A Perfect Universe

by Scott O'Connor

  Reporting about someone you know who has the same problems you do.

  While it was happening.

  Connie nods.

  It felt like I was betraying him, the Traffic Guy says. Honestly, at first, I wanted him to get away. I felt like, somehow, if he got away then it wouldn’t be so bad. That what he did wouldn’t seem so bad. But everybody back in the studio, the anchors and producers were all so disgusted by him, by what he had done, and they were rooting for the cops so I started rooting for the cops, too. I felt like shit for wanting him to get away. Like that made me just as bad as he was. I got so upset they had to mute me. I hope they get that fucker, I said. It almost got on the air.

  Everyone’s agitated in the cafeteria. The story has charged the room. Luis should have been caught, but he shouldn’t have been caught. I should have been caught, but I shouldn’t have been caught. No one wants to be on TV, running from the cops. No one wants to be the thing people watch in the morning as they get ready for work.

  Connie says, What are you all doing to make sure this doesn’t happen to you? Her voice is shaking and that adds to the agitation.

  This is important, she says. We’re going around the room and you tell me what you’re doing.

  The middle manager guy says, I’m writing in my notebook.

  The Traffic Guy says, I’m writing in my notebook.

  Fabio says, I’m writing in my notebook.

  Spooked. Everybody’s spooked. Everybody waves their notebooks in the air, warding it off, keeping it away.

  Grandma knew what to do, when I got in the red. Grandma knew what to do and then the fall in the shower and then the home.

  Deb knew what to do. Deb knew what to do and then of course she didn’t.

  I’m writing in my notebook, we say, waving them in the air. I’m writing in my notebook, I’m writing in my notebook.

  * * *

  I’m writing in my notebook. I wanted to watch Collectors’ Corner, but the cable is out. Sometimes it gets so hot in the summer that the TV just takes a shit. That and I keep finding Deb’s long black hairs on the pillowcases, so I went out onto the porch and started writing in my notebook. Just stupid shit about the day, watching the late night cars speed across the freeway overpass, trying to remember what I’d been doing this morning when Luis had passed over it getting chased by the cops.

  We have Jonas on the line from Los Angeles. Hello, Jonas.

  Hey, Brian.

  Having a good night, I hope.

  I’ve had better.

  I know the feeling.

  My TV’s out.

  How are you watching the show?

  I’m not. I’m out on my porch.

  Getting some air.

  I guess so.

  Well, we’ve got bears tonight, Jonas.

  Bears.

  They’re authentic Star Trek bears. Hand-molded ceramic. They’re costumed like Captain Kirk, Spock, the whole crew.

  I want to hang up. Through the screen door, I can see Deb’s bears on their shelf in the living room.

  Instead, I say, I have some of those bears already.

  Brian says, You have the Star Trek bears?

  No, they’re different bears.

  Well these bears are brand new, Jonas. Just released. The whole Star Trek crew.

  How do they look?

  Oh, they look great, Jonas. They have a lot of personality.

  After a second, I say, Okay, I’ll order one.

  Which one?

  You pick, Brian. Whichever one you think.

  I’ll do that, Jonas. I’ll put you on with an operator. Have a good night.

  Brian.

  Yes?

  When I’m waiting for an operator, they play your show instead of music.

  Yes, they do.

  Could someone keep me on hold for the rest of the show, seeing as my TV’s on the fritz?

  I don’t see why not, Jonas. I think that can be arranged.

  Okay. Thanks.

  Thank you, Jonas. Stay with us.

  * * *

  But sometimes, the Traffic Guy says, you have to do something. Sometimes a response is called for.

  But not a violent response, Connie says. There’s always another way.

  Not always.

  Yes, always. A violent response just leads to another violent response.

  The Traffic Guy really has a bug up his ass tonight. What is this? he says. The Cycle of Violence?

  That’s one name for it.

  I’ve heard it a million times. Breaking the Cycle of Violence.

  A police siren, out of nowhere, the sound smearing as it passes the cafeteria. Everybody flinches except Connie.

  Sometimes, Connie says, you hear things a million times because they’re true.

  Sometimes, the Traffic Guy says, you hear things a million times because they’re bullshit.

  Hey man calm down, the middle manager says.

  Don’t tell me to calm down. He looks back at Connie. What if you’re in a fight, he says. Somebody attacks you and you do nothing. You stand and get pummeled. You stand and get killed.

  You want to fight back.

  Fuck yes, the Traffic Guy says. You have to defend yourself.

  None of you are here for defending yourselves, Connie says.

  Another siren through the open windows, front of the room to the back.

  Fuck you, Connie.

  I will ask you to leave.

  For speaking my mind.

  For speaking your mind in an abusive manner I will ask you to leave.

  I apologize.

  Don’t patronize me.

  I fucking apologize, Miss Connie. Miss Perfect Connie. I am so sorry.

  Leave.

  I’m leaving.

  Leave.

  * * *

  The night after Deb left, her dad showed up at the house. It was about three in the morning and I heard someone shouting from the front lawn so I went out onto the porch and it was Deb’s dad. He was standing on the other side of the fence yelling at the house. Come out here you son of a bitch. Come out here you batterer. He looked pretty ridiculous, this old guy standing there in a golf shirt and shorts with his socks pulled up to his knees, yelling at the house.

  Go home, I said. You don’t know what you’re talking about.

  You son of a bitch, he said. I know what I’m talking about. I’m talking about her face. What you did to her face.

  I didn’t do nothing to her face.

  You son of a bitch.

  He pulled open the gate and ran up the walkway, onto the porch, took a swing. He missed by a mile and I pushed him back, sprawling onto the lawn in his golf shirt and shorts and socks. Three o’clock in the morning. Some old man lying in the dirt, breath knocked out of him, looking like he was going to cry.

  That’s my little girl you son of a bitch and if you ever go near her again I’ll kill you.

  He got up and limped back to his car. I got a beer out of the fridge and sat on the porch and drank. I was really in the red then. If I’d had my notebook then, I would have written down that I wanted to kill Deb’s dad. And I would have drawn a line and written that the reason I wanted to kill him was because I would have done the same thing if I were him and some fucking monster had done that to my little girl’s perfect face.

  * * *

  When I get home from work, the first thing I notice is that no one’s stolen the TV from the front porch yet. The second thing I notice is a padded envelope by the door. I don’t even wait to go inside. I turn on the porch light and open the envelope.

  There it is, the “Bones” McCoy bear. Hand-molded ceramic. Holding a small medicine vial in one paw, squinting at the liquid inside.

  The phone rings. I unlock the door and go in.

  Someone whispering on the phone, Turn on your TV. Turn on your TV to Channel Four.

  Who is this?

  This is Bob Shed. Turn on your TV to Channel Four. I’m calling everyone.

  Who’s Bob Shed? />
  From the class, he says. Bob Shed from the class. I sit behind where Luis used to sit.

  The middle manager guy.

  What’s on Channel Four? I say.

  Just turn it on and you’ll see.

  I pull the phone cord out onto the porch and turn on the TV. Brian Lang is holding up an autographed poster from the TV show Quantum Leap. I turn to Channel Four.

  There’s a helicopter shot of a pretty nice-looking house, Beverly Hills or Bel Air or somewhere. A spotlight from another helicopter, a police helicopter, moves back and forth across the front lawn and roof of the house. Squad cars block the street, a couple of cops stand in the driveway pointing their guns. The Traffic Guy’s kneeling in front of the house, hands in the air. The graphic on the bottom of the screen says Breaking News.

  Do you see it? Bob Shed says.

  I see it, I say. I see it.

  There was a standoff, he says. He was in there with his wife and daughter and a handgun. The daughter’s like six years old. That’s his own traffic copter filming that shot.

  I feel like I’m going to be sick. I don’t say this to Bob Shed, but I feel it.

  I can’t believe it, Bob Shed says. That’s two of us in two weeks. Who’s next, do you think? Who’s going to be next?

  I’ve got to go, I say.

  Me too, Bob Shed says. I’ve got to call the rest of the class.

  On the TV, the cops have the Traffic Guy lying face-down on his porch, hands behind his head. One cop’s got his knee in the Traffic Guy’s back while another cop cuffs him. The wife and daughter come out of the house and a cop pulls a blanket over their shoulders and leads them to a squad car. Big group of neighbors on the sidewalk across the street. They clap for the wife and daughter as they pass by.

  * * *

  I have this dream where Luis and the Traffic Guy and Brian Lang and I are on a talk show, and Connie is the host. Luis is wearing handcuffs and an orange prison jumpsuit. The Traffic Guy is wearing the same thing. We’re all sitting in a row on a stage in front of an audience and Connie asks us what it’s like to be TV stars. Luis and the Traffic Guy and Brian Lang all say that they like it all right, and then Connie asks me what it’s like to be a TV star. I say I’ve never been on TV and Brian says, But your voice has, Jonas, and Luis smiles and says, You’ll be on soon enough, man. You’ll be on soon enough.

  * * *

  The assignment this week, Connie says, is the toughest one. And if you don’t think you can do it safely, you are not to attempt it. I can’t emphasize this enough. Is that understood?

  Everybody nods.

  This week, Connie says, I want you to look through your notebooks and find a situation that set you off back at the beginning of the class. Something that you became angry about. And I want you to put yourself in that situation again.

  Some raised eyebrows here in the cafeteria.

  You all need to be able to deal with situations that have the potential to set you off, she says. You’re going to encounter them all the time once the class is over, and you and I both need to be confident that you can deal with those situations in a safe and responsible manner.

  A guy in the back says, Even after Luis.

  Even after Luis.

  Even after the Traffic Guy.

  You are not Luis, Connie says. You are not the Traffic Guy.

  This is like our final exam, the middle manager says. Bob Shed.

  Yes, Connie says. This is like your final exam.

  * * *

  This is Deb’s TV, I say. I brought Deb her TV back.

  I’m calling the police you son of a bitch. Get away from my house.

  Deb’s dad shouts at me through his screen door. I can see Deb and her mom’s faces in an upstairs window, watching.

  I’m on the phone right now you son of a bitch, he yells. I dialed nine-one-one.

  I just want to give her back her TV.

  Deb’s not coming out you son of a bitch. Deb wants nothing to do with you.

  Then can you come out and get the TV.

  Dogs barking. Lights snapping on in windows along the street.

  Deb’s mom calls from the upstairs window, Carl don’t, but Deb’s dad puts down the phone and comes charging through the screen door. He’s carrying a golf club. A nine iron, looks like. Maybe a seven.

  You son of a bitch, you won’t lay a hand on my little girl again do you hear me?

  He’s running down the lawn, cocking the club over his shoulder. I’m gripping the TV so hard the corners are cutting into my hands. Ten steps away. I can feel the roll of quarters in my pocket. Leave them, leave them. Five steps away. Keep gripping the TV. You are not Luis, you are not the Traffic Guy. Maybe, Connie, maybe. One step away, Deb’s dad plants his feet.

  Never again you son of a bitch, he says. Do you hear me?

  I hear you, I say, I hear you, and I clench my teeth and keep gripping the TV so that I don’t do anything, I don’t cover up or hit back or even make a sound when Deb’s dad starts swinging.

  * * *

  About halfway home I find a pay phone with its receiver still attached.

  We have Jonas on the line from Los Angeles. Hello, Jonas.

  Hello, Brian.

  How’s your night?

  I’ve had better.

  I hear you, my friend. Something on the show caught your eye?

  My eye. My left eye is too swollen shut to see.

  I’m not watching the show, I say.

  Your TV’s out again.

  I gave it back. It wasn’t my TV.

  Brian laughs. How do you like the bear? The Star Trek bear.

  It’s great, Brian. It’s just like you said it would be.

  Our connection is bad, Brian says. Where are you, Jonas?

  I’m at a pay phone.

  Are you all right?

  What do you have on the show?

  Are you all right, Jonas?

  What do you have on the show.

  Resin models. A Godzilla model and a Mothra model.

  A lot of people are calling in.

  They are.

  I’ll take one of those models.

  Which one?

  You pick.

  They take a while to paint, you know.

  That’s okay.

  I wipe something out of my eyes. Blood from my head, a throbbing cut somewhere under my hair.

  Brian says, Maybe you should go home, Jonas.

  I will, I say. In a while. But I’d like to listen. I’d like to go on hold and listen to the show.

  From a pay phone.

  I got a whole roll of quarters.

  Jonas?

  I’d just like to listen to the show for a while, Brian, before I go home.

  Okay, Jonas, he says. Stay with us.

  All right, I say. I’ll try.

  Flicker

  Occasionally, he was recognized. In line at the supermarket, sitting alone in a diner, piloting the airport shuttle. Strangers’ eyes up in the rearview mirror from one of the seats behind, trying to place his face.

  They remembered the laundry detergent commercials, the antismoking PSAs. They remembered L.A. Heat, the police procedural on which George guest-starred for a season in the early ’80s. Sometimes they misremembered him as another actor who was the same age then that George was now, a graying, creased character player with a face that held a kind of battered dignity. When George was feeling up to it, he corrected them. They were folding time back into itself, he would say. He was a young man in the year they were thinking. He hadn’t always been this old.

  Sometimes they remembered the movie. Young people, especially. These kids had seen it all; so much was available on their computers, their phones. They took a competitive pride in the obscurity of their interests. George could see victory in their faces when they remembered the title of the film. They started typing immediately, snapping pictures, sending out proof of their find.

  Thalassa, they said. Weren’t you in that movie?

  To Georg
e, it wasn’t a question, it was an accusation. Thirty years ago, the movie had played in theaters across the country. George was the leading man—his first and only role in a major studio film. It had opened with a brief, energized sprint, but then faltered quickly, disastrously. Stumbling through July, crawling through August. By Labor Day it was showing at odd hours in odd locations. Newspaper ads shrank from full to half to a quarter page, then to a single line tacked on to another movie’s announcement, the back end of a bargain double feature.

  Over the years it had developed some kind of minor cult status. A curiosity, a joke, a cautionary tale. George had heard that film professors discussed it in budgeting classes, the perils of spending too much on too little.

  Checking out a book at the library, drinking a cup of coffee in a cafe, they approached him, warily at first, but gaining a brazen confidence as they grew more certain. He’d answer for the commercials and the TV show and the PSAs, but when they called out the title of the movie he denied it.

  I’m not who you think I am, he’d say. You must have me confused with someone else.

  * * *

  He was having a sandwich at the shuttle depot when his agent called with news of a remake. She said that the studio was restarting what it now called the “franchise,” planning a new version of the film as a summer blockbuster.

  “They want me to be involved?” George said, before she could go any further. He had almost forgotten the little surge of hope that could come from answering the phone. He hadn’t been offered a part in years.

  “Oh God, no,” she said. “That’s the last thing they want.”

  The studio, she told him, was going to make the original movie disappear once and for all. Burning the baggage, is how they described it. They were recalling home video versions, scouring the internet for clips and pirated streams. By the time the new film opened, there would be nothing left of the old, just a smoothed-over patch of collective memory, an entire summer repaved.

  “Is that even possible?” George said. He imagined all those kids with their websites and newsfeeds, endlessly clicking, relinking, echoing.

  There was a crunching on the other end of the line. Lunchtime. Salad croutons, it sounded like.

  “With enough money and lawyers,” his agent said, “you can make anything go away.”

  * * *

  He had received the news that he had been cast in the original film while standing in a phone booth on Franklin Avenue. An afternoon in late spring, thirty years before. George’s agent had been trying to reach him all day. The phone upstairs in George’s apartment was dead; the line chewed by squirrels walking the wire.