‘Yes,’ Milo says. ‘While I commit genocide, I thought I might whistle.’
‘That’s brilliant.’
‘He’s an extra, sir,’ the assistant director points out. ‘He can’t make any sound.’
‘So, give him a line. Can you think of a line, Mr. Crappy?’
Aware that this is his big chance, Milo puts on his sadistic Nazi face and growls, ‘You Jews are vermin.’
‘Oh, I love that. Have him say that. And smoke and whistle.’
How marvellous to stub out a cigarette on a prosthetic cheek – the magic of movies. ‘Brilliant,’ the director said. Guard Number One and Prisoner Number Ten congratulated him – although Number One made it clear that he still has more lines – and invited him to a sports bar.
‘This knob one of my exes picked up,’ Number One says, ‘we’re talking a total loser. He’s not even good-looking and he’s overweight. You know what she says about him?’
‘What?’ the prisoner asks.
‘She says, “Something shines through him.” What a crock.’
‘Maybe something does,’ Milo says.
‘Like what?’
‘I know this short, nondescript Cuban. Girls are crazy about him.’
‘Yeah, well, he’s got the Latino thing going, this guy is total white bread.’
‘Women never want what they say they want,’ the Prisoner advises. ‘My ex always said she wanted a kind and sensitive guy but then she went for the exact opposite.’
‘It was interesting what Guard Number Eight said about our feminine sides,’ Milo comments.
‘That fag said something interesting?’ Number One says.
‘What did he say?’ the Prisoner asks.
‘Oh, something about how we’re always beating up on our feminine sides. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with the world. If our feminine sides were allowed to flourish, there would be no wars.’
‘I doubt that, buddy boy. Try dating one of my exes.’
When Gus beat up on Annie was he beating up on his feminine side? Kick the shit out of your wife and you’ll be a man? He didn’t actually kick her – it was all verbal abuse except when he threw food. Once he hit her in the face with a meatball. It was almost funny.
‘My exes,’ Number One says, ‘given the opportunity, would cut off my balls and shove them down my throat.’
‘I felt that way about my ex,’ the Prisoner admits, ‘until we met at our high school reunion and she asked me to dance. It was a tender moment. I was her first. She said she’d always cherish that.’
‘Then she went off to ball a rock star,’ Number One says.
‘Actually, a forklift driver.’
‘Can I get you boys anything else?’ a chesty waitress in a tank top asks.
‘Another round,’ Number One says.
‘Do you think we’re scared to tell the truth?’ Milo asks.
‘What truth?’ Number One wipes sweat off his forehead.
‘Do you think men are more scared to tell the truth than women?’
‘Truth is subjective,’ the Prisoner points out.
‘Okay, so are men more scared to reveal their subjective truths than women?’
The Prisoner munches peanuts and Number One drains his beer.
‘I have a friend,’ Milo says, ‘who doesn’t tell his mother stuff because he’s afraid she’ll get miffed.’
‘Makes sense,’ Number One concedes.
‘But that means he’s lying.’
‘So?’
‘Lying is wrong.’
‘Are you one of those numbnuts who want honest relationships?’
‘Of course.’
Number One snorts and the Prisoner snickers.
‘I don’t want to lie to loved ones,’ Milo insists. ‘That’s insane.’
‘At least that way you don’t hurt anybody,’ the Prisoner points out.
‘I think you’re wrong. I think by lying, we hurt our loved ones more.’ The beer and the euphoria generated by today’s movie magic have led Milo to believe he might be thinking profound thoughts. Can he trust them when his thoughts aren’t real?
Number One yawns. ‘I lie to my mother constantly.’
‘Me too,’ the Prisoner admits. ‘Keeps her happy.’
‘But that’s outrageous, that’s … that’s so counterproductive.’
‘You don’t lie to your mother?’ Number One asks.
‘My mother’s dead.’
‘Oops.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ the Prisoner says.
‘That’s why you’re thinking about women all the time,’ Number One concludes.
‘Is it?’
‘No doubt about it. I knew a guy, his mom died in a car accident when he was ten and he spent the rest of his life sanctifying her, and let me tell you, no woman could live up to her image.’
‘I don’t think that’s the case with me. I mean, my mother was an alcoholic.’
‘No shit? So what kind of chicks do you go for?’
‘All kinds. Whoever’ll have me.’
Number One nods sagely. ‘That’s because you had no mother. Mothers make you feel special.’
‘Which is why you lie to them,’ the Prisoner adds.
‘Yeah, you don’t want to disappoint them. What you need is a woman who makes you feel special.’
‘So I can lie to her.’
‘Exactly.’
•••
No stench of boiled or burnt animal entrails assaults him, no lusty lovers or closet homosexuals crowd his living room. Only Vera sags on the couch gripping an empty wineglass and a photograph.
‘Hey, Vera. Where is everybody?’
‘Wally had to work late at the office and then he had a date. I think it’s good he’s dating again, don’t you?’ The alcohol has allowed uncertainty to creep into her usually stalwart expression.
‘Sure.’ More lies.
‘He says he isn’t a pansy.’
Milo busies himself making a peanut butter sandwich. ‘Has there been any action next door?’
‘She took the boy away in a taxi this morning. He says the most terrible things to her. I wouldn’t stand for it.’
‘Did they come back?’
‘I haven’t a clue. Pablo was sanding the deck.’ She shuffles into the kitchen. ‘An Indian gentleman phoned for you. He said it was urgent, said he’d call again.’
‘When was this?’
‘Around tea time.’
If it’s Sammy Sanjari, what could possibly be urgent? Has Gus had another stroke? The one three years ago disoriented him for weeks. When Milo tried to help, Gus shouted, ‘Leave me alone!’
Vera pours herself more sherry. ‘It’s a busy time of year in accounting, Wally says. That’s why he always has to get back to the office.’
Milo feels peanut butter sticking to the roof of his mouth.
‘I don’t think he likes me very much,’ Vera says. ‘I don’t know why. I loved him so much. He was such a bonny big boy. So different from his father.’ Unsteady on her feet, she grips the counter. ‘I tried so hard to do the right thing.’
‘I think it’s tough for a lot of parents when their kids grow up,’ Milo says. Gus repeatedly demanded, ‘I did all this for you?’ as though hoping the real Milo would stand up.
‘I wanted more kiddies,’ Vera says, ‘but they made a hash of things when they opened me up. Wally’ll be such a marvellous father, don’t you think so, Milo?’
‘Sure.’
‘And now he has his business sorted, the timing couldn’t be better. It’s a dependable business, accounting, isn’t it?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Very respectable. I knew Wally would make something of himself in the end. He’s always been good at numbers.’ She toddles back to the couch and picks up the photograph. ‘Isn’t he a looker?’ It’s a school portrait of Wallace looking suspicious. Is this his original face? ‘I made him wear that shirt,’ Vera says. ‘I said, “Wear something smart, show your respect.�
� She tucks the photo carefully in her handbag before adjusting a cushion behind her head. ‘I told him, once he’s settled, I’ll move back here and look after the kiddies. Nobody can afford good help these days.’
Wouldn’t it be better for all concerned if Milo tells her the truth so she can cease to hope and be freed from her fixed ideas about things? It can’t go on, this deception. With her delusions shattered she’ll be able to live in the moment. ‘It’s ironic, isn’t it,’ Milo begins, ‘that Vera means truth. Vera?’ Her head slumps forward and her glasses slide to the floor. Milo places them on the end table.
Gus bought him a Polaroid camera for his twelfth birthday. The gift astounded Milo not only because of its cost but because it meant Gus was entrusting him with something valuable. A peroxide widow who hoped to snare Gus had insisted they drive to Niagara Falls. Milo, eager to test his camera, expressed enthusiasm. Gus, who preferred to tinker in his basement, agreed on the condition that Milo photograph the sights. Walking down Lundy’s Lane, Milo took pictures of cars. Never before had he seen so many sparkling automobiles, many of them sports models. His father and the widow had to wait while he took the shots. She repeatedly put her arm around Gus while he grew impatient with Milo. ‘What are you taking pictures of that for? You’re wasting film. Take pictures of the sights.’ Milo wanted to shout, ‘Why give me a camera if you’re not going to let me take my own pictures?’ but he didn’t. He took many shots of the falls, and of his father and the grasping widow. Where are those photos now? The camera disappeared over time. Gus resented the cost of the film and Milo resented not being able to take pictures of cars or bugs or Mrs. Cauldershot’s spider veins when she nodded off after lunch.
He picks up on the first ring.
‘Good evening, is that Milo?’
‘It is.’
‘Bootiful, you ready for The Reunion of a Lifetime?’
‘Not really.’ Poor reception makes Milo suspect Sammy’s calling from his car.
‘No worries. We’ll make it easy for you, treat you like a king. You’ll love it. Somebody will pick you up at eight.’
‘What? Tomorrow?’
‘We’ve had some difficulties but now we’re ready to roll. Are you excited?’
‘Not really.’
‘No worries. Everybody’s a little shy at first but when those cameras start rolling, it’s showtime. You’ll love it. Tomorrow, first thing.’ Milo listens to the dial tone briefly before trying Tanis’s number. Her voice-mail message still includes Christopher.
Kneeling, he knocks twice gently and waits, pressing his ear against the wall. He knocks twice again, listens, then knocks four more times and waits. He knocks until his knuckles throb.
he management of the institution housing Gus has allowed the Reality Check crew to occupy several rooms. Sammy and Birgit greet him in the corridor. ‘What did you do to your hair?’ Sammy gasps.
‘I had it cut for a movie. I’m an actor.’
‘An actor?’ Sammy looks at Birgit. ‘He’s an actor.’
‘I heard.’
‘Have we seen you in anything?’ Sammy asks.
‘I did a Canadian Tire ad a while back.’
‘Bootiful,’ Sammy says, although he doesn’t look pleased. He and Birgit huddle briefly before turning back to Milo. ‘What about a wig?’ Sammy asks.
‘A wig? Why?’
‘To make you look handsome. Don’t you want to look handsome?’
‘No. I want to see my father.’ He’s still not sure this is true but tries to appear resolute.
‘What’s the movie?’ Birgit demands while checking her cell.
‘Love, the Final Solution. I’m off today, they’re doing interior love scenes.’
‘A good part?’ Sammy asks.
‘I play a Nazi guard.’
The hair-and-makeup/wardrobe woman has been staring at Milo steadily. ‘What about a hat?’
‘I don’t wear hats.’
‘Brad Pitt wears hats,’ Sammy says.
‘I’m not Brad Pitt.’
‘No duh,’ the hair-and-make-up/wardrobe woman says. Her excessive eye makeup makes her resemble a raccoon.
Sammy rubs his hands together. ‘Val is going to make you look the best you can be. Still you, but better.’ He winks at Milo and nudges him into a small room with Val. Two inmates with failing hearts and minds attempt to join them. ‘Nice to see you too, Gramps,’ Val says, kicking the door closed in their faces. Smoking a cigarette, she thrusts some garments at Milo.
‘I don’t think you’re allowed to smoke in here,’ he says. The facility’s stench of pureed food, shit, piss and disinfectant is nauseating him.
‘Try them on.’ She points to a foldout screen. Milo takes the clothes behind it to change.
‘You look like your father,’ she says.
‘You’ve seen my father?’
‘I had to fix him up. He looked pretty rough. They don’t hose ’em down too regularly in this dive.’
‘Did you talk to him?’
‘I don’t speak Polish.’
‘He speaks English.’
‘Not to me he didn’t.’
Gus never speaks Polish.
‘Anyway,’ Val says, ‘he’s got good bones. You’ve got his eyes and chin. We’re dressing you guys to accentuate the similarities.’
Milo zips up the casual cream trousers. ‘I never wear light pants, they stain too easily.’ He pulls the golf shirt over his head. ‘I never wear golf shirts.’ He steps out from behind the screen.
‘What’s your shoe size?’
‘Eleven.’
She digs around in a box of shoes and pulls out some loafers. ‘Try these.’
‘I never wear loafers.’
‘You’re an actor, you wear anything.’
‘I’m not acting now. This is supposed to be me meeting my father for real.’
‘Nothing’s real.’ Val pulls a sports jacket from a rack. ‘Let me guess, you never wear sports jackets.’
‘Never.’
She helps him put it on then turns him towards the mirror. ‘You look hot.’
He has to admit, out of his crumpled jeans and T-shirt combo, into apparel with shape, he does look hot, or anyway, warm.
‘What’s on your neck?’ she asks.
‘My neck?’
‘You’ve got a rash.’
‘Really?’ He steps closer to the mirror and sees red blotches on his chest and neck.
‘Are you allergic to anything? Synthetic blends?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘What did you eat for breakfast?’
‘What I always eat.’
‘Okay, so it’s nerves. Relax, it’s spreading.’
So distracted has Milo been by the activity around him that he hasn’t considered what effect the pending meeting might have on his physical and emotional health. Now, with redness consuming his body, he realizes it could kill him.
‘Sit here,’ Val commands. In the mirror he’s alarmed by the splotches on his face. ‘Breathe deeply,’ she says. Milo tries but the air stops at his neck.
‘I can’t breathe,’ he wheezes.
‘Sure you can.’ She drapes a scarf around his neck to hide the rash.
‘That makes me look like a pansy,’ he says, struggling to remove the scarf, which seems to be strangling him.
Val slaps the back of his head. ‘Get a grip.’
‘I’m not wearing this. Brad Pitt doesn’t wear scarves.’
‘Johnny Depp does.’ She tries again to wind it around him but he pushes her away.
‘I’m getting Sammy.’ She leaves the door ajar, enabling a codger in a golf hat to wander in. He points at Milo.
‘Tell my lawyers to sue them,’ he commands.
‘Right away, sir.’ Milo starts removing the clothes.
‘Keep your pants on,’ the old man orders, grabbing Milo’s arm with surprising strength. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Leaving.’
‘N
obody leaves. It’s locked up. They catch you, they’ll put you in the hole.’
Shaking him off, with only one leg in his jeans, Milo makes a break for the corridor.
‘Man overboard!’ the codger yells. ‘Man overboard!’
On hearing Sammy’s voice, Milo runs in the opposite direction, stumbling over walkers and wheelchairs. Two Jamaican orderlies block him. ‘I’m not a patient,’ Milo explains, ‘I’m with the show.’ They grab his arms.
‘Take it easy, mon,’ one of them says. ‘No runnin’ in here.’ His breath smells of Juicy Fruit gum. ‘Why don’t you put your pants on?’
‘Sure, yes, of course.’ Milo pushes his other leg into his jeans as Sammy and Birgit approach.
‘What seems to be the problem?’ Sammy asks.
‘I’ve changed my mind.’
‘You signed a contract,’ Birgit says.
‘You can have your money back. I made a mistake.’
‘We all make mistakes, Milo,’ Sammy says, taking his arm from the orderly and digging his fingers into Milo’s bicep. ‘The important thing is to learn from them. The biggest mistake is to make the same mistake twice. Remember how you made a mistake when you thought your father was dead? All that time he was still alive. You walked away from him when he was still alive. Now he is still alive and you are walking away from him again. That would be a big mistake twice.’
‘I don’t owe him anything. He sucked as a father.’
‘My father sucked too,’ Sammy says. ‘He hit me with sticks when I did badly at lessons. And you know why he did that, Milo?’
Shoeless, Milo slumps against the wall.
‘He hit me when I did badly at lessons because he didn’t want me to be like him. He wanted a better life for me.’
‘Bring on the violins,’ Milo mutters.
‘He hit me because he loved me. And here I am today in a new country with a new life. Bootiful.’ Sammy starts leading him back to Val’s lair. ‘All fathers love their sons, my friend. All fathers want a better life for their sons.’
‘He’s even redder,’ Val observes. ‘I can’t cover that.’
‘No worries,’ Sammy says. ‘He’s going to calm down now.’
Behind the folding screen, before Milo changes into the cream trousers, Birgit hands him an orange pill. ‘Let it dissolve under your tongue. It’ll help you relax and stop the rash.’
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