by Grant Ginder
FM: Can you be here the same time tomorrow?
RB: Yeah. Okay.
Interviewee:
Randal Baker
Interviewer:
Finn McPhee
Date:
June 13, 2015
Place:
Tempe, AZ
Transcriber:
Finn McPhee
FINN MCPHEE: Okay, go.
RANDAL BAKER: Wait, I have a question first.
FM: What?
RB: How’d you find this place, anyway?
FM: Some classified ad in the East Valley Tribune. There’s a company that rents out these suites by the hour.
RB: It’s sort of dreary, isn’t it? Grey chairs. That desk. The fluorescent lighting.
FM: You just think that because you’ve never worked in an actual office.
RB: Well, regardless, it was nice of you to come to Tempe.
FM: I was happy to. Besides, you refused to come to New York. (Pause) What’s that fucking smell?
RB: (Sighs) It’s me. It’s garlic.
FM: Why do you smell like that much garlic?
RB: Today, after I finished up my second shift at The Goddess Athena’s, I was changing out of my foustanella and into a pair of shorts when Mrs. Phan comes up to me and says, “You a Greek?” I tell her, “I’m a Jew.” “You cook Greek food?” “No, I don’t cook Greek food, because I’m a Jew.” “You make good tzatziki?” “No, I don’t make good tzatziki because I’m not Greek, I’m a Jew.” “You saying you a Jew?” “I’m saying I’m a Jew.” Then she just sort of squints at me while I’m zipping up my fly. And then she suddenly grabs my arm and drags me into the kitchen and goes, “It no matter. You all look the same anyway.”
FM: You do look a little Greek.
RB: Anyway. On top of clocking in double shifts, I’m now also helping out in the kitchen. Where, as I learned tonight, there are no actual Greeks. There’s a Mexican and an Italian and a pair of brothers from Portugal—but no Greeks. Mrs. Phan has got it in her head that she wants to unveil some new type of tzatziki for Tempe’s Taste of Greece festival, which is in four days, and so she’s got us all futzing around to create a new recipe. But the thing is, not a single one of these guys actually knows what he’s doing. Like, they know how to cook Greek food, but only the basics: they can skewer some souvlaki or layer some moussaka. But that’s it. When it comes to altering the original, everyone’s lost. The Mexican suggested we add melted queso, which was a total disaster.
FM: That sounds disgusting.
RB: The Italian stirred in a tablespoon of marinara, which was okay, but it really just made it taste like sour Thousand Island dressing. One of the Portuguese brothers asked me, “What is it that you can do?” “I can spread it on some challah.” The other brother said, “You will chop the garlic.” So that’s what I did, I chopped it for three fucking hours.
FM: That also explains why you’re late.
RB: Yes, it does.
FM: How is Dalloway?
RB: She’s fine. She’s coughing again, but I’m sure it’s just her allergies. There’s a lot of dust here. (Pause) Last night she brought me a dead snake.
FM: Really?
RB: Really.
FM: That’s awesome.
RB: I thought so, too.
FM: All right. So. Let’s talk about Pittsburgh.
RB: Okay.
FM: Because that’s where the editing really started.
RB: That’s not true. Yip was actually skinny, and the weather—it rained the whole time.
FM: Then the substantial editing.
RB: That’s true. Finding that empty lot where the house of records supposedly stood was a disaster.
FM: Talk about that.
RB: Basically, the taxi had to drive us around for hours as we looked for it. And trust me—there’s not some dearth of abandoned spaces in Pittsburgh; there’s plenty of them. Finn just had to find the perfect one. The one where he could fully imagine the house of records being. He’d make me jog out into the middle of each lot so he could get a sense of perspective. He’d yell, “You can see too many new condos in the background” and “That fence on the left side doesn’t make a lot of sense.” Then we’d get back in the cab and drive around some more.
FM: So, essentially, you were location scouting.
RB: That’s one way to put it. We were finding the best iteration of a story that was a lie in the first place. Another way to say it is that we were manufacturing memories. (Pause) What?
FM: Nothing. Why?
RB: You were doing that thing you do when you’re nervous. Where you claw at your thumb.
FM: Talk about Columbus.
RB: That wasn’t my finest hour.
FM: Talk about why.
RB: Okay. But there are some other things I want to mention first.
FM: Like what?
RB: Like, for example, how that goddamned car broke down twenty miles west of Pittsburgh.
FM: That was a nonissue. The whole thing took two hours, tops.
RB: Still, though. It happened, and you edited it out of the story you told. And you asked me to tell the truth during these interviews, so . . .
FM: (Pause) Fine. That’s fair. What else?
RB: How about how the car leaked? Which was terrible because, like I said, it rained most of the time. Both windows on the passenger side didn’t seal completely when they were closed. They sagged about half an inch below where they should have been. We tried stuffing various objects in the space in order to plug the leak—empty soda cups, our T-shirts, Finn’s head. Oh, come on. Don’t give me that look. I’m kidding. Anyway, none of it worked, so we drove across the country with puddles at our feet. That wasn’t fun.
FM: Can we get to Columbus now?
RB: There’s one more thing: Mrs. Dalloway didn’t just go ballistic for no reason. There was a bee in the car—a big one. And no one hates a bee like Dalloway.
FM: Noted. Now—Columbus.
RB: Columbus. Jesus Christ, Columbus. Okay. So there was an actual conference going on—but it was for pharmaceutical representatives, I think, not a medical supplies sales one. And I did score us an incredible rate on the hotel room, but it was at a Courtyard Marriott instead of a Hampton Inn. From what I understand, though, Hampton Inn was a sponsor of one of the festivals to which they were submitting Driver’s Education, and so it makes sense that Finn would want to give the company a shout-out.
FM: Incidentally, I’m also staying at one in Tempe.
RB: One what?
FM: At the Hampton Inn and Suites, a member of the Hilton family of hotels.
RB: Do you have to say it like that?
FM: They’re a sponsor. (Pause) Keep going.
RB: Okay. Finally, yes, there was a luau, which is where things may or may not have gone awry.
FM: Describe what happened.
RB: Well, we found Nancy Davenport in much the same way we found the lot in Pittsburgh—essentially, we cast her. We approached a dozen different girls who told us a dozen different stories. We’d spot them from across the room, wearing these pink leis and drinking mai tais. We’d ask them their names, their ages, their hometowns in a voice that was sort of interrogative, but mostly flirtatious. “What about that one?” I’d ask Finn when a girl had excused herself for a moment. “Her hair isn’t blond enough.” “Okay, then what about the one before her.” “She was from Boston.” “No one has to know that.” And then I remember he said, “I like the way you’re thinking, Randal. I like the way you’re thinking.”
FM: Talk about Nancy herself.
RB: To be honest, I can’t say that much about her. I spoke to her for a minute or two, but I lost you—them—both when they went out on the dance floor. By this point it was about ten o’clock and I had been decidedly overserved when it came to those mai tais. I don’t remember how many women my mother’s age I got inappropriate with, but it was definitely more than two. Possibly more than four. I took shots with them—mostly things
with awful names like Buttery Nipple. I found some younger men in the bathroom who were snorting lines of Adderall and I joined them, which is the reason I’ve come to believe we were, in fact, at a pharmaceutical sales representatives’ conference. I took more shots. I sang something by Cat Stevens at the karaoke booth and I might’ve started crying. (Pause) I’m proud of none of this.
FM: The karaoke is my favorite part.
RB: Do audiences really need to know about all that?
FM: Absolutely.
Interviewee:
Randal Baker
Interviewer:
Finn McPhee
Date:
June 14, 2015
Place:
Tempe, AZ
Transcriber:
Finn McPhee
RANDAL BAKER: Kali oreski!
FINN MCPHEE: You’re an hour late.
RB: That’s how you say “bon appétit” in Greek.
FM: Can you please just sit down so we can get started? We only have this room for another hour.
RB: I’m sitting, I’m sitting. Kali oreski! Mrs. Phan made all of us guys on the tzatziki team learn how to say it for the Taste of Greece festival.
FM: When is that again? I want to come.
RB: Tomorrow. The plan is that we’ll say it to each customer after we’ve given them a sample, which’ll give the whole affair an air of authenticity and elegance, I guess.
FM: How’s that whole thing going?
RB: We still haven’t come up with a recipe yet, but we’re definitely getting closer. Last night, we mixed in a pinch of piri piri, which is this spicy pepper that they use in Portuguese cuisine, and it gave the whole thing a nice kick. Mr. and Mrs. Phan are supposed to do a taste test tonight, but I’m going to miss it.
FM: Why?
RB: Because I’ve got to take Mrs. Dalloway to the vet.
FM: Wait, really? Is everything okay?
RB: I think so. (Pause) The thing is her cough just isn’t getting better, and now once in a while I’ll hear a little wheeze if she’s been running around. I mean I’m sure it’s nothing though, right? There are new sorts of plants out here and, like I said, there’s a lot of dust, and so I’m sure it’s just that. I’m sure it’s just allergies. I’m almost positive I’m overreacting. But it’s always better to be on the safe side, I think.
FM: Does she hate the vet?
RB: No. Actually, she loves it. There’s this little stuffed mouse they let her bat around, and they always shower her with treats.
FM: Keep me updated.
RB: I will.
FM: So—Chicago.
RB: Everything you see in the Chicago scene absolutely and positively happened. In a pressure-cooker scenario, I had the brilliant idea to forge Ernie Banks’s signature on that ball (and perfectly, I might add). I kept my cool, even in the treacherous presence of the Gangster. I bowled her over with my dashing charm and tall-dark-and-handsome looks. And when Dalloway’s life was in danger, I didn’t hesitate; I swept in like the hero I am and rescued her from the claws of inevitable doom.
FM: The whole point of this is for you to provide a truthful account of what happened.
RB: But I love that story.
FM: Tell me.
RB: Fine. The truth. There was a pizza place, and it was called The Gangster’s, but we really had no way of knowing if it was The Actual Gangster’s, if that makes sense. We weren’t allowed to bring the camera inside. We tried, but every time we were caught. So the physical details (the color of the tables, what was on the walls, etc.) probably aren’t all that accurate: I remember the place seeming a lot newer than how Finn’s made it out to be.
FM: And the bombshell?
RB: The Gangster herself didn’t exist—she’s a fantastic character, but she didn’t exist. Neither did the five hundredth home run ball. Or, of course the five hundredth home run ball existed, but certainly not there, in the middle of some pizza joint. From what I understand, when Banks cranked out that homer, the ball bounced off the foul line and fell into the bull pen—which is to say, no one ever really caught it in the first place. Not Finn’s granddad, not the Gangster’s father—no one. (Pause) But what sort of story is that?
FM: Indeed.
RB: I’d like to add that I did, though, win a baseball at the claw crane. And I did forge Ernie Banks’s autograph across its surface. That part is all true. “We’ll just show your granddad this,” I said to Finn. “We’ll rough it up a little bit, we’ll tell him it’s the five hundredth home run ball, the one he lost, and we’ll show him this.” “You think he’ll buy it?” “You’d know better than me. I mean, it’s not like the story actually happened, anyway. He’s just convinced himself that it did. But yeah—yeah, I think he’ll buy it.” (Pause) What?
FM: You don’t have to say it like that.
RB: Like what?
FM: You don’t have to make him sound like some goddamned lunatic.
RB: I was just—
FM: I think we’ve got enough for the day.
RB: Finn—
FM: We’re done.
RB: Come on. That’s it?
FM: We don’t have any more time. Because you were late. We’ll continue tomorrow.
RB: You’ll be at the Taste of Greece festival? (Pause) Right?
FM: Yes. I’ll be there.
Interviewee:
Randal Baker
Interviewer:
Finn McPhee
Date:
June 15, 2015
Place:
Tempe, AZ
Transcriber:
Finn McPhee
RANDAL BAKER: That was a disaster.
FINN MCPHEE: Such a fucking disaster.
RB: How is your tongue?
FM: It’s burnt, but it’ll be okay.
RB: I doubt the ouzo helped.
FM: It was the only thing around. Jesus Christ, my mouth is still on fire. (Pause) Why don’t you talk about what happened.
RB: (Sighs) The Taste of Greece festival was this afternoon. For the first forty-five minutes, everything was going well. Our tzatziki was a hit—people were literally forming lines thirty yards long to get a sample of it. Which is sort of where the problem started. One of the Portuguese brothers asked if I could take over his role chopping up the piri piri so he could focus on skinning more cucumbers. I told him fine, even though I had no idea how much piri piri the new recipe called for. I just kept chopping and chopping and adding and mixing.
FM: Your first clue should’ve been that people started sweating when they looked at it. Their faces turned red without even tasting it.
RB: I heard someone say it tasted like habanero sauce on crack.
FM: That’s an understatement. I still feel like there are firecrackers on my gums. And it’s not like it’s not hot as balls outside, anyway.
RB: People kept having to run to the Greek lemonade booth—
FM: Which is ridiculous, because Greeks didn’t invent lemonade.
RB:—and then when there was no more lemonade, they had to run to the ouzo booth. (Pause) I saw a mother give her daughter two shots of ouzo just so she’d stop crying. I feel terrible.
FM: Do you still have your job?
RB: Surprisingly, yes. The Goddess Athena’s scored third place in the tzatziki competition.
FM: But there were only five teams.
RB: Mrs. Phan doesn’t really care about things like that. (Pause) You’re still sweating.
FM: I know I am, okay? Talk about something else. Talk about Buford.
RB: Oh, Buford was weird, all right. But that guy—the one who played the mayor of Buford in the film—he wasn’t anything like—
(Mobile phone rings)
FM: Is that your phone?
RB: Yeah. Sorry. I thought I turned it off. (Pause) It’s the vet.
FM: Mrs. Dalloway didn’t come home last night?
RB: They asked if she could stay over so they could keep an eye on her. I have to go. I have to take this.
FM: Can you
do it here? Can I film it?
RB: Turn that fucking camera off.
Interviewee:
Randal Baker
Interviewer:
Finn McPhee
Date:
June 18, 2015
Place:
Tempe, AZ
Transcriber:
Finn McPhee
FINN MCPHEE: I’ve been trying to get hold of you for two days.
RANDAL BAKER: I wasn’t here.
FM: Where did you go?
RB: I was camping near Alamo Lake.
FM: Why?
RB: You know why.
FM: I need for you to explain it.
RB: Because I like it up there. (Pause) I needed to spread her ashes.
FM: What happened at the vet’s office?
RB: They told me she was coughing because of the tuberculosis. That the tuberculosis had returned. Or that it never really cleared up. I don’t know. Her breathing was getting shallow and they were concerned, so they started her on a medication. I guess she was allergic to it. (Pause) And that was it.
FM: Did you get there in time?
RB: No.
FM: I’m sorry. (Pause) Randal? Are you okay?
RB: She was just a cat.
FM: We don’t have to do this right now. We can do this later.
RB: She was just a cat, I said.
FM: I’m serious.
RB: We could have flown.
FM: What?
RB: After your father called about your granddad’s third stroke—we could have flown.
FM: Finn’s granddad. Please say Finn’s granddad.
RB: And we should have flown. You knew there wasn’t a lot of time. We should’ve parked the car in a garage in Iowa City and booked a flight, instead of spending half a day crossing Nebraska and getting stuck in Wyoming.
FM: Do you think you’re maybe projecting right now?
RB: Every time I suggested it, though, you just became more adamant about driving.
FM: I was asked to get Lucy to California.
RB: But still. Do you know how frustrating that was at the time? And also heartbreaking? It was like you had convinced yourself that so long as you could keep Lucy on the road you’d be able to keep the old man alive. That basically our driving—our reliving and recreating your granddad’s stories—was keeping the reality of his death at bay.