This Location of Unknown Possibilities

by Brett Josef Grubisic

  “So, what’s going on with you and the egghead?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean.”

  “What’s this,” Nicos said. “A showmance?”

  “Showmance? Christ, do real people say that? I thought that was reserved for reality TV dregs.”

  “What’s your problem, man? You’ve been crapping on everybody all day.”

  “My problem, man—” Jake’s mouth gaped, an answer caught between brain and larynx. The truth—“I’m tired and pent up and frustrated because I have not gotten laid despite the fact that I have literally walked for miles in fricking desert sand looking for it like some deranged bible prophet and the closest I got was in that trailer park we just passed by and a campground back a few kliks, where I could have gotten a sloppy blow job at midnight from a troll cupping a set of dentures in his palm”—belonged in a locked vault. Nothing else clever and foe-demolishing came to mind, and he couldn’t smile away Nicos’s charge. “How many years have you been in this business, Nicos? I mean, c’mon. A short-tempered boss can’t be news to you, so enough with the ragging and cut me some slack. It’s the last day of the shoot, do I really need to say more? So sorry, okay? Just give it a rest. How about I buy you guys a beer”—Jake remembered Nicos’s stream of declarations about sobriety—“or whatever. There’s a beer parlour just down the street from the office.”

  “A tavern.” Nicos said. “Really? I didn’t see one.”

  “Yeah, really. It’s there. And technically it’s a beer parlour because we’re in Canada, not the U S of A, eh.”

  “Jeez, okay, professor.”

  “A beer sounds great, Jake,” Chaz said.

  “Head there now?” Nicos said.

  “No, slack ass. We’ll do the Hebe place first. I can be in and out in ten minutes.”

  “Okay, boss, whatever you say.” Nicos accelerated.

  “We’re good?” Jake studied trees, guessing at what fruit they would bear.

  Nicos focussed on the highway. “It’s history.”

  Jake nodded. The past behind them, order restored.

  5.

  Marta pruned the contents of the inbox listlessly and overheard Lora making arrangements with her boyfriend for airport pickup—detailed and repeated, as though instructions for a child: “Okay, okay, good, now just tell me exactly what you’ve written down on the pad.” Marta realized the email make-work project disguised unconscious dawdling. After all, hours stretched until the second—and, this round, surely successful—wrap party of her life began, and since both cruising up and down the valley in search of purpose and perspiring while staring at daytime TV in #10 ranked as equally unappealing, killing time claimed the lead.

  Being candid, though, she recognized the excuse beneath the empty hours rationale. Chaz’s return and the inevitable conversation pressed on her mind; she’d noticed her eyes flitting toward the front of Joan’s each time a shadowy form passed by. Nesting already, she thought with disdain. Really, no different than a caterpillar entering chrysalis? Just like that, hapless in the face of ancient, fundamental biological imperatives, the cocoon-spinning begins? As she sat at a desk making plans, had microcellular processes begun—neurons activating and chemical instructions racing through arteries and creeping into organs, all aiming to direct actions and assure species continuance? Was she no different than a marionette?

  Men kiss in order obtain sex, while women do so to evaluate potential mates; this factoid her brother had touted last Christmas, taking a digression from justifying the breakup of a twenty three-month second marriage to unsympathetic familial ears. “Is that a fact, Mr. Science.” Marta’s doubtful tongue poised readily with counter-arguments.

  “Yup, it’s a fact, proven in controlled lab conditions.”

  “And I suppose infidelity with your secretary can also be explained away in a lab,” Marta said, always the able cross-examiner to Les’ fumbling testifying witness.

  “Ka-pow! She’s got you on the ropes,” Dianne said.

  “Now, now, you two.” Their father’s placating caught no one off guard; he’d long played the impartial referee to Dianne’s knee-jerk instigator. The George and Dianne Speck Show: a long-running family joke.

  No, Marta decided. She desired a clarifying exchange and, as Lora would say, needed to tie up loose ends. Biochemical ulterior motives didn’t come into the picture. Really, who wouldn’t want illumination?

  “Lora,” Marta shouted, “when are we expecting Jake and Chaz?”

  “Just a sec, honey,” Lora barked from Jake’s desk. “Believe it or not, I’m on hold. Really, I do not ever want an answer to the question, ‘Dear God, how much of my adult life has been spent on hold?’” She stood before Marta’s desk a minute later. “You were saying?”

  “Oh, Jake and Chaz, when do you expect them to return?” Marta had clicked off the computer and tidied papers. With the desk’s surface in order, she’d have no reason to linger.

  “To be honest, I expected them by now. Jake said an hour, right?” Lora sipped from the lidded coffee cup. “Christ, that’s hot. I dunno, could be they’re off drinking somewhere dark and dirty. Men like their brass poles and exotic entertainment. Wouldn’t be the first time. You can always text if there’s something important. Is there?”

  “It’s nothing. Actually, I guess I’ll see everyone at the party.”

  “I’ll let Chaz know where you are, if you’d like that.” Lora winked.

  “That’s not necessary, but thank you.” She surveyed the dingy room. “Okay, I’ve done all I can do here, so I’m going to, well, I’m not quite sure what yet. Float where the winds take me?”

  “Sounds like a plan. We’ll see you in a few hours, okay?” Lora’s cellphone trilled from the back of the room. “And there’s my cue.”

  “See you later.” Marta walked to the computer at Lora’s desk and typed an email to Chaz: “Need a lift to the wrap party? I’ll be at the Star-Lite until then.”

  6.

  Before returning to #10, Marta dropped by the front desk to remind Mrs. Simms about the morning check-out, the visit a formality since the production company footed the bill. Still, it couldn’t hurt to double-check; perhaps the contract excluded calls.

  “We’ll miss you,” Mrs Simms said. “I wish all my guests were as quiet as you movie people.”

  Counting the red doors en route to the room, Marta thought about souvenir options for her family. She struck fruit off the list—too perishable, and delivery would push her into an unscheduled early summer visit. Ordinarily wine made for a reasonable generic choice—but her parents, practically teetotalers, would say obligatory thank yous and stow the bottle away indefinitely; and Les already drank too avidly. A jpeg, she thought: easy, inexpensive, novel, efficient. No one had mentioned setting aside time for a group crew photo at the crash site or at Djoun. She’d find out later. Lora, the queen of details, must have arranged documentation of the shoot. When Luna arrived at the party Marta would ask for a memento, and email the shot with the tie-in story once comfortably ensconced in Vancouver.

  With luck, a new photograph would inspire Dianne to remove one of four variation on a theme cap-and-gown snapshots of Marta in the living room’s digital photo frame. Their sameness might lead a casual viewer to conclude, based on available evidence, that the only daughter of the Specks had disappeared mysteriously—along with a promising career—on the afternoon of her final graduation ceremony.

  Marta shut the door after the breeze had swept out the room’s stale air. The cavernous stillness encouraged her to stretch out with closed eyes. Marta didn’t expect to nap. Instead, she’d use the time to organize and prioritize—summer’s writing and research schedule needed to be pieced together, as did preparative reading for autumn’s graduate seminar. She decided those details couldn’t be mapped without a notepad and a
calendar, and turned to the Holiday Archetype Personality sequel. The publisher’s proposal had gnawed since the email at Joan’s.

  “A companion volume does not serve my interests at this time, thank you”: she knew the intelligent and unequivocal response to compose. Still, Marta’s mind circled the offer. Her own ethical core demanded to be swayed, a compelling justification outlined and proposed. If the first effort had been more or less successfully rationalized as an experiment—a series of experiments, to be accurate—the next one required stronger logic and allowed for fewer permissions; she’d slump, feeling miserable, if pursuing a follow-up volume, an exercise in advanced cynicism featuring a sad grab for petty cash and pitiful and anonymous demi-celebrity that would also look like a finger of self-accusation.

  And if improving creative reach or pursuing fame or dabbling with alter-egos truly named her fundamental goal, then she ought to evolve and try for something else. Larger too: a serious work of realist fiction, perhaps, or complex allusive verse sent to small-circulation literary journals. Or, admitting multiplex-or-bust motives, then why not a genre exercise, Angel V: The Return of the Killer? Chaz would say, “Go for it!”

  For the grand experiment that included Sadie Lighbody’s HAP to have further value, only full committal made sense—“Go big or go home,” as she’d heard Jake declare?

  Marta opened her eyes. The hour for that decision could be postponed indefinitely. Sadie, a junior member of Apate+Global’s stable of financial gurus, psychics, dietitians, and self-help royalty, lacked status; and in light of total sales figures, Marta guessed, she stood a hair’s breadth from never being contacted again. Not one of A+G’s cadre of publicists stored either Marta or Sadie on speed dial.

  Unable to resist dwelling on worrisome details, Marta recalled that the crew—and their girlfriends in particular—had appeared decked out for the wrap party she’d attended in the city years ago. A suitcase inventory revealed no suitable cocktail party items in reach; still, she felt sure that the location shoot’s party would be wall-to-wall T-shirts and jeans: “Come as you are” did imply informal attire. No alternatives sprang to mind; the valley towns were no fashion meccas, and purchasing anything she’d wear exactly once meant wasted money. Another party, glitzy and cosmopolitan, might be in the works for the city once all the studio work ceased. She’d ask Lora.

  Marta sat up, any hint of relaxation or refreshment scattered; she’d practically fallen into a chagrined dream as soon as her lids joined. The radio alarm clock informed her of slow-running time and that remaining penned up in the room served only as an invitation to fret. Picturing herself behind the wheel of the rental, Marta reached for the keys. For Chaz she’d leave a note under his door—the corner unit a refuge for which he’d offered no walk-through—before sliding into the driver’s seat.

  She signaled right at the highway for no other reason than she’d be turning left later for the casino party. This is the last of my workation, she thought, whither shall I wander? Sentimentality, a personality aspect that usually lay dormant, whispered about the windmill ice cream shop that she’d visited before the hairpin turns to Anarchist’s lookout.

  Lactose intolerance be damned, Marta ordered two scoops—one chocolate, one vanilla: the unwavering choice for childhood visits—and scrutinized the vineyards, tenacious grasses, and sage on the tawny hills above while seated atop a shaded picnic table. Lines of vacationing vehicles and squabbling families, the other immediate views today as with yesteryear, would have ruined the moment.

  WRAP

  1.

  Marta stood a few paces from a round curtained table set with plates and cutlery. After striding though the hotel’s lobby—a boxy affair countrified with a deer antler chandelier and rustic-effect lampshades with visible stitching—at twenty minutes past the time printed on the invitation, she’d been chagrined to enter a hall populated with meagre pockets of crew. The majority arrived a half hour later, and she now watched the rhythmic convergence and dispersal of these small groups near the banquet room’s centre.

  The multipurpose space adjacent to the casino that Lora had booked presented its occupants with architectural clip art—a standard rectangle featuring painted metal fire doors and perpetually lit Exits on two opposing walls, the room was papered pinky-beige and carpeted with an unobtrusive pattern. It could be anywhere, as though such rooms, like the pie Marta had ordered at the Husky, came pre-fabricated from one warehouse in a flat manufacturing hub. At conferences in Boise, Orlando, Toronto, Vancouver, and Dallas, Marta had stood in near-xeroxes of the venue; and while attending Les’ two wedding receptions, she’d scooped up lasagna from identical steel trays set on buffets skirted with spill-resistant nylon fabrics in soft tints that blended with the domesticated pastel of the walls.

  “Ghastly, isn’t it,” Lora said. She’d slipped on a fresh camouflage T-shirt; the v-neck offered viewers clearly displayed Points of Interest. “It’s like a crime scene: the mother of the bride exploded. We should alert the local CSI.”

  2.

  Nicos arrived with Jake and toasted the clique with a bottle of Perrier. “All hope abandon, ye who enter in. And, folks, remember the motto of this place: ‘Know Your Limit, Play Within It.’”

  Marta tracked the Location Manager’s weaving. He marched up to another departmental klatch, and raised the green vessel for an identically foreboding toast. “My, what is that about? The rancorous witch in Sleeping Beauty could be his ancestor.”

  “All I’ll say is somebody, no names, had a little problem with online gambling a few years back,” Lora said, leaning close, hand cupped close to Marta’s ear.

  “And booze too.” Jake opted against Lora’s low decibels. “Now’s he’s got the born-again bug, big time.” He held up a highball glass and rattled the ice.

  “Oh, I see.”

  “And here’s to getting the hell out of Dodge.” The others touched their glasses to his.

  Marta, familiar with the easy smile—wide, baring dentist-straightened polar drift teeth—saw little humour in eyes that swept the half-circle of crew before terminating at an Exit’s red glow.

  3.

  Marta spotted Luna, who cut through the crowd with Lornette trailing a step behind. She waved them over. “You made it.” In flip flops, a short denim skirt, and a black T-shirt, Luna hadn’t bothered to dress up, but Marta noticed that her sidekick, in tendrils and tiers, could pass for Loretta Lynn attending a prom.

  “Yeah. I’m not keen on parties, but ‘bite the hand that feeds you’ and all that,” Luna said, fingers quoting. “Besides, Miss National Enquirer here wanted to snap some celebrities.”

  “Oh, shut up, you.” Lornette turned to Marta, “This is a fancy spread.”

  “Yes, it’s not bad. There’s a good chance that most actors will opt out of the party.”

  “Oh. I guess they’re itching to get away from country living.”

  “That may well be. Luna, I asked Lora to take a picture when she saw us.” Marta spied the room for a suitable location. “I’m guessing that you’re not at all shy in front of a camera.”

  “A picture would be great. Something to pin up at the O-K and show off to the regulars after the hubbub dies down.”

  “As if, Luna,” Lornette said. “You wait and see, they’ll be fighting each other to get you into their movies.”

  “I dunno, the O-K’s not so bad.”

  “Hmm, let’s see,” Lornette displayed her open palms as a mock-scale, “a limousine and driver or twenty-five cent tips during the breakfast rush? Like there’s any comparison!”

  “What limousine?”

  “Say ‘Djoun’ everybody,” Lora said. The camera’s screen provoked a frown. “Okay, once more, but this time keep your eyes open, my dears.”

  4.

  “Well,” Lora said, “was all this movie stuff what you expected?”

  “It was and it wasn
’t,” Marta said. “Sorry for the politician’s answer.”

  “No problem. I take it you’re not ready for a change in career?”

  “A change in scenery was what I needed. I guess.”

  Lora reached for her phone. “His Nibs demands an audience. Pick this up after my tour of duty?”

  “Sure, that’ll be fine.”

  “Hey guys.” Chaz held a plate and a highball glass; he bent forward in a flourish and achieved the semblance of a bow-curtsy. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m about to track down Jake, then I’m going to gamble away the futures of my unborn children,” Lora said. “You’re here sooner than expected.”

  “No problemo, not a hitch, everything just fell into place, and we’re set to go.”

  “Impressive, miracles never cease! I’m off, ladies, wish me luck.”

  “I’ll see you in there,” Marta said. “I need to finish this lasagna first.” She’d have to turn over the remaining waterlogged noodles to one of the servers or, failing that, maroon the plate on a nearby table. Catering staff witnessed all species of slovenly manners at these events, Marta had noted, and opted to wait for a server instead of contributing an anecdote to an after-shift bitch session.

  “Hasta pronto,” Chaz said. “That’s it for you? I’m thinking second helpings for me.”

  “I had a late lunch.” Marta’s habitual white lie came out easier than exposing a judicious diet others might categorize as finicky and high maintenance; and by now Chaz was partially up to speed and ready with Princess Pea quips.

  “That was quite a long day, eh?”

  “Yes, it was that. I’ve begun to get used to them. In another week I’d be a veteran.”

  “Can you hold on here a sec? I wasn’t joking about the second helping. I’m starved. Jake kept us at his beck and call all bloody day and then thought a pint would smooth over the slave driving and assholery.”