hootie, I'll be two shakes.” Paper plate in hand, Chaz rushed for the street.

Jake turned the lock and waited at the front door. “Alright, ladies, let's make this happen.”

Luna grasped the photocopied pages Marta had pulled and read the lines in a monotone: “‘My dear Sultan, you are too kind indeed. Verily, I cannot accept so extravagant a gift. That you hold me in such high esteem is surely enough! You insist? Such a wealth of gems could only attract the covetous eyes of my impudent servants.'”

“That'd be great if you we were making
The Jetsons
and you were playing Rosie the robot maid.” Lora ignored the persistent ringing of the phones and waved
Don't bother
when Marta moved to answer.

“I just needed to say the lines at full volume, not in my head. Okay, I'm ready now.” She spoke the lines at Jake.

“Better, but it's not a race. Third time's the charm?” Lora winked at Marta—
You gotta be tough with the talent
. “And remember: you're an English servant, not a Canuck.”

“Okay, here goes,” Luna said. Seated but rapt, Lornette offered silent encouragement with raised eyebrows and two thumbs up.

“Not bad at all. We need to try a different scene,” Jake said, “to see how she emotes on cue.”

“How about the death scene at the crash site.” Lora reached for a script.

“Professor, you ready for your close-up?” Jake grinned, swinging the lens in Marta's direction. “Can you stand in for the alien?”

Marta stepped back, her first impulse to scurry off.
The flight response of a marmot
, she thought. “Yes, certainly. What do you need me to do?”

“Nothing much.
Just stand there, the wall's green screen basically. You'll give Luna something real to focus on.”

Eyes seeming panicked, Luna shuffled through the pages.

Marta explained. “You've just ridden a horse to the crash site because you are planning to negotiate a deal with the alien.”

“For real?” Luna asked. “That sounds kinda weird.”

“Oh it is, absolutely.” Lora handed gestured cosmic resignation. “But we're here to make it happen, my dear, not write a movie review.”

“Just run with it, okay?” Jake said.

“Then what happens?” Luna read the page.

“Pretty much what you'd expect: you try, you fail, you get decapitated, you pay the price for fucking with a bad customer, end of story.” Jake adjusted the lens. “Let's get a move on, folks.”

“No second act for her, I guess. I thought maybe I'd become the alien's queen or something.”

“No such luck,” Lora said. “Ready?”

“Okay, it says, ‘Lizzie walks toward the spacecraft,'” Luna flipped through the sheets, “but she doesn't find anything. Then she sees a cavern and goes toward it. Okay, got it. If the professor stands right there, I'll come in from outside and then begin.”

“Go for it,” Lora said.

Marta stood with her back to the side wall and watched as Luna struggled with the door and crept in.

“‘Is there anyone about? Good sir? Please, we must speak at once,'” Luna stopped, awaiting direction.
When none arrived she read further lines. “‘I am in possession of valuable ­intelligence.'”

“‘Silent, the alien steps closer to Lizzie,'” Marta read, unsure whether to move.

“Stay put, professor. Basically, after that Lizzie realizes that her time is up and that the alien's not going to play by her rules, so she decides to go out in a blaze of glory,” Lora said.

“‘O charcoal fiend, begone. Vile insect, I implore you to retreat,'” Luna tried out the words. “‘Abhorred monster. Treachery!' ‘Charcoal fiend'? Man, that's a mouthful.”

“The camera is on,” Jake said.

Luna read the lines tentatively.

“Will you let me do that one more time? I've got the rhythm figured out now.”

“Sure thing, honey.” Lora adopted her occasional persona of maternal encouragement.

“Yeah, but we don't have all day. Once more and we'll edit it down, load it up and send it out.”

Luna paused to regard Jake scornfully.
“I'll come in again, and begin with ‘Is there anyone about?' Are you ready, Mar?”

“Yes, certainly. Any time you are.”

3
.

“A
lright, it's a go,” Lora shrieked halfway through hanging up. “Marta, go snare your waitress and tell her everyone thinks she's a bona fide soon-to-be-cable-TV-star.
That's not the wording, but it'll get her stoked.
We need her here, then shuttled over to Costume and Hair.”

“That was fast,” Marta said. With luck, she'd never again cross paths with graceless Blanche, that surly assistant, or dismissive higher ups in remote production hub offices.

“The threat of money down the drain is very inspirational, don't you think?”

“Very.” Marta drew nearer to Jake's desk. She preferred not to yell.

Lora explained that there'd been unanimity from Los Angeles and Vancouver, one happy with a photogenic enough face and budgetary plusses and the other speaking of the time crunch, government incentives, and the virtue of thinking outside the box. Lora passed Marta a yellow sheet of paper. “Okay, here's what needs to get done, in order of importance. Since Chaz is on a run now, I corralled a PA from second unit. They're just out there twiddling their thumbs on establishing shots right now anyway.
He ought to be here by the time you're back here with the waitress. Got it?”

“I do, thanks.”

Marta beamed as she rushed toward the O-K Café. She'd spared herself duress and in doing so made an actual contribution; her ordinary tasks—answering calls, shuffling papers, purchasing supplies—might be technically useful, but they barely registered on her scale of accomplishment.
So what if Luna's lucky break was inadvertent
, she thought. A good deed still counted even if it came from self-serving motivations.

“Eh, what's up, Doc?” Luna stood at the till counting bills. Marta summoned a smile; she'd heard that line countless times before, although only outside of campus borders.

“We have news,” Marta said, looking around. The town couldn't boast of a brunch crowd; the O-K was unoccupied save for the coffee counter regulars.

“Wow, time is money, eh? I'll bet one look at me and they slammed the door shut.”

“To the contrary, they're interested.”

“For real?”

“For real. And Lora's asked me to tell you in person. To expedite the process.”

“Okay.” Watchful, Luna waited for further cues.

“In other words, the office needs you for paperwork and then we'll send you to Wardrobe.
How soon can you be ready?”

“Um, I gotta call Lornette again. When she offered to cover my shift, I'll bet she thought it'd never happen in a million years. I owe her big time.”

“We'll see you soon.”

“Thanks a lot, professor.”

“My pleasure.” Helping had cast a warm light over her stay in the valley. “See you shortly.”

4
.

F
acing away from the sun's glare on the return to Joan's, Marta noticed the efficient miracle of heat evaporating the very perspiration it prompted. The hot brisk current reminded her of lakeshore picnicking and family meals under long tendrils of weeping willow shade. While knowing that the bouncing-step mood resulted directly from the balm of total relief about solving the Lizzie and teleconferencing problems, the facile kitchen conversation during Chaz's stop left her unsettled.