“Sure, I’ll wait here. The gambling next door doesn’t have much appeal.”
“I figured as much. It’s hard to picture you chucking dice and yelling ‘Mama needs a brand new mink.’” While Chaz’s observation was essentially astute, Marta heard a backhanded compliment.
Chaz set the plate on the floor. “Man, this place could really hire a few more waiters.”
Marta smiled. “You’d better head over to the buffet table before the food’s gone. You know, now that you mention it, I think I’ll take a brisk tour through the casino. I won’t be but five minutes.”
“No rush. See you.” Chaz turned for the buffet.
5.
The deserted triangular foyer between banquet room crew talk and the neon enticements of the afterthought-sized casino contained a monitor bolted to the ceiling that advertised husband and wife country and western acts appearing next month in the hotel’s lounge—Doc and the Missus, The Petermanns, Jonny & July. Tan papered walls remained bare except for pioneer-style sconces and a poster announcing PPV fights; from it, a trio of surly tattooed bald white men glared thug challenges to onlookers. In one corner a pair of two-foot yuccas in pebble-effect plastic urns stood at opposing edges of a trickling fountain on whose cultured stone rim sat an empty wine glass containing a balled napkin.
Feeling a barely tepid curiosity cooling with each breath, Marta charged into the adjoining room. She viewed the loud decor as culturally threadbare, the climate profane, forced gaiety needful of an alcohol crutch. A chasm stood between the garish carpet beneath her feet and the affluent Monte Carlo sophistication of Bond film set casinos.
Further scrutiny revealed the enthralled faces and boisterous laughter looked authentic. Marta admitted that perhaps her personality lacked an essential something that prevented her from humming with the hopeful, nail-biting tremor of tossed dice, selected cards, and pressed buttons.
Whereas recklessness barely registered in the ranking of her daily traits, Marta predicted Chaz would take to gambling like the proverbial duck to water—the Brat Pack tie-in served as reason enough.
The meander was expedient—a circuit by noisy machines flashing lights of candy brightness and tight groups leaning into games. At one table, a groom hooted encouragement as his new wife breathed good luck on dice cupped in his hands.
As though secured within a spacesuit, Marta couldn’t breathe in the ebullient atmosphere. She studied the windowless room. From the piped-in muzak to the flashy neon- and brass-accented decor, gambling struck her as a spectacular void—bread and circuses—not to mention a costly waste of time.
Still, she mused, the history of letting loose made for a respectable volume. And an authority as reliable as Nietzsche had claimed there’d be no real art without chaotic irrationality. Perhaps my Dionysian rite should begin with the purchase of a lottery ticket one of these days, she thought, lips curving into a grin. Or not. Hope against hope, the whole enterprise—to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life—seemed so unreasonable, so wishful, and so ridiculous, but perhaps that was the point. Another time, another place, Marta thought. Steadfast—a nun at an orgy—she knew she could wait in vain here all night for the moment of her unfastening.
Pushing against an inbuilt aversion Marta veered toward an unused video slot machine at the end of a short aisle. She stood by two grey-haired women, sisters evidently, if not twins, and watched them insert tokens; as one pulled the lever the sibling gestured like an orchestral maestro—conjuring a charm for good luck.
When bounty failed to pour from the machine’s mouth, the duo switched roles. As the newly-appointed luck hunter, the other sister dispensed with hand movements altogether: “C’mon, you dang one-armed bandit, we’ve been at it all night.”
The women sat entranced, but they didn’t smile; huddled, both held straws in their fingers, replacing outlawed cigarettes with the nearest passable substitute. Marta wondered if their stance signaled territoriality: the machine’s luck belonged to them and no one else.
Marta slid a token into the slot. Pulling the lever she noticed a large raised lit lozenge near the place where other players had rested drinks: a start button. The lever had no real physical purpose—with guts entirely computerized, the machine’s arm offered comfort as decoration, a nostalgic emblem.
The device became animated with carnival lighting and the nerve-jangling clang of recorded bell noise during the ten-second interval that coloured images on virtual reels appeared to whir. When the unit returned to relative calm, Marta stared at twin cherries, a grimacing clam, and a can of spinach through square viewing ports. She’d lost, and grew aghast calculating how many dollars a player could lose in a single hour.
“Better luck next time,” the sisters chimed automatically.
Next time? Marta smiled politely, but received the encouragement critically, certain she’d never be part of this dire community and its textbook enabling. Preparing to insert another token, the canned spinach reel caught her eye. I ’yams whats I ams, and dats all that I ’yams, she thought, and nodded with approval at Popeye’s self-acceptance, the figure’s fundamental at-homeness.
“You know what, I think my luck has finally run out.” Marta wished to appear weary, as though gambling since breakfast. “Here are my tokens, ladies. Maybe you’ll strike it rich with them.”
“Why, aren’t you an absolute dear!” Twins definitely, Marta concluded, fondly calling up a Diane Arbus retrospective poster hanging back in the Dark Tower’s office.
Marta couldn’t help but hear surges of excited voices around the adjacent tables—unsure about the full range of games that the government allowed, she pictured blackjack and roulette. Freed of the gift tokens she felt no inclination to mill about and watch additional women and men—on a losing streak or on a roll—throw down cards and bless dice: she understood the gist of it.
Turning for the exit, she walked directly into Jake. His body was solid, as expected.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She stepped back and looked up.
“No worries. I was watching over your shoulder, so I was asking for it. That sucks, eh?”
“Pardon?”
“Gambling. I get the idea and the charge and all that shit, but c’mon everyone knows the cards are stacked against them. Me, if I’m going risk my ass for something, I gotta at least think there’s a good chance I’ll get what I want. Why bother otherwise?”
Marta, wondering about the man’s sudden volubility, noticed the tall drink in his grasp.
“We’re on the same page there.”
“I’m heading to the bar for a refill. Can I get you anything?”
“Thanks, but no. I think I’m going to make my way back to the banquet room.”
“Alright. Cheers.”
6.
Tipping his glass, Jake caught Marta’s eyes as she mimed a raised glass in reply. Self-righteous goody two-shoes, he thought.
One last vodka and tonic; he figured handling that would be no problem. He’d toss a double back and beg off, tell Lora that he’d done his part and that a headache demanded a quiet room.
Trailer park Xtina and the bush codgers tumbled into Jake’s consciousness as he strode toward the bar, insistent, like those Night of the Living Dead zombies once they’ve caught sight of living flesh. He swept the images aside, focussing on the drive ahead and the details of the morning’s flight.
7.
Chaz gnawed on a rib as Marta approached. “Hi Fido, how’s the grub?”
“Woof. You weren’t lying about five minutes, wow. It’s good, actually. I’m surprised. Buffets are wall-to-wall crapfests usually. So, was mini-Vegas really mini-Reno?”
“I’m not a great judge of character. You might like it, but it’s not my cup of tea.”
“I’ll check it out in a bit.”
“Okay.” Marta recognized the contribution of words intended
to pad a conversation thinning out.
“Are you planning on staying at this shindig for long?”
“I don’t think so. Do they usually last long?”
“Depends. I figure with the casino and bar within spitting distance of each other, some hardcore crew will be letting off steam for quite a while yet. A couple of teamsters dropped by the office earlier, though. They’re already loaded up and ready to hit the road.”
Marta stepped back from Chaz and looked around the room. “I’m not far behind them.”
“I could go back with you. If you’d like.”
“I’m fine, really. The quiet will do me good.” She wanted to say little else; she’d sound neurotic or silly growing serious and questioning as Chaz blithely chewed. “Enjoy yourself here. I’m planning to get up early anyway.”
“Okay, that’s cool.” Chaz reached out the plate as a waiter passed by. “Thanks, man. Hey, if I get back early enough I’ll drop by to say Hi. Maybe I’ll be loaded down with booty if Lady Luck’s good to me in the casino. You like mink?” Marta imagined the smiling ghost of Frank Sinatra watching over the scene.
“Gold bullion has some appeal, actually. Good luck then.” In lieu of an embrace she waved; slumbering, intuition hastened her in no direction.
8.
“Time for me to cut out,” Jake said. Antsy from shop talk and logistics with Lora and tired of Nicos crowding in, bleating about “inebriates” like a Prohibition-days do-gooder, or pointing out the endless faults of “this puny dime store Reno,” he craved a radical break. Also, the remaining advertised sources of entertainment looked verboten—Dallas-wannabe locals in tight Wranglers, their mates in satin blouses over push-up bras—exhausted, or never promising to begin with. “Should get back to my room and pack. The flight is at some godawful time in the morning.”
“Want me to track down Nicos?” Lora surveyed the crew clusters. “He’s sober as a judge and you’ve been putting back a few, I think.”
“I’m fine, mother.”
“Okay, you’re the boss. Just don’t expect me to haul your ass out of jail or identify remains later tonight. I need my beauty sleep. The phone will be shut off.”
“You’re all heart.” He swallowed the vodka and tonic—definitely the final one of the evening—in a gulp, and made for the casino exit.
“Give me a call from the airport, alright?”
“Of course, dear. Don’t stay out too late.”
9.
Marta smoothed the floral quilt until it stretched perfectly across the bed. Standing back, she judged the effect to be wrong—too neat—and produced the asymmetry of use with a swift tug. She’d like to be regarded as a respectful guest and, unaccountably, wanted Mrs. Simms to have evidence that she’d slept in the room. With the bed’s appearance for the morning departure set, Marta opened the front door and watched ungraceful moths fluttering near a fluorescent tube above.
In no rush to arrive home, she charted tomorrow’s drive as leisurely, even whimsical. She’d pull over whenever a roadside attraction proved alluring: the lake with the unearthly mineral crust, the Depression-era covered bridge painted an eye-searing orange, the riverside picnicking area opposite a gigantic rock from which risk-takers dove in summer months.
The nervous anticipation she’d carried in her midriff while driving into the Interior would have long since dispersed. Embarking on the inevitable katabasis, she’d signal right just past the Husky and see the fledgling orchards, once home to the Silver Sage Drive-In; perhaps she’d stop at the first look-out at the crest of the inaugural climb. Not expecting to return soon, she’d want to have the valley’s geography gel, to reset images held so long by imperfect memory that the edges had become blurred, the details scant or absent. Surveying the vista she’d breathe in an incense current of dust and withering vegetation; she might step over the guardrail and crouch to snap off sprigs from nearby sagebrush that would later perfume the car.
Leaning against the warm red surface of #10’s door, Marta envisioned the gradual change in landscape—from low-density single story outposts, valley-wide orchard swathes, and steep needle-thatched hills of pine to voracious, pulsating, multitudinous city: expanding grids of glass towers and invasive growth of rooftops from numberless residences, freeways of single-occupant vehicles barreling toward clogged overpasses and arterial roadways, pooling autumnal, then wintery rains preceded by urgent multimedia alerts—beware, beware—about incoming low-pressure systems and diluvian rainfall, competing herded black umbrellas with metal ribs delivering sharp pokes and bracing trickles of water, and crammed superheated buses of Bangkokian humidity to and from classrooms filled with slouched, keen, and indifferent students—their cell phones never out of reach—who would sit mutely, check Facebook statuses, or ask questions that could intrigue, challenge, exasperate, or infuriate.
The inordinate volume, strength, and velocity of the visual torrent was dizzying, overwhelming. In centuries past it might be called a sign from God, but despite the attractiveness of the idea Marta had no real faith in visions—if pressed for an explanation, she’d propose that Jean d’Arc had suffered from schizophrenia—and decided she preferred montage instead.
She paused, pensive, moths still on erratic orbits above.
Watching Koyaanisqatsi decades ago she’d been enraptured, convinced that the bombastic score and manic procession of slow-motion and time-lapse imagery declared something profound, ideas that could be keenly sensed but never adequately translated into mere words. Ineffable.
As another RV came into Marta’s field of vision, she marveled at the strange workings of the mind. How simple. Apparently she’d developed a smidgen of anxiousness about returning home. Eager to bring that to attention, one brain compartment had colluded with another, seizing on a vintage memory and casting it with relevant local details. Repurposing, she thought, that’s the word.
III
GASTOWN TO CHANAKYAPURI
With these facts bearing upon the behavior during the establishment of orientation before us, we may now well ask the question: how does the rat attain orientation?
—Harvey Carr and John B. Watson,
Orientation in the White Rat (1907)
POST-PRODUCTION
1.
Earth, the first projected image, floated colloidally in the infinite substance of space. Its frozen poles nudged the frame of the screen.
“Credits and other shit will be added later,” Chaz whispered to Marta. “This workprint isn’t the rough cut technically, but it’s not much past that stage.”
Jagged scars and scorch marks blemished the planet’s life-breeding hues. The camera zoomed in, passing through dingy clouds and ominous drifts of smoke before quickly cataloguing tourism brochure vistas from India, France, China, Russia, and the United States. A generic image procession—burned and crumpled architectural icons, miserable lines of refugees trudging blindly toward the mirage of safety, CGI blast craters, exploded military vehicles—hinted at battles fought and lost. Vignettes of hopelessness, the gloomy scenes announced a foolish wager in favour of humanity’s continued existence.
Marta chewed inside her lower lip. These dystopian vistas came from a lazy hand—not homage, not derivative, but virtual plagiarism, a compendium of notions shoplifted from a warehouse of historical film reels.
The title, in Star Wars yellow, replaced the camera’s dolorous globetrotting: Alien Advance. A second later, the final half materialized: Desert Assault.
A scrolling legend replaced the fading title—
CAMBRIDGE, ENGLAND 2091 AD
THE GLOBAL WAR BETWEEN HUMANITY AND THE KREPLON IMPERIUM HAS BEEN RAGING FOR DECADES, THE COST DEVASTATING. RIVERS AND SEAS POISONED, ENTIRE CITIES DEMOLISHED, AND HUMAN POPULATIONS DECIMATED, CIVILIZATION NOW STANDS ON THE BRINK OF A NEW DARK AGE.
DESPITE HEROIC EFFORTS, THE BEST MILITARY AND SCIENTIFIC MINDS HAVE
PROVEN NO MATCH FOR THE TECHNOLOGICAL SUPERIORITY OF THE KREPLON FORCE. FOR THE REMAINING HUMANS A SINGLE HOPE REMAINS: TO LOCATE AND DESTROY THE KREPLON PRIME NEST, THE PLACE WHERE THE KREPLON QUEEN ONCE DEPOSITED HER EGGS.
HAVING RISKED THEIR LIVES TO STUDY KREPLON REPRODUCTION SCIENTISTS BELIEVE THAT THE ENTIRE ALIEN ARMY WAS LAID BY A SINGLE QUEEN, WHO HAD ARRIVED SOMEWHERE ON EARTH CENTURIES BEFORE.
IF THE PRIME NEST CAN BE ELIMINATED, THE KREPLONS WILL HAVE NO MEANS TO REPLENISH THEIR NUMBERS, AND THE TIDE OF WAR WILL AT LAST TURN TO SAVE HUMANITY.
“What is this,” Marta whispered. “‘Kreplon Imperium?’”
“They’ve made some changes.”
“Oh, really, I hadn’t noticed.”
“I’ll explain later.”
The next scene depicted a litter-strewn pebbled walkway. As wind blew, the camera panned to a sign in front of a formerly august building, now smoke-streaked and fortified by razor wire, spiked metal barricades, and boarded-over windows: Cambridge University Main Library.
Marta recognized the facade. Belonging to a venerable library on campus and a two-minute walk from her office, the strangely hyperreal building had proven a versatile godsend to generations of production companies with specific exterior shot requirements, not to mention the university division responsible for come-study-here promotional materials. During Marta’s tenure, the library had played a posh Ivy League faculty club, the backdrop for athletic cheerleading practices at a state university in Memphis, laboratories specializing in misguided research (of the usual kinds: genetics, cybernetics, robotics, exobiology, virtual reality), and head offices of nefarious high-tech American corporations operating above the law. Marta felt confident that it had also served in dozens of feature films and television broadcasts she’d missed.
Marta puzzled over the dire scrolling legend. With the exception of battle strategy and weaponry design classes, choosing a major and fulfilling degree requirements while hostile extraterrestrials marauded—never mind running an entire university with the human race shuffling toward extinction—seemed counterintuitive. Where would the operating budget come from? What would anybody study and why? Surely seminar discussions of Jane Austen’s juvenilia and Plato’s cave allegory at a time of mass extinction would be decadently pointless activities, not to mention suicidal.
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