Something Like Thunder

by Jay Bell

  -tap tap tap-

  Nathaniel jerked upright. Dwight was at his window! Wasn’t he? Seemed weird that he wouldn’t try the door first. He had never come through the window before. Nathaniel swung out of bed, peering through the dark.

  “Hurry up,” a voice hissed. “I’m freezing my candy cane off out here!”

  Nathaniel grinned wildly and went to the window, opening it and knocking the screen out of the way. Then he practically dragged Caesar inside.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, not caring about the answer.

  Caesar nodded to the bedside clock. Five minutes past midnight. “Merry Christmas,” he said a little tentatively. “You’re not mad?”

  Nathaniel grabbed his hand and guided it to a certain area of his body. “Does this answer your question?”

  Later, when they were wrapped in each other’s arms, Nathaniel considered how much he had worried about them being together here. Houston had seemed threatening enough, but now, in a room that normally harbored so many bad memories, Nathaniel felt safe. And happy.

  * * * * *

  “Where are you going?”

  Nathaniel paused on his way to the front door, glancing at the kitchen where Caesar and Rebecca stood. Lately they had been spending more time together and not always to study. He wasn’t disturbed by their friendship, but when they spoke in perfect unison—that was a little creepy.

  “I’m heading out to the lecture,” he answered.

  “But it’s Saturday,” Rebecca complained.

  “So?” Nathaniel checked his watch and sighed. “I thought you were tutoring him.”

  Caesar looked to her hopefully. “Can we? I have a paper due on Monday that I’m totally screwed on.”

  “But it’s Saturday!” Rebecca repeated. “Please don’t make it a boring one.”

  “Come to the lecture,” Nathaniel said. “It won’t be boring. Did you read the flyer?”

  “I thought you were joking. It’s some business thing, right?”

  “Flyer,” Nathaniel said pointedly.

  “Fine.” Rebecca dragged her feet on the way into the living room—Caesar following like a duckling—and picked up the single sheet of paper from the coffee table. “Marcello Maltese? Sounds like a circus performer.”

  “He’s a media tycoon. Mostly photography, but I’ve done some digging, and he’s got a production company on the side. As in movies.”

  Rebecca and Caesar both responded with the same disinterested expression.

  Nathaniel glared. “It’s just my dream. No big deal. I guess we could get drunk and play pool instead.”

  “Okay!” Rebecca said. Then she rolled her eyes. “Go to your lecture. Caesar and I will crash a party or something.”

  Caesar grimaced. “I really need help with that paper. Seriously.”

  Rebecca sighed in resignation.

  “I’ll make it up to you,” Nathaniel said. “Hot date, just me and you. We’ll leave the brat at home.”

  “Hey!” Caesar complained.

  Nathaniel didn’t have time for more banter, wanting to arrive early to the lecture hall to secure a seat up front. After a round of hugs and kisses, he headed out. He reached the hall early enough that not only did he get his seat, but he grew bored while waiting for the lecture to start. He began to regret his decision. Hanging out at a pool hall sounded like fun. Then the lights dimmed, and a thin figure walked across the stage to the podium. A spotlight switched on, illuminating a guy who might have been a student. His brown hair was styled neatly to the side, his glasses thin gold frames. He stood in silence, eyes sweeping across the audience. Then he spoke.

  “Salesmen understand the importance of making a good impression, but for true success, all that matters is making a memorable impression. Ladies and gentlemen, Marcello Maltese.”

  The lights were switched off completely. Nathaniel could barely make out the thin man retreating to the black curtains at the back of the stage. Then music blared, the sort of jazzy horns that might introduce the Academy Awards. At the same time, from the side of the stage, flashes went off in a frenzy, as if paparazzi were waiting in the wings, their cameras illuminating a rotund man with short graying hair who gracefully strode to the podium. Then he raised his hands. All at once the music and camera flashes stopped and the normal overhead lights returned.

  “Who am I?” he asked in a pleasantly husky voice, holding up a finger to stop any reply. “Not just my name, but what am I known for? No doubt some here tonight were dragged along by a friend, or were looking to escape their tiresome roommate. Let’s hear from you.” Someone must have raised their hand, because Marcello pointed to the audience. “Very well, who am I?”

  “I don’t know, but you must be important!”

  “That’s precisely what I would have you believe. And for the record, I’m only important to those who stand to make money off me. Tonight that includes you, because if you listen carefully to what I have to say, you might find my success contagious. Now then, the rest of you. Who am I?”

  He raised his hands like a conductor, most of the students saying his name in unison. “Marcello Maltese!”

  The man grinned in response. “Now that’s an introduction you’re unlikely to forget!”

  Nathaniel felt amused, but hoped there was more to the evening than just show.

  “Let me pose another question to you,” Marcello said. “I promise I won’t place the entirety of the evening’s entertainment on your shoulders, but allow me to put forth a scenario. The best hamburgers in the world can be found in Denmark, in a small town forty miles outside of Copenhagen. There a former farmhouse functions as a restaurant, but the farm remains, sustaining free-grazing cattle and produce that will decorate the burger. The thinly sliced bell peppers, the leaves of rocket, the soft seeds of mustard—all of it quite literally made on location. Every item needed for these exceptional hamburgers is grown or raised or milled right there on the farm. Culinary giants in every food industry have made pilgrimages to this farm and returned forever changed by the experience. There is, I assure you, no better burger in the entire world. Much skill and effort is required, but I’m certain all the hard work is worth it. After all, what could be better than being the best? That’s the riddle you must solve. What is more important than reputation?”

  The audience was silent.

  “The question wasn’t rhetorical,” Marcello said. “This isn’t a lecture, it’s a conversation. Now then, what is more important than reputation?”

  Nathaniel, feeling ridiculous, raised his hand as if in a classroom.

  Marcello noticed him and nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “Recognition.”

  Marcello appeared interested but not completely satisfied. “Recognition?”

  “Yeah. Brand recognition is more important than reputation.”

  “Well done! That is absolutely correct. We’ve all heard of McDonald’s. We’ve all stuffed their miserable greasy offerings down our throats in an effort to banish hangovers. All of us have entered their establishments on more than one occasion and will likely do so again. And yet they spend millions of dollars on marketing every year. Why? So that future generations will continue to treat them as a household name or—better yet—to take over the language we use, replacing common nouns with registered trademarks: Band-Aid, Kleenex, Q-Tips, Coke.”

  The lecture continued this way, although it quickly became laced with dubious morality. Marcello spoke of techniques to gain both reputation and recognition, such as reviving companies that had failed centuries ago so organizations could claim to have been in business for hundreds of years. Or staging publicity stunts similar to his introduction to fool people into assuming significance, even before a company had produced a single item. His argument was that people took the world at face value. Marcello felt that should be exploited as much as possible. During the lecture, he posed more questions, but Nathaniel refused to answer them because it made him feel silly.

  Until the end,
at least, when he couldn’t resist. He got that one right too and felt good about himself as Marcello ended the lecture. Surprisingly, this was done without the use of smoke machines or pyrotechnics. Instead he simply thanked everyone for their attention, then waved over the thin man with glasses. Marcello whispered to him, pointing twice to the audience. Unless Nathaniel was mistaken, one of the people pointed to was him.

  He stood, but didn’t hurry to leave. The thin man hopped off the stage, ran up to him and placed a hand on his arm. “I’m Kenneth,” he said, already looking elsewhere. “Stick around for a minute, okay?”

  Nathaniel nodded. The stage was empty now. Marcello had disappeared behind one of the black curtains. Most of the audience filed out the exit. Kenneth stood next to it, gesturing emphatically to a young girl who shrugged apologetically and turned to leave. Kenneth stared after. When he saw Nathaniel watching him, he smiled. The guy was cute in a bookish sort of way. He strolled over, offering his hand.

  “I hope you’re smart enough to appreciate being vetted.”

  “Why would I go to an animal doctor?” Nathaniel said, putting on a blank expression.

  Kenneth appeared concerned for a moment. Then he grinned. “Almost had me, but your answers to Marcello’s questions were much too sharp. Care to meet him?”

  Nathaniel shrugged. “Sure.”

  He hoped this act wasn’t seen through, because he felt more than a little nervous. Ignoring the stairs at one end, Kenneth climbed on stage and turned to offer Nathaniel a hand. His eyes were sparkling when Nathaniel took it, and despite being thin, he didn’t have much trouble hoisting him up. Then he led the way to the wings. Nathaniel paused, noticing a tripod rigged with numerous lights, no doubt the source of the imaginary camera flashes. He was fingering the equipment with interest when a voice startled him.

  “The theater department set that up for me,” Marcello purred. “I love universities. Where else can you find labor willing to work for little more than a pitcher of beer?”

  Nathaniel turned to face him. Marcello was sipping from a bottle of water, his face still flushed from giving the lecture. Up close, Nathaniel’s original impression became even stronger.

  “Have you ever seen The Maltese Falcon?” he asked, unable to help himself.

  “Doesn’t ring a bell,” Marcello replied.

  “I just thought… With your name and everything. Never mind.” Nathaniel felt his cheeks burn. He had thought this might be a good way to jumpstart a conversation about film, and eventually Marcello’s production company, but now it just seemed awkward.

  Marcello didn’t seem concerned either way, his attention on Kenneth instead. “Where’s the other one?”

  “She wasn’t interested in sticking around. Medical student.”

  Marcello frowned. “I’m less concerned with what she intends to do with her life than what she’ll actually end up doing. The two rarely correlate.”

  Kenneth exhaled impatiently. “What did you want me to do, handcuff her?”

  “No matter,” Marcello said, turning to Nathaniel again. “Let’s talk about your intentions. Why are you here tonight?”

  “To listen to your lecture.”

  “Yes, but you only did so hoping it would enable you to achieve some goal. A dream, perhaps? Am I right?”

  Nathaniel nodded.

  “Excellent! Come, sit with me.” Marcello led them past audio and video equipment to a canvas folding chair. He sat down, then smiled pleasantly. Apparently “sit with me” meant standing and watching him get comfortable because no other chairs were available. “I always find it wise to begin with the basics,” Marcello said, looking expectant.

  “Nathaniel.”

  “Very good. Tell me, Nathaniel, why are you studying so tirelessly at Yale? What is your goal in being here?”

  “I’m aiming for an MBA-JD.”

  “Is that some sort of boy band?”

  “It’s a type of degree,” Kenneth snapped. “Business and law.”

  “Ah.” Marcello leaned forward. “And what will you do with so many letters?”

  Nathaniel risked the truth. “I’m interested in starting my own production company.”

  “As in film?”

  “Yup. I figured you might have some advice for me.”

  “I mostly deal in photography,” Marcello said dismissively.

  “But you have your own production studio,” Nathaniel pressed. “Your company makes movies. Right?”

  Marcello exchanged a glance with Kenneth, then leaned back again. “I suppose some department might dabble in such. It’s so hard to keep tabs on everything. Tell me more about you. Why the film industry?”

  “As you said, for college students the real question is what we’ll do with our lives. When considering the decades of work ahead, I figured it was smartest to go with my passion. I’ve been fanatic about movies since I was a kid. I don’t see that ever changing, and since that could make the daily grind much more bearable—”

  “You decided to pair the two.” Marcello nodded as if understanding. “But why not acting or directing? You must have a screenplay on your person somewhere, one that you wrote. Everyone does these days. Where is it?”

  Nathaniel smiled. “I don’t write. I do okay with a camera, but I struggled through enough art courses in my first year of college to realize I’m meant for more practical work. I know a good movie when I see one, so I thought I’d give production a try instead.”

  “How refreshing to hear,” Marcello said. “There are far too many artists in the world these days. Everyone is writing a book or pitching ideas to Hollywood or describing the content of their cell phones as photography. Don’t even get me started on YouTube. I don’t mind creative impulses, but soon there won’t be an audience left. The world will just be performers, stumbling around each other and impressing nobody in the process.”

  “I disagree,” Nathaniel said. “Technology has paved the way for independent productions along all spectrums of art. The world is a more interesting place because of it.”

  Marcello narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “And yet you wish to be in a position of deciding what is of value and what isn’t. From what I understand, the gatekeepers are all dead and the rabble has come pouring through. Do you really think you can sort them out?”

  “That’s not my goal. I want to help a select group bring their vision to life, but that doesn’t mean denying others that right. Art inspires art. David Lynch’s movie Blue Velvet was partially inspired by the song of the same name by Bobby Vinton. Then in the eighties, a metal band called Anthrax recorded Now It’s Dark, which is inspired by Lynch’s movie. A world full of artists can create for each other. And before you think I’ve got my head in the clouds or shoved up my ass, I assure you that I’m stone-cold pragmatic. I’m willing to deal with hard facts so that true art can happen.”

  Marcello considered him anew. “Blue Velvet is a Tony Bennett song. Bobby Vinton merely covered it, but I suppose that only proves your point. A world full of artists…” He chuckled as if amused by the idea. “I’m on vacation for the next week, enjoying the hospitality of this fine university. That doesn’t mean work ceases while I’m away. Perhaps during my stay, you’d be willing to assist me with a few tasks? We can put that pragmatism of yours to the test. Some of your idealism too.”

  Nathaniel grinned. “Where’s my pitcher of beer?”

  Marcello’s dark eyes twinkled in response. “I’m sure Kenneth would be happy to accommodate you in that regard. I have an appointment, otherwise I would happily tag along. You’re a strapping young man. See if you can’t help me out of this rickety old thing.”

  Nathaniel took his hand but he barely needed to pull. Marcello was more agile than he appeared. His palm was warm but dry, and after a gentle shake and a cordial nod, he wandered toward the nearest hall. Once he was gone, Nathaniel turned to Kenneth.

  “Is he always like that?”

  Kenneth sighed as if exhausted. “Trust me, usually he’s w
orse.”

  * * * * *

  “But it’s Sunday!”

  Nathaniel’s expression pleaded with Rebecca to be patient. She stood between him and the front door as if to prevent him leaving. “This is a big opportunity.”

  “I know, but we’ve hardly seen each other lately.”

  “We live together. Besides, you’re the one with so many extracurricular activities that you don’t get home until ten most nights.”

  “On the weekdays, but you’re right. I’m a horrible friend.”

  “You’re not. I’ll only be busy this weekend.” He grimaced. “And the next.”

  Rebecca put on her best pouty face. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you too. Now how do I look?”

  She straightened his tie, gave him a hug, and brushed at the crinkles in his suit. “Knock ’em dead.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Break a leg.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Kick their asses!”

  “Feeling violent?” Nathaniel asked, but he offered her a peck on the cheek on his way out the door. He was standing by his car when another pulled up beside it. Nathaniel glanced over and groaned.

  “Hey!” Caesar said, his head appearing over the roof of the car.

  “Didn’t you get my text?”

  “Yeah, but I thought we’d have time for… You know.”

  “We don’t.”

  Caesar closed the car door and walked over to him. “A kiss at least.”

  Nathaniel complied.

  “When will you be finished? We could—”

  “It’s going to be a long night. That’s what I was told.”

  “Oh.”

  Another sad face. Sometimes being loved was such a burden. Not that he would trade it for the world. An idea occurred to him. “Hop in your car and follow me.”

  Nathaniel drove to the nearest shopping center and pulled up to the liquor store. He motioned for Caesar to wait as he rushed inside. When he came out, he was carrying a bottle of wine. He got in the passenger seat of Caesar’s car and handed him the bottle.