This Location of Unknown Possibilities (5 page)

Jake loaded the dishwasher and tossed back the sweet, scalding demitasse of coffee in two gulps. He deleted Rambo's email and glanced at Jeremy's final selection, a mail-order groom looking for a ticket out of Russia. That one he'd seen before.

Amongst a galaxy of come-and-go contacts and IATSE comrades, Jake saw Jeremy as a fellow-traveler. Meeting a decade ago at Serpentine, a WASPy Toronto fetish night “for Discerning Adults,” they'd circled restlessly—both of them novice experimenters in SM and deciding in tandem that the dabbling would be a one-off—and shared a brief and ultimately lame engagement with a kneeling blindfolded submissive named Raven whose clasped prayer position hands held a stubby braided whip. They soon settled on bottled beer and bar stools in stiff, freshly-purchased leather gear, and cast unimpressed glances at the black-clad proceedings—the men as gruff and humourless as
Mad Max
villains, and the women's overwrought fantasy costumes transforming them, in Jeremy's view, into background figures in censored outtakes from Heart and Stevie Nicks videos. Jake had been taken from the moment they'd watched each other listlessly prod Raven's lipsticked mouth with semi-hards; Jeremy's smirk and rolled eyes emerged as that forgettable evening's high mark.

Learning they were practically neighbours on the country's west coast, Jake welcomed the chance to hang out with another with a closely matched taste for adventuring. Jeremy zeroed in on an age demographic considerably younger than Jake's eye-on-his-own-generation preference, a convenient fact that suspended the ritual tussle over alpha and sidekick roles. They'd kept in touch, occasional nights on the town gradually becoming regular calls supplemented by forwarded boasting pictures or videos of successful conquests; and once familiarity allowed for it, admissions of limp performances, outright rejections, and embarrassing, thudding steps into human cow pats cropped up. The look-at-this and it-would-never-happen emails of today? Comic relief.

Jake deleted messages from other respondents—timid, unappealing, dodgy, or inexplicable—and typed, “Life is threatening me well, thx. U up for a role in the hey?” to the torso that couldn't spell. He had no intention of continuing with that. Readings completed, he turned for the bathroom; the stubble could stand a trim. For dieting Gleek he left a modest portion of food and fresh water.

Word from Lora: a “sardine tin city” work day.
Same old, same old
, he sighed. At this stage of pre-production back-to-back meetings barely sunk in.

PREP

1
.

A
punctual finish to the weekly kickboxing session under the joy-free and fat-banishing regime of tattoo-sleeved thug-warrior Franco—the man a shoo-in should a Russian gangster require a personal trainer—left Jake with half an hour to spare. Figuring he'd squeeze in a few sets of arm reps, he strode toward the free weights.

For a weekday morning the gym seemed crowded. Jake swapped nods with regulars and roving employees in bulging black nylon vestments, flashed a smile of encouragement to a husky newbie giving fitness another go—who wouldn't applaud
The Biggest Loser
's hard-won transformations?—and didn't hesitate to foist his impatience on dawdlers, or work in with top-heavy XXL knuckle draggers who wanted nothing more than to monopolize equipment and suck back muscle-growth drinks like penned livestock, even though they'd piss out the unabsorbed protein hours later.

Polite deference had its place, but not at this grab bag of shark-grin realtors, pretzel-stiff nightclub security hued the tanning bed mahogany of
Predator
-era Schwarzenegger, gum-chewing junior execs, and stringently maintained spouses of white collar breadwinners: with everyone posturing in alpha mode, Push or Be Pushed hovered overhead as the one and only commandment. At peak times, the circuit machine line of heaving guys with corkscrewing neck ink re-cast the place as a middleclass mirror of San Quentin's exercise yard. In a lifeboat scenario, Jake would trust none of them.

Though committing to a block of ninety minutes every second day, Jake possessed no special interest in fitness and health. Now that he'd attained the target specs he relaxed, focussing on maintenance; showing up was a perennial item on a chore list to strike a line through, and not an accomplishment to brag about. He steered clear of running groups, core strength evaluations, boot camps, half-marathon training programs, staff offers of body fat assessment, and any back-slapping locker room gab about protein drinks (soy versus whey), powdered supplements (ditto), and “absolutely kick-ass, dude” lat/delt/pec/ab routines.

Musculature was simply a goal, not the must-have lifestyle promoted by magazines he scanned, nor even a topic to discuss at length. He couldn't see it as anything except mindless repetition, although a necessary means to an end like a driver's license or a passport. If he could purchase a prefab physique with as little effort as he'd made for the condo's décor or the shirt currently hanging in his locker, he would. But he judged a shortcut like steroids as risky, a medically unsound gamble. And, besides, no guy dreams of shriveled balls. Otherwise, he'd write a cheque and be in like Flynn. Loyalty to routine, the next best option, stood next to an oil change as duty, good in the long run if tedious. Catching his reflection in a mirror, Jake confirmed dedication produced worthy results.

For work and leisure the semblance of being fit and healthy was crucial. Jake had noticed that since following a strict gym schedule people—men and women both, though in their own ways—checked him out. That truth applied even in shadowy places where his silhouette alone remained visible. Whatever the facts might be—his insides might be riddled with disease for all anyone knew—taut bulkiness conveyed the universal shorthand for health and capable well-being.

Jake recalled scanning a piece online about scientists who'd found that at some microcellular level humans intuit a cut physique as standing for reproductive durability; in sniffing out good genes, then, survival instincts fix on muscles. Health—or its body double anyway: wide shoulders, narrow hips, an erect posture, scant fat bulges—meant vitality, and that in turn gave the bearer presence and an advantage, not to mention a tasty dollop of social capital. And added visibility—of the right kind—meant legal tender. Any child could grasp that. He'd done the math.

Factory-built muscles obviously weren't a well-kept secret anywhere except the suburban obesity belt since on any given minute he could spot guys, younger ones typically, quickly lifting their shirts between sets to flex abs perishable as hothouse flowers, faces satisfied despite being set as masks of cool evaluation.

Jake didn't crave attention, not really, or at least not to the extent of the so-called talent he'd had the displeasure of working under in recent shows. Still, a fraction of limelight struck him as good for business, deserved too. Success should be the reward for putting in the hours, Harvey Weinstein and history told him so. Why not generate some buzz—“Looking good, Jake” or, better yet, “Who's that guy?” Sure, capturing the spotlight didn't equal commanding respect, but it stood nearby. The level of recognition struck him as proper, hard-earned. Jake felt certain that if he could enter the same party twice, one time in today's incarnation and in the other carrying his frame from a decade ago, his former self would wander the room freely and capture a sad fraction of the eye contact.

Being memorable, forgettable, or run-of-the-mill: as if there was anything to agonize over.

2
.

I
n the white tile change room he toweled off, tuning out geezers in flaccid white Stanfield's who nattered about the hardships of telephone party lines back in
1962
. Small talk commenced when Tim, another morning regular, sought Jake's gaze. The guy's name might be Tom, Dan, John, or Don—one of those meat-and-potato names Jake tended to forget. “Hey . . . ,” Jake said when they chatted, never bothering with the follow-up.

Soon after they'd met, Tim had let Jake know he'd purchased a first time trial gym membership that very week, worked in a nearby supermarket as a short-term gig, and had plans to break into the movie business. Gamma-male, Jake had pigeonholed him, a born kiss-ass and pushover.

Tim lifted the black T-shirt's right sleeve immediately. “Hey, man, check it out.” Jake read the shiny scrolling phrase, newly inscribed to judge from the puffy edges: “Pain is Just Weakness Leaving the Body.”

“Nice.” Soft and pale the surrounding flesh brought to mind raw breakfast links. Jake felt impatience mounting; the guy was all script and no action.

Jake wondered if Tim fantasized about getting discovered, as in the ancient Hollywood legend. By the weights or lockers, Tim would zero in on Jake and steer conversations to big budget productions currently in planning or being shot around the city and ask questions about rumoured upcoming TV series. He evidently followed fan chatter and inadvertently kept Jake in the loop.
Tim hadn't passed a resume Jake's way or asked for an interview; he obviously wanted Jake to throw him a bone. As far as Jake was concerned, a bone of any sort was out of the question. Lumpen, Tim still wore baby pudge even though closer to thirty than twenty.

Despite the keener attitude Tim had never mentioned a target job in the industry. Accustomed to meeting people foaming at the mouth to charge into show business, Jake didn't offer to open any doors. Tim needed to grow a pair if he had plans for more than a locker room swap about industry goings on. Undiluted ambition and staking territory were part and parcel in Hollywood North. Wallflowers and apologetic dreamers wouldn't get far; Schwab's on Sunset had been a myth for seventy years, one with no local equivalent.

The men's year-old acquaintanceship of five-minute conversations fell into a set pattern, Jake responding to Tim by answering his queries. Left to Jake, their interaction would have plateaued at quick mutual greetings long ago. If Jake rubbed Tim the wrong way by asking no questions about his job or personal life—and refusing two early attempts at deal-sealing knuckle bumps—he didn't let on. Jake didn't give the situation much thought; he viewed Tim as easy game and used to playing the wingman regularly.

“So, what's new, man? Great day out there, eh?” Naked, Jake crouched to run a towel between his toes, hoping to fend off another growth of fungus. Tim sat on a wooden bench. Jake had never seen him strip, not even to underwear; dollars for donuts, the short and rotund newbie changed inside one of the private alcoves built to cramped toilet stall specifications. He had something to hide, probably.

“Yeah, not bad. Same old, same old with me.” The agreeable words revealed nothing.
Tim could connect the dots as he wished.

“So, you on hiatus now, buddy?” Tim pulled off the first of two T-shirts. Jake had noticed he chose off the rack macho—labels like Under Armor or shirts that advertised big-boy cojones via branding for muscle-building supplements. Today's, for Muscle FX, came emblazoned with a boasting motto about wolves. A pack mentality at best, Jake ceded.

“Just finished with that. Needed some away time from it all, you know?” Toes completely dry, Jake applied deodorant, gave his dick a tug, and slipped on clothing. He didn't understand modesty about change room nudity.

“For sure, man, I hear where you're coming from. So what's on now that hiatus has dried up?” Tim rustled through a gym bag as he spoke.

“We're in pre-production right now for a new feature, a MOW, locking down funds, locations, talent, crew, that kind of thing.”

The men paused as the concrete floor reverberated, the thud of heavy weights dropped from a height a standard declaration of prowess repeated every five minutes.

“Storm before the hurricane kind of situation.”

“Cool. Who's in it?”

“I gotta fill you in later. Time to head to studio. No rest for the wicked.” Jake smiled and gestured with his palms up:
What can you do?

“Good to talk, man. Have a good one.”

“Take care.” Jake grabbed keys from the locker and headed for the stairs that led to underground parking.

THE VAGUE LAND

1
.

W
hat clothing is appropriate for the interview?
The question crept up on Marta before bed as she shuffled hangers and cobbled together an outfit for the next day's classes. A tried and true sweater and skirt combination, or something unexpected? She'd begun to favour a new purchase to clothe the hired-gun role—Marta Spëk, Film Consultant—but could not match the acquisition and sketchy persona to specific wardrobe pieces. Artful layers of black, an imposing suit, sporty casual wear? Impeccable credentials are what matter, Marta told herself, and nevertheless fretted each time she laid out a uniform for the workday. She concluded style was beside the point: only executives and actors weighed that; behind-the-scenes personnel fell off the radar so far as public curiosity mattered.

Still, the compulsion rooted itself: create a pitch-perfect first impression. Logic warred with impulse and lost, and between home and campus she window-shopped in earnest and grew watchful for fashionable pedestrians. As for what to avoid, she needed to look no further than faculty meetings populated with dust-hued woolens, practical fleece vests, and faded cotton trousers; based on available evidence, a life of the mind left little room for the frivolous evanescence of seasonal trends.

The resulting compromise paired a slightly marmish but well-cut tweed skirt with a costly and uncharacteristically bright patterned blouse—the sales associate's two cents: “Jewel tones are this season's Important Statement.” The look achieved balance, Marta had thought on the date of purchase, a modest though confident notice-me declaration. Later, she squirmed over literal clownishness, a statement the store clerk would have never advised.

A few winters ago she'd overheard a student in a freshman composition class tell a friend, “Some personality and a little beauty would be nice” in response to a question she'd arrived too late to catch. The reasonableness of the comment had struck her, as had the friend's abrasive retort: “Yeah, but nice tits rule the runway, man.” Placing the Film Consultant ensemble on the bed, Marta calculated—prayed—that her choice attained a reassuring degree of personality and beauty. As for modest breast size, nature's allotment served adequately.

The final step: details—no brooch, one cocktail ring, scent applied well before arrival. While glasses ought to be left at home, contact lenses inevitably led to watery eyes. She'd wear them and make the switch in a restroom at the studio.
Apply a coat of nude lip gloss too. Yes, definitely.

2
.

P
aying my own way
, Marta thought,
this cannot be an auspicious sign
. Even as internal bolstering, the emphatic
cannot
felt loud, empowering; Marta repeated the silent word resolutely. Jaw set and arms crossed, she conjured an appropriately stormy weather cinematic sequence of being seated immobile inside the train and watching the studio rep—young, panicked, job on the line—search for mysterious Dr. Spëk in vain, eventually having to return and report the vexing failure to appear, a wrench thrown into the works, if only momentarily. As vengeance fantasy it was mild-mannered and bargain basement cheap, Marta conceded as she embroidered the details, but pleasurable nonetheless.

A synthetic female voice declaring the approaching eastward station with an automaton's uninflected vowels interrupted Marta's rising pique: “The next station is Metrotown.” She craned her neck again to study the cheerful route map above; only three stops remained.

An electronic gong activated, the doors whisked shut, and the cars accelerated in computer-directed increments.

Although the Skytrain looked nothing like the limousine buffed to an obsidian lustre she'd grown to anticipate, and a catered lunch at the warehouse production office dropped at the edge of suburban development did not match an exquisite meal at SpotPrawn
@
The Four Seasons, the adventure of being airborne—gliding, nearly floating when factoring out tracks—embraced her, a simple and true satisfaction.

Marta respected the hygienic elevated trains for the utopianism they represented, smooth curved metal, glass, and plastic—untouched by grime, graffiti, litter, and, seemingly, corrosive time—that proclaimed sure faith in mind-boggling technology to remedy all past ills and usher in a future in which strife, poverty, and that pesky gap between pristine vision and pock-marked reality faded into relics, odd and distasteful curiosities from a bygone age, like slavery, night soil buckets, and rickets. Such hopefulness: it existed at a level of magnitude she could never reach. For that faith even obstinate biological limitations presented no hurdle; ingenious implants, prosthetics, supplements, and replacement organs promised limitlessness, an immortality of a sort. A veritable fountain of hale, unblemished youth.

Marta's gaze wandered to fellow passengers. That engineer's vision of a golden new age scattered, instantly undermined by the tangibly anemic flesh and myopic eyes of the skinny slouched teenager who'd boarded three stops before. One seat in front of the youth, an elderly balding man was rocked by a head spasm a bamboo cane and frailty belied. Deflated weariness prevailed on the many-hued faces. Sniffles, coughs, and sneezes of flus and colds—allergy-induced outbursts too, she'd hazard—rocketed audibly, staccato interruptions to the steady whirring hum of the forward-moving compartment. This constancy of imperfection—breathing in deeply she could detect faint traces of aerosolized nicotine and alcohol residue wafting from nearby pores, sour breath, and body odour of the armpit and mothball varieties—unmuzzled Marta's skepticism.

As Marta turned from the commuters she caught a spectral image in the glass, alerted immediately to practical outlet mall spectacles, national average height, and flat, non-cascading hair in the medium-brown of her mother's entire family. Traditionally, outbreaks of a neurotic fixation on the negative amounted to a consequence of nervous stress. Like a bad mood or a cloud today's manifestation would duly pass; on the return trip, interview complete and decision made, there'd be none of this saturnine, no joy in Mudville assessing of the disappointing world. Marta counted on it. She'd taken a lengthy personality test years ago and one of the findings she'd been happy to hold on to was an “even-keeled” rating; complex algorithms had proven her a steady ship on all currents, the image satisfying.
As for the other, less trophy-worthy findings, they had been relegated to an indifferently visited self-improvement file located in a backwater brain cell cluster.

Beyond the glass, the enormity of the panorama was dizzying. All the evidence of ceaseless human industry staggered the senses. Each hill presented nature paved over with structures, and every house came completely loaded with stuff sliding toward obsolescence and an eventual RIP in teeming landfills.
So many families
, Marta thought,
an overwhelming archive of joy and pain
.

Marta retracted her attention, hugging the notes and books arranged in the valise close to her chest. She'd chosen a valise instead of the usual canvas book bag with hope that the mock-ostrich leather and vaguely European pedigree would broadcast an
au courant
world-class professionalism.

Marta had no idea what to expect, so she'd prepared for a job interview atmosphere that would be anything but convivial. While Jakob Nugent's assistant had sent options for meeting times and a choice of meals—via an impersonal email: another ambiguous sign to decode?—she hadn't bothered with information about what Mr. Nugent's agenda might be. Overcompensating, Marta had packed a copy of the Hester Stanhope study (with three laudatory reviews tucked inside) and two recent articles, though she supposed that reserving time to read the material hardly fit into the man's plans. Perhaps an assistant had already prepared a one-page précis. It seemed a solid conjecture.

Marta didn't wish for university-style interview conditions—which forever brought to mind ice-blooded pike in sheep's clothing—but believed that a combatant's readiness could only help cement her position; she'd even printed a creamy vellum CV copy for Mr. Nugent's records. The thirst for fortification was unaccountable: in no sense did she actually need the job. Cowed by the mere aura of Hollywood, then? She reminded herself who'd be the expert in the room.

Marta did foresee caffeinated impatience and a chronic attention deficit—“Okay, okay, so this
War and Peace
, what's the deal with it? Give me the gist in a couple of seconds, I don't need a goddamned dissertation. Wait a sec, I've got to take this call.” The explosive mile-a-minute production executive with a chicken's attention span and the out-of-touch prosaic egghead: another pair of Hollywood script-types that she'd soon witness interacting in real-time. She had little doubt about crossed wired. For these people, perhaps, she would serve as a handy talking encyclopedia, fielding questions about early Victorian bubonic plague treatments, whether Dr. Meryon would have spoken such and such a sentence, or if Lady Stanhope's clothing ought to be cut this way. “Prof Spëk, pls examine these image files from the Art Dept for accuracy. Many thx, LW,
Asst to Jakob Nugent”: would this be the kind of email she'd receive?

A savant or a soothsayer without pretensions of divinity—that temporary occupation she could inhabit with ease: “Yes, according to medical experts, over
200
different species can serve as hosts. Plague carriers have included domestic cats and dogs, squirrels, chipmunks, marmots, deer mice, rabbits, hares, rock squirrels, camels, and sheep. The vector is usually the rat flea,
Xenopsylla cheopis
. Thirty different flea species have been identified as being able to carry the plague bacillus. Other carriers of plague include ticks and human lice. Yes, absolutely, fever, delirium and rosy lesions would be accurate for Lady Stanhope's
1813
plague bout. Not so much for the blue-black skin and hacking cough, which typically signals the terminal stages of infection, which
needless to say
—she might even throw in a clause or two of pedantry for the sake of cliché—Hester Stanhope did not reach. No, that phrase is
hopelessly
anachronistic. Yes, extant portraits of Hester suggest that a turban is fine. Natural silk or linen, nothing metallic—that would be anachronistic too. But, yes, turbans would have been all the rage for her in both
1800
and
1823
. Fashion then was nowhere near as accelerated as today.”

A marvel of knowledge, outgoing, useful as soap, typically full of good will but not entirely averse to the occasional sharp remark: that she could manage. Once conversing with actual people, she'd adjust the tone accordingly; overt sharpness would likely win no friends.

Yes, she might relish the role; there was only a minor difference between it and the one she donned for the classroom. The indispensable brainiac, foundational, a fixture. Or was it, she asked herself as she observed yet another mound of hill barnacle-encrusted with homes, remnants of the smart girl who wrote essays and took home the assignments for popular students in exchange for second-rate pay and recognition? A little of both, she concluded with resignation.

Marta realized she'd envisioned herself answering these questions from the quiet of her office computer. As the set was being built—or as banks of CGI technicians keyed in virtual sets?—and the script revised and scenes shot and re-shot and re-shot once again, she might be stuck in a trailer instead and poised for questions, a shade removed from the geriatric employee wearing a
May I Help?
badge in an airport. For the lags between queries, there'd be a few novels and maybe that laborious omnibus review article due in September.

Then again, an entire trailer suggested money to burn, an improbability since the studio didn't own a blockbuster about a sinking ship or a caped vigilante. But who could say? Although she'd dug up no useful evidence anywhere, posing questions was her prerogative. Jakob Nugent must possess everything she wanted clarified. Marta closed her eyes and returned to the scene. She might wander through the sets—to all eyes an embodiment of the absentminded professor—in search of a scone and a mug of tea. Or else: she could send a request for an afternoon snack and have it promptly delivered by an underling—who might be one of her former students for all she knew.

3
.

T
he robot transit system voice announced Marta's stop: “Studio Way.”

The doors parted and Marta stepped off. Searching the concrete platform for the escort the studio had dispatched—young, lowly, and instructed to please, she assumed—yielded no results. Not a soul approached as the platform emptied. She'd pictured the airport scenario: “Dr. Spëk” written on a cardboard sign held aloft by the anonymous functionary. One email from Lora Wilkes had mentioned that the studio sprawled five minutes by foot from the station, but at the time Marta hadn't interpreted the information as an invitation to march on over.

Marta decided to wait five minutes.
Raging for fame has its price
, she thought.

Beyond the grey platform the scene presented muted northern hemisphere urban rim—power lines, parked cars, low-profile businesses housed in dreary if spacious generic boxy structures, vehicle traffic, sooty concrete arterial roadways, and forlorn weeds, bushes, and trees flocked with grit. The sour tang of the air was distinctive: thousands of sticky cottonwood leaf buds peeling in slow, temperature-orchestrated synchronicity. Their pungency could be bottled, trademarked, and sold alongside maple syrup in tourist shops, Marta supposed: Fraser Delta Spring No.
5
.