Going Nowhere Faster

by Sean Beaudoin

  “Cuts farts?” he said. “Get it? Chopper?”

  I slapped my forehead like the fourth Stooge. “I can’t believe you never told me that.”

  “Well,” he said, “some things are worth waiting for.”

  He began to pour small cans of liquids into larger cans. He arranged his tools, most of them handmade.

  “It’s so weird, Dad,” I said. “You actually have this, like, sense of humor all of a sudden.”

  He shrugged, coiling wire into a figure eight. “You want to hear something else funny? C’mon in for pancakes. I’m making ’em.”

  Chopper, receiving the word “pancake” on some mysterious dog frequency, rose from his coma and stood, loosing a rope of drool. Pancakes were funny. My father cooked like he invented. Toss some stuff in a bucket and see what happened.

  “You going to use flour this time?”

  “No chance.” He laughed, wiping his palms in the grass. Chopper wobbled toward the house. As we followed, my father leaned over and whispered, “So what’s she look like?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  LORD OF THE very crunchy and salty and delicious pRINGle S

  I was half an hour late for my shift. Keith frowned as I walked into his office.

  “You, Stan, smell like beer. Beers.”

  “You probably forgot to wash your upper lip,” I told him.

  He didn’t laugh.

  “I don’t feel very good,” I admitted.

  “Not smart, Stan,” he said.

  I nodded and began going through the returns. Eighty percent of them starred Arnold or Barbra or a Baldwin brother. Not a good sign.

  THE FIVE BALDWIN BROTHERS:

  1. Alec

  2. Daniel

  3. Stephen

  4. Billy

  5. Zeppo

  FIVE GOOD MOVIES STARRING ANY GIVEN BALDWIN:

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5. Glengarry Glen Ross

  When I had all the videos stacked, Keith came up to me. I tried to cut him off. “Keith, do you have any idea how much lecturing I’ve already absorbed today?”

  He pulled up his pants. “As a matter of fact, I do. This morning your mother called. Since I didn’t answer, she waited four minutes, and then called again. And again. And again.”

  “Oh,” I said, slumping. “Sorry.”

  Keith was scared of my mother. It proved his brain was still working.

  “See, Stan, the thing is, I don’t get paid enough to get woken up by your mother, you know what I mean? It’s just not in my job description. Closing up? Sure. Doing the books? Sure. Talking to your mother? No. Especially before I’ve had my Wheaties.”

  “Sorry.”

  “She’s worried. It seems a certain desk clerk is not meeting expectations. Normally, I’d give her a ‘So what?’ and hang up like I would on anyone who calls before noon, but I like you, Stan. Why? Hell if I know. Still, I did you a favor and told her you were a good boy. I told her you work hard and have a bright future, which we both know is horseshit, so right there you owe me. I may have to deduct it from your check.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Personally, I don’t care what you do. College? No college? Ho-hum. Doctor, lawyer, thief? Whatever.”

  He took a deep breath, eyeballing the candy display, before deciding against it. “As you know, Stan, from the many long and entertaining stories I’ve told you, hanging out in Millville with the kegs and the cars and the partying is my territory, right? Mine. Not yours. Capiche?”

  He actually said “capiche.” It was like Sonny Corleone chewing out his counselor at Jenny Craig. Still, for the first time since I’d worked there, Keith was dead-on no-fooling serious. He pressed his bulk toward me. It was frightening and I didn’t answer.

  “I asked you a question.”

  I knew exactly what he was saying. He was trading a week’s worth of stories about touchdowns for one second of acknowledgment that he was The Boss, and therefore, had a valid point.

  “Keith . . . ,” I began, and then stopped. My head hurt and I needed about six gallons of water. “You’re right. Okay?”

  He nodded, almost satisfied, like his burger was gone but at least he still had some fries left. “So is it that Carl Turd guy?” he asked. “Is that what this is all about?”

  “Chad Chilton,” I corrected.

  “Yeah, him. Right.”

  A month ago I’d told Keith about The Promise, just to warn him that it was possible I might miss a few shifts by the end of the summer, being in the hospital or in traction or a casket and all.

  “Chad Chilton?” he said, scratching his chin. ”I think I played football with his brother.”

  “You probably played with his sister.”

  He ignored me. “What’s he look like?”

  So I explained how Chad Chilton had started shaving in second grade. How he had a hairy chest and a fast car and wore sunglasses and didn’t look stupid in them. How his father was in jail and he had a reserved cafeteria table and a reserved parking spot and the teachers never called on him in class or scolded him about a lack of homework. How he pushed his bangs back from his forehead as an answer to most questions and almost always had an unlit Marlboro in the corner of his mouth.

  “Wow,” Keith finally said. “Sounds like you’re screwed.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “No problemo,” he said, and then went back to leafing through adult video catalogues. By the end of the day I was almost ready, for the very first time, to be disappointed in Keith. But after we closed, he took me in back and tried to give me some boxing lessons. He huffed and jabbed and parried and hooked in little circles, surprisingly light on his feet. I learned absolutely nothing, but it was fun and we only stopped after he got carried away and punched an enormous hole in the plaster above his desk.

  “Whatever. All I’m saying, Multiplication Stan, is that Party Stan isn’t your style.”

  “I have no style,” I said. “I think that’s the problem. Plus, someone tried to run me over last night.”

  “So it’s a girl,” he pronounced.

  “God!” I said, exasperated. “NO, you meathead, it IS NOT a girl.”

  “Meathead?”

  He raised an eyebrow and then admired his reflection in a plastic video case, which was physically impossible. He smiled. You couldn’t insult Keith. He had way too much padding.

  “It’s always a girl,” he declared.

  I threw my arms up, exasperated, which was a mistake, since I’d been holding a stack of videos. They clattered to the floor. Keith stepped around them gingerly. “I may have to charge you for that.”

  “Fine. Also, someone tried to run me over last night.”

  “Listen,” he said, “I’m heading over to Cloony’s for some research. Don’t forget to do the books.”

  “I won’t. Someone tried to run me over last night.”

  “Good. Also? Stan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If your mother calls me at the bar, you’re fired.”

  A half hour before closing, Keith was still gone, and I’d rented out one video, come up with zero script ideas, and answered four questions about college (“No clue, sorry”).

  Then some guy came in and tried to rent a Hugh Grant movie.

  “You don’t want that,” I said. I handed him a copy of Key Largo. “Here, try this.”

  “Um . . . ,” the guy said, confused. “Um, no . . . this is what my wife asked for.”

  “Trust me,” I said, only half smiling. He only half smiled back. We both stared at the box. In the end, he left with nothing, but I felt like I’d made my point: Hugh Grant should be illegal.

  Another guy walked up to the register. He wore a nice pinstripe suit.

  “Do you sell cameras?”

  I looked around the store, which was composed entirely of cheap wire shelving that held videos and DVDs. No cameras. Anywhere. No pictures of cameras or boxes of cameras or camera pri
ce lists. I looked behind me, and then at the ceiling. I lifted a piece of paper and peered under it.

  “Sorry.”

  He sighed, and then loosened his tie, dejected.

  “But,” I said, “we do have a copy of Peeping Tom. I know it’s not a camera, but it’s a movie about a guy who kills people with a camera.”

  The guy looked up, excited. “Really?”

  I pointed out the box. He rented it. Another satisfied customer. As Pinstripe stepped out the door, Ellen Rigby walked in.

  Not only in, she actually came up to the counter. I closed my hand in the rewind machine, just to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. It didn’t hurt a bit.

  “You seemed like you were having a good time last night.”

  I flushed. Almost exactly the color of the sign that read LATE FEE above my head. “I’m not so good at parties,” I admitted, accidentally leaning against the register, which caused the error alarm to go off, high-pitched and annoying. I slapped at the buttons until it stopped.

  “Me neither,” she said.

  I frowned. “You seemed to be doing okay. With the soccer guy and all.”

  She laughed. “Conner? Puh-lease.”

  “How do you tell them apart?” I asked. “All the Conners and Liams and Ians?”

  “They have tags,” she said, deadpan, “behind their ears. Like bald eagles.”

  “Tags,” I said. “Ha.”

  We looked at each other. The store was empty. She was wearing a pink top and white pants that showed her (beautiful) ankles. Her hair was held back with a barrette and she wore tiny round glasses. I realized my mouth was open, so I decided to say something. Anything.

  “I’m working on a script.”

  “Really?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “What’s it about?”

  “It’s a love story,” I said, like an utter moron.

  She laughed, and then pointed to the Adult section, which was actually just a converted closet with a green curtain hanging in front. “What’s in there?”

  “Ummm . . . ,” I said. “It’s umm . . .”

  “It’s okay. I was kidding. You don’t have to explain.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Okay, yeah. I get it.”

  “Anyway, the reason I’m here? I need a movie. I thought maybe you could give me a suggestion.”

  My chest swelled. Home run. If there was one thing in the world that I could definitely do, it was suggest a movie. Of course, then my mind went completely blank. Mentasis Futilis.

  “Um, sure,” I stalled. “What kind?”

  “Oh, just about anything. Except no guns, explosions, effects, aliens, time traveling, hockey masks, or Pauly Shore.”

  “Tough,” I laughed, relieved. The clouds parted. The telethon kicked in. “A very hard request.”

  “If you’re not up to it, I can try somewhere else.”

  I shook my head. “There is nowhere else.”

  “True,” she admitted.

  “Besides, I know the perfect movie.”

  “Really? What?”

  FOUR POSSIBLE MOVIES TO SUGGEST FOR ELLEN:

  1. Endless Love III: StanEllen’s Paradise

  2. William Shakespeare’s Staneo and Ellenette

  3. Bill and Ted and Stan and Ellen’s Big Adventure

  4. Stantanic — Director’s Cut

  “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” I finally said. “It’s an early Jack Nicholson. One of my favorites.”

  I went and got the box and handed it to her. “It’s smart and funny and no one wears a rubber head.”

  “I’ll take it,” she said, without even looking, the ultimate gesture of trust.

  “Are you sure?”

  “If you are.”

  Right there, at that very second, I resolved to be a better person.

  But first, I rang her up.

  Ellen gave me the money and I gave her back the (correct) change, and then when I was bagging her video I realized I should have just given her the movie for free, so I got flustered and blurted out, without thinking, no “Monticello,” or “mayonnaise,” for once, not only the right word coming from my mouth, but a whole sentence:

  “I’m taking my little sister to the lake on Sunday to feed the ducks. You wanna come?”

  Treatment for the feature-length film titled

  GOING NOWHERE FASTER©

  Written by Stan “Night Train” Smith

  This movie is about a boy named Ted. And his love for a fish. The fish’s name is Bertrand Russell. Bertrand Russell is a mackerel with big fins and a spotted tail. This is a movie with plenty of heart and a touch of magic. This is a movie told with such sensitivity and melancholy that the reader may well suspect the author (Me. Stan.) to be experiencing menopause. Bertrand Russell is kept in the family bathtub, which Ted’s older sisters insist promotes substandard hygiene. There are many shots of Ted and his sisters, wet nylons hanging over shower rods, the girls giggling and sharing clothes, their teasing of Ted, his retreats to the bathroom to talk to Bertrand Russell. Yes, Ted will actually speak aloud to the fish, which is a running joke at family dinners. Through these monologues with Bertrand Russell, we will come to understand Ted, his hopes and dreams. The story’s conflict will involve Ted’s mother, who will succumb to her inner rage by killing Bertrand Russell with a broom. She will do this for some insignificant reason, a broken tea cup or the buzz of a determined fly, but we will understand her true anger comes from having been left by Ted’s father, who long ago skulked off in the middle of the night bound for Norway and the subtle charms of the women of Oslo. The mother, in the shocking last scene, cooks Bertrand Russell and feeds him to her unwitting children. Ted will eat with relish, only later discovering the empty tub. The final scene is of Ted, now an adult, lying on the couch in his therapist’s office, discussing his lifelong case of dyspepsia.

  Actually, no, he won’t. That’s dumb. A boy talking to a fish? Who wants to see a movie about a boy talking to a fish?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE GRAPES and other unpleasant varietals OF WRATH

  On Saturday morning my mother woke me to say I was working the counter at Smith’s Natural Foods.

  “Prarash called. He’s going to be late. I need you to cover.”

  It was five in the morning. Smith’s Natural opened early so that the local market owners could buy their produce for the day, at least in theory, since local market owners inclined to stay in business never bought anything, more than once, from the store.

  “No,” I said. “I refuse.”

  “You’ve got twenty minutes to be elbow-deep in produce,” she said, ducking her head and leaving the door open.

  It was warm under my blanket. It was cold not under my blanket. I stared at the ceiling and considered my options.

  1.

  2.

  3.

  Nineteen minutes and forty seconds later, my arms were submerged in a galvanized bucket, washing yams.

  “No. I refuse,” I told my reflection.

  “Sure you do, chickenshit,” my reflection answered.

  I sighed. Only six hundred more yams to go.

  In the distance, I could see my mother in the lettuce patch, busily directing her team of gardeners, a trio of Guatemalan brothers, all of them named Roberto. Apparently their father was not only a huge fan of Roberto Duran but also suffered from attention deficit disorder. To ease the confusion, the brothers (with the creative weight of dad coursing through their veins) had adopted the nicknames Uno, Dos, and Tres. They were an odd sight, cutting at lettuce heads with sharp knives, while my mother towered over them, even with her legs in the furrows. She was a firm believer that there was spirituality in hard work, and no one got off easy. The Robertos referred to her as “La Amazonia,” at least when she was more than twice a safe listening distance away. I liked Uno, and Tres was okay, too, but Dos and I were friends. Sometimes on weekends I would hang out at the house they shared with their families, which my father had also built, parts jutting out for no reason a
nd the whole thing leaning kind of sideways over the edge of our property. Roberto called it “La Casa Loca,” and thought the extra staircases were hilarious. I called it “The Dangerous and Inevitable Lawsuit,” and thought the whole thing needed to be torn down. My father had promised to “straighten” the house, but was too busy inventing extra-long beds for my mother or cutting tracks into the ceiling so her head didn’t hit the rafters. Anyway, Mrs. Dos would make a huge meal and Roberto and I would just sit in the sun laughing or kicking around a soccer ball with his kids. My Spanish was bad and his English was bad, but somehow it seemed like just by smiling and pointing I’d told him more about myself than I’d ever told anyone else.

  “Hola, Stan!” Dos called, when he saw me in the shop. He walked over and handed me a crate of lettuces ready for washing.

  “Hola, amigo.”

  “I hear you muy drunk la otra noche!” He laughed, holding his stomach. Dos was a big laugher. There may not have been a thing ever said, in the history of the world, that he didn’t think was funny. Apparently my being drunk was pretty funny.

  “Dios mio!” I said, hitting my forehead with my palm (which actually contained a yam, so it hurt). “How you know?”

  “You is singing muy bien!” He laughed. “Also loud.”

  “Sorry,” I said, blushing. There were maybe nine billion people in the world I hadn’t apologized to yet.

  “Es okay. I gusto Los Beatles!”

  He picked up a shovel and launched into a quick impression of someone playing guitar, really more heavy metal than George Harrison, but still, you had to appreciate the effort.

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Mi esposa?” He grinned. “Maybe she no like so mucho.”

  “Tell Mrs. Dos I’m sorry, too.”

  My mother looked over and saw us talking. She wore an orange jumpsuit and an enormous sun hat that made her look like a deck umbrella. Dos looked over, seeing my mother seeing us talking. My mother frowned, seeing Dos seeing her seeing us talking. He winked and then shrugged, picking the gap between his front teeth with the lettuce knife, and carried his empty crate back to the field.

  I went back to my bucket. The water was freezing and my hands had turned formaldehyde blue. Only two hundred more to go.