This Location of Unknown Possibilities

by Brett Josef Grubisic

  His mouth tasting of ocean, Jake returned to the desk. The lovelorn drunk had replied with a classic snapshot—halter top lifted at a house party—and, “k, but make it quik.” She listed the address and wrote, “u cant miss it.”

  2.

  Jake knew that five minutes of masturbation would snuff out the night’s compulsion. That practically always settled him. Even so, he couldn’t denying the supreme charge of watching himself sink to the hilt inside another warm body, and this chick’s assets—in photos at least—hadn’t sagged yet. And jack-ass go-for-it-ness—showing up at a red-flag location and seeing how it all played out—seldom failed to arouse. The unknowables, the strategizing, and the potent whiff of danger intermingling with the scent of victory: Jake imagined the primitive hunter brain whirring into wakefulness at the onset of each and every trek. Abiding by the law of hormones, he guessed. He’d be fighting Mother Nature by refusing the opportunity.

  He found the lake by the address of Gravol Xtina on a map. Convenient: it stood on the left side of the highway about half way between the production office and his swank bed and breakfast on the hill. “Couldn’t hurt to check it out,” Jake mumbled. While the laptop confirmed the address’ legitimacy, squinting at the screen couldn’t unearth a mobile home from amongst the satellite map’s blur of pixels.

  He tilted back on the chair and reached under his waistband. After a full day his junk was still passable, not yet tacky and ripe. He lifted his arm; the pits smelled okay too. He’d prefer to be freshly showered even though the Vaseux Lake skank could probably use a rinse as well. And if the deed proceeded as planned, inspecting his piece for a soapy fresh scent would be the least of her concerns: a randy goat, she’d be ready to go. That approach worked for him; small talk, dinner, flowers, compliments, and all of the usual suspects could be scrapped. It’d be hassle-free, instead, just like porn: get there, get on, get in, get off, go. He dabbed Terre on his neck. Just in case.

  Stuffing keys and phone into the messenger bag, Jake flicked off the desk light. 10:30: plenty of time to finish the job, grab a swim, and find enough sleep to play an A game in the morning.

  3.

  At this late hour driving felt impossibly rural, a mute vista from the past, expansive and as empty as the panoramas of Badlands; even the parking spaces on Main Street stood free, skittering tumbleweed and a silent hitched horse the only missing elements. Further on, no tourist traffic clogged the northbound highway. On the nameless flatland that emerged after the still plots of orchard, Jake swerved the Ford from one road shoulder to the other, enjoying the adolescent moment before the tragic action sequence—a sudden oncoming fast-moving semi, no time to swerve, head on crash—nudged him back to the proper side of the yellow line.

  The right hand high on his thigh teased his dick with warm proximity. He welcomed the sense of blood flowing and the start of an erection; he itched for release. Cock-proud, Jake was no stranger to semi-public j.o., putting on a show under a treed canopy in a park or near the shady trails where the beach butted into the forest. His policy: look but don’t touch unless a hot prospect changed his mind.

  The GPS chime—Jake had asked Lora to switch out the robotic voice—indicated a left turn onto a gravel road that he would have otherwise missed. He drove slowly, the angel on his shoulder whispering “Bad plan, Jakey boy” as it called up cautionary vignettes with a preacher’s ease.

  Halfway along the soft curve, Jake pulled over and snapped off the headlights. The problem stared him in the face: Xtina didn’t live alone; no solitary trailer parked there, enticingly anchored on a dry empty lot. Nor did the trailer belong to a bustling community where one vehicle arriving would catch no notice. Six single-wide trailers crowded together in the middle of an acreage of dried grass; one, three, and five sat unlit and sleepy. Pulling in front of the address couldn’t be inconspicuous; he’d draw prying eyes. Snuffing the lights and walking the distance? Maybe, but that had CSI episode written all over it. Or else, his visit would be nothing unusual; the neighbours would sigh or huff, “Christ, not again,” and roll their eyes, already too worn down by slutty Christina’s procession of gentlemen booty callers to pick up the phone or kick up a fuss.

  Outmanoeuvred, Jake thumped the steering wheel with his fist. Gunning the engine seemed apropos, but American bad ass wasn’t his thing. Door 1, 2, or 3? Door 4 rated as viable too: turn around and write off fifteen wasted minutes. His brain continued to fire off loser eventualities: an insomniac roommate, a kid asleep in a crib, a boyfriend foaming with jealousy, a protective dog, a visiting mother. Letting loose a frustrated snort, Jake said, “Looks like there’s no tasty treats for you tonight, buddy.” He unbuttoned his jeans and awkwardly coaxed them to mid-thigh. Lifting the T-shirt over his head, he tipped back the seat. Pent up and stretched out half-naked and semi-visible from the roadside, Jake could tell he’d shoot in no time. Closing his eyes, he returned to prone Xtina’s lifted skirt. She groaned, her sleep restless and bladder distended from beer. In the trailer’s solitary stillness Jake dragged his thumb from soft voluptuous oyster folds to a puckered hole whose coaxed elasticity welcomed penetration from a bigger implement.

  As predicted, he spewed after minimal strokes; opting for a bare-chested drive to Kaleden, he wiped off the results of the fantasy with his T-shirt.

  Only one light shone in any of the trailers when Jake shifted into reverse.

  REMOTE KINSHIP

  1.

  Despite a heavy dreamless sleep Marta arrived at Joan’s feeling bedraggled. Phones trilling, she scurried to the kitchen and mixed a sweet milky coffee, stirring the concoction with a melting Kit Kat finger.

  Marta bowed to Lora’s recommendation for the shift and continued to role play as Chaz’s sidekick. Outfoxed, feet dragging, and yet fence-sitting about returning to the city empty-handed, she oozed testiness despite feeling badly about the crash site blunder and vowing to mend fences. Early on Chaz quipped, “You’re my bitch today” and Marta’s mute disapproval had closed that avenue of banter and all other communication for several minutes. Firm lines must be drawn with this recalcitrant man-child, she reasoned, and if he wanted a helping of bitch she’d serve super-sized portions.

  Even with the unpromising start, the hours that followed were invigorating, if chaotic, like working at a fire station; at any moment a stretch of low-call-volume tedium could be interrupted by an emergency, an incoming request filled with complicated instructions, the fundamental point of which always sounded identical: Get it done now. During those frequent gofer trips—from the production office to main unit behind the Hebe farm, to second unit at the crash site, or to bigger towns north and south of Joan’s for supplies—Chaz charged ahead, a lively indispensable guide. At one lull as they waited for word from the director to emerge from video hut seclusion, Marta learned that the barking hands-on autocrat of her imagination overflowed with inaccuracies. Punctuating an explanation with snickers of disbelief, Chaz called her notion “a wee bit dusty, lassie.”

  As she watched the crew—who looked at ease with the rapid cycling between extremes: attentive with purpose, then slack, smoking, and lighthearted—and the glacial shooting of a single scene, Marta registered constant surprise, amazed that the actors could in fact inhabit a role with so much interference abounding. Desert sun, intrusive equipment, and a medieval village of crew confounded the mind, as did staccato cessations stemming from errors of lighting and sound quality, camera position, crew and performer gaffs, technical malfunctions, and directorial changes of heart. She’d never imagined a breeze could matter so much.

  Compared to stage actors, the imported talent here would find focussing difficult and maintaining the integrity of the role an apparent impossibility. These conditions helped explain why, Marta concluded, so many movies featured stars whose daily selves seemed inseparable from their character.

  At the Hebe set distractions sprouted with the resolve of weeds. The lin
es spoken, a pause of several minutes, a variation of those lines uttered again, the camera repositioned slightly, light or sound rechecked, a short conference between walkie-talkies, equipment adjusted, the line’s inflection modified, another line (flubbed this time), a second conference, laughter, walkie-talkie squawk, and then joking, lots of it, as though the crew milled about a faltering party that desperately required levity to revive: Marta thought halting progress placed an elegant facade on a blunt, onerous fact.

  Stationed far from the camera, Marta continued to watch after Chaz whispered a need for seclusion to take a call. Relieved the spoken lines remained more or less faithful to the page, Marta’s face also tightened with surprise and chagrin tracking the actor—pale, brown hair, English, unknown to her—whose handle on the character deviated so ludicrously wide of the mark.

  Over the scripts she’d read, earnest, pedantic, and faithful Dr. Meryon—historically real, though not a charismatic, movie-ready figure in the least—had become earnest, pedantic, and faithful Dr. Potter, Lady Stanhope’s foolish right-hand man of science; brought to life now on the flattened dry grass near Djoun’s entrance gate, the man’s dogged traits evaporated. A simpering, flamboyant airhead supplanted rational if lovestruck Potter.

  Marta knelt to the tote to confirm the misreading.

  CUT TO:

  INT. DJOUN - ENTRANCE GATE - DAY.

  DR. POTTER

  Sargon, dear boy, prepare two horses.

  Your Mistress, Lady Swinburne, and I wish to imbibe the flaming sunset from the ridge.

  SARGON

  Yes, sayedy.

  POTTER

  Make certain to brush the horses so that their coats have the luster of gold in the light.

  The actor’s initial improvisation threw in an abundance of fey gestures alongside the audible lisp—hand on hip, effeminate finger strokes to pat flanks of hair into place, and an off-script line, “Be a good boy,” followed by pursed lips and eyebrows arched in the shape of coolly sexual evaluation as the youth ambled away. In case anyone missed the obvious, the actor placed elongated stress on the “f” in “flaming,” the hiss of air leaking from a tire.

  Static noise burst from the Assistant Director’s walkie-talkie, the director on the other end, Marta presumed—“Dial it back already. He’s not Liberace, for Christ’s sake”—resulted in fresh crew joking and, for the actor, a fresh manly register as well as the loss of ad lib lines, implied pederast interest, and fussiness about hairstyle. The hand on hip persevered, though now rigid with martial intent.

  Before the scene wrapped Chaz whispered that he was gunning to leave. Northbound on the highway, he joked and guffawed, contented to field Marta’s question about the kitschy take on lovelorn Dr. Potter; he explained that they—the umbrella word referring to the production company, client network, and back-room deal-makers—had called for a comic relief character to balance out the sombre action. “Just ask Aristotle,” he said with a smirk, outlining how the rules of ancient literary convention required a smart ass or wimpy trembler to break the monotony of a pack of virtuous but humorless heroes.

  “I mean, think about it.” Chaz took a swig from a water bottle. “Let’s see, off the top of my head, the Cowardly Lion, Dr. Zachary Smith on Lost in Space, Count Baltar on Battlestar Galactica, I mean the original series from the seventies, the porky little sidekick of Frodo in Lord of the Rings, even that sleazy Company Man from Aliens, all cut from the same cloth. They’re there, spineless jokes, to put the heroism in relief, right; and good or bad, they usually show their gonads right at the end. And then the movie ends, and the hero doesn’t have to worry about the audience digging the wingman more than tall, dark, and handsome, who is, you gotta admit, a bit of a wet rag to hang out with when there’s no baddie to dispatch.”

  “But when the alien eventually kills this ridiculous version of Dr. Meryon, there’ll be no pay off, no emotional investment,” Marta replied.

  “Oh, there’s the big switch, right, when the character reforms; I haven’t read the script, but you watch: he’ll drop the fussy faggishness—pardon my French—but what else are you going to call it?”

  “Dandyism? Aestheticism?” Marta squeezed the passenger door grip. Driving with one hand resting atop the wheel, Chaz’s attention wandered restlessly.

  “Yeah, okay, whatever, Professor PC. Anyway. The Jesus-y self-sacrifice and redemption, that happens, but it doesn’t erase the fact that he’s been a total wanker up until then. He dies, for sure, but he’s redeemed himself—usually, kinda, sorta—with a scene of twenty-four carat heroism. The selfless act: one ticket to paradise. Not like anybody who’s watching it on a rainy Saturday afternoon gives it a second thought.

  “Like the Cowardly Lion, right, he’ll grow a pair.” Chaz swallowed in gulps. “Okay, that’s not exactly what happens with the lion, but it’s the gist. But then—in this case, an action movie has its own variation of the rules—he still has to die because he was such a weak asswipe before. He was a sinner, see, so has to pay the price, praise the lord. But with that last-minute transformation he realizes the error of his ways, so acts bravely. He goes to Valhalla, right; if he’d minced around ’til the end we’d known he’d burn instead.”

  “Or shiver, as the case may be. Don’t you think that’s reading into things a bit, professor?”

  “Oh, you’ve cut me to the core. Mind if I open the windows all the way?”

  “Sure.” Marta held up a thumb of approval. “Isn’t the writer outraged,” she asked, feeling empathy for the person whose storytelling might be the only facet keeping audiences awake. “I mean the liberties being taken with the original script are, well, exorbitant.”

  “‘The liberties’? Man, what century were you born in?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I can’t fathom whether ’is sensibilities was outraged by them lib’tees, Miss Austen,” Chaz tested out a spotty cockney. “It’s not like he’s here to protest. In fact, the guy’s probably already written a sequel and two other scripts since signing off on this one. The guy wants a pool or a new Beemer, not a grave next to Shakespeare or whatever. Anyone writing for TV, especially cable, knows the drill. Plus, if they’re not hacks already, then they have, um, lowered expectations. If they really want to make capital A art, they obviously won’t sell their precious baby to some crap heap production company responsible for Alien Implants 3 and Splendido, Inspired by the Harlequin Novel. I mean c’mon, get real. Gross.” He pointed to the roadside, where a pair of crows squabbled while hopping on a coyote carcass. “Vancouver’s famous for pot, right, but the city’s non-black market money-makers are dragons, robots, aliens, and superheroes, bargain basement cheap right through to big budget. You have no idea. It’s Porno Valley, only for sci-fi: spewed out formula year after year. Same for Toronto, only there they take on occult, cops, spies, um, oh yeah, chick flicks too. They compete, split mutants and Xmas movies down the middle; it’s like those gang bang movie chicks, Annabel Chong versus Jasmin St. Claire. And then, same as pot, it’s sold anywhere. If there’s a cable channel anyway.”

  “That’s quite the monologue.” Marta wanted to refocus the conversation. She’d missed half the references and couldn’t guess where Chaz’s tangents led. She posed another question. “So, obviously a serious writer would choose a different venue?”

  “Bingo. They’d find a way to get their masterpiece read by a mover and shaker, and that, as you might guess, is no small feat. Everybody and his dog is writing a script and thinks it’s going make it on the Black List and get the go ahead. Lottery tickets are a better bet.

  “Plus the pay’s good, right, so they’re happy to sell out. Fifteen grand, minimum. Not bad for a few weeks of typing, I mean toil. I met this guy who wrote a short story. Just one, right? Worked on it for, like, ever, sent it out, got rejections months later or no replies at all, worked on it some more and sent that version out,
eventually got paid. Three hundred bucks. If you broke that down into dollars per hour, you’d be looking at something like one-tenth of minimum wage, if that. Chump change, make more working at some Third World Nike plant. Christ!” Chaz blared the horn. “F-ing RVs.”

  “It’s not all about the pay cheque.” Marta knew the fraction would become smaller if applied to her first book: its sole royalty payment might have bought a dinner for two at Le Crocodile if she’d opted for a house wine and skimped on the tip.

  She guessed Chaz’s parental reply: “You can’t pay bills with artistic integrity.” He swerved to check for oncoming traffic. “Anyway, I’m thinking you’re mixing up Art and Commerce.”

  Chaz’s phone rang. “Right, okay, how soon?” He pulled over, craning to check for oncoming traffic. “Crap, I gotta switch lanes and drop you off at the office.”

  “The no cell phones while driving law is for other people, I take it?” Acclimating to Chaz’s driving style, Marta relaxed in the easygoing camaraderie—the banter sharp and stimulating but not mean—of the cab. Relieved, she sensed no aftermath to the gravel pit encounter. An onlooker would never guess what had transpired.

  “Yeah, that’s right. Rules, bending them, you know the drill.” He handed her the bottle. “Have some, you look thirsty.”

  2.

  While scrambling between telephones and labouring clerically alongside Lora at Joan’s, Marta grew resigned about the repurposing of the stay in the valley. Real movie-making possibilities presented lottery odds and there’d be no getting around that fact, Marta concluded as each hour passed. Production was a wound clock, she’d seen that; and with all the intersecting gears already screwed into place and set in motion, a role for her could only ever be minor. When her part in the metaphor refused to manifest, Marta dropped its pursuit. The obviousness of the predicament didn’t deserve a poet’s special treatment anyway.

  After Lora’s firm late night “No can do, sweetie” declarations and the unpersuasive wish upon a star note she’d concluded with, there’d been no mention of significant—or new—challenges for Marta. Consulting about this or that remained the hope, but once the secretarial assignments began, “Let’s see what happens” had metamorphosed into “Would you mind getting the phone?” Buried within the undertone: “Let’s never mention consulting again.” Reluctant to push and now fully cognizant of her non-unionized liminal ghostliness, Marta couldn’t summon the daring to campaign for under the table writing duties or propose other escape routes from dead-end Dickensian clerkdom. “No use in flogging a dead mule,” her father would say. For the interim she’d delight in the unabashed weirdness of the office—silly and uproarious when it wasn’t busy and tense—and lend a novice hand, become an assistant’s assistant and function as a semi-useful instrument, an intern without any big dreams of climbing the totem, or a constant need to impress difficult bosses. Experience itself, she recalled, had represented a philosophical call to arms once upon a time.