Orbit 11 - [Anthology]
Page 15
Buzz.
Off in the distance, but coming in fast.
BUZZ.
Almost here, now, and getting louder.
BUZZZZZZZZ.
He turns around in time to see the whole hive of bees at him. With Bumble-Bee Bennie leading the way.
Diving down at a fantastic speed, the bees form themselves into a huge fist in midair. Bam. They poke Wally a good one in the jaw. He falls off the tree and lands with a resounding WHUMP. The bees regroup themselves into a baseball bat. Bumble-Bee Bennie grabs the handle and starts whacking the living daylights out of Wally’s head. The scene closes with Wally being pounded slowly into the ground. Now 12 inches showing. Now 9. Now nothing but the nubbly little bumps on top of his head.
The program is a huge success. The audience loves it. In fact, she laughs so hard, tears roll down her cheeks.
* * * *
this is the big scene, let’s see if we can get it right on the first take, here we go. cut to a close-up of the gun in her hand, show her pulling the trigger.
Bang.
* * * *
... the news beat team live and in color. Tonight, Angela Thomas with the President in exile. Roger Porter covering the Vatican riots. And special direct reports from combat zone correspondents in Africa, Indochina, New England, and Alabama. All brought to you by the friendly folks at . . .
* * * *
Ping-pong balls lie on the floor of a plastic cage. Abruptly, they start to move. To bounce. To collide. Caught by an air jet blowing into the cage. Suddenly, whoosh, the jet blows one ball through a hole in the cage’s top and into a short transparent tube. Another ball follows the first. Then another. And another yet. One by one. Into the tube. Until ten balls are lined up, trapped, inside.
A man flips open a little door in the tube, takes out the first ball in line, looks at it, picks up a microphone and says, “B-8.”
A woman with twelve cards in front of her runs her finger down the B column of each card in turn, dropping corn kernels on six of the cards as she goes.
“I-21.”
A young woman looks at her two cards, scowls, looks next to her at her husband’s card, scowls again and points. With a sheepish look, he drops a kernel on his card.
“G-53.”
An old man with bent, rickety fingers slides a kernel across his card. Across the I column. Across the N column. To the G column. To the number 53.
“N-34.”
A woman gets excited. She needs only one more number to win. O-72. She sweeps all the kernels from her card and hugs it to her breast. She closes her eyes and mouths the number silently to herself. O-72. O-72. O-72. O-72.
“)-72.”
She leaps up, waves her card, and shouts . . .
freeze action, catch her there, cue the announcer, voice over.
You can try to change your future this way. By wishing. You can try improving the world that way, too. There’s only one problem. It doesn’t always work. Join the Peace Corps.
* * * *
hey, that was pretty good.
* * * *
“Hi, ladies, it’s me. Back for another edition of Cooking with Carla. Tonight’s recipe is a little goody I picked up in an intimate little French place on the Côte d’Azur when I was dining there with my good friend—if you know what I mean—the Count. It’s a delightful little thing call Maïs grillé et éclaté à la brochette. And it’s a snippy-snap to make. All you need is one plumeau, a half pound of brochettes, three green tomatoes, two olives—peeled and pitted—a stalk of celery, three maple leaves, and a freshly skinned muskrat. To begin, coat the brochettes liberally with Granny Gump’s Good Granular Gravy and set aside to dry. Then . . . aw, hell, this is cracking me up. keep going, we can edit later. Then, remove all the feathers from the plumeau. Implant the feathers into the tomatoes until you have something resembling a badminton shuttlecock. When you’ve finished, set them aside until it’s your turn to serve. Next, take the...oh, crap, I’m laughing too hard ... that last bit got me ... I can’t finish...turn it off...please turn it off . . .
cut it off. cut it off. this is the big scene, let’s see if we can get it right on the first take, ready? here we go. cut to a close-up of the gun in her hand, come in. show her finger on the trigger, come in light, don’t stop, show her pulling the trigger.
Bang.
* * * *
The pain has been getting worse. It’s so bad tonight that every time Melissa dozes off, it jerks her awake.
Scotty can’t bear seeing her in such agony.
He gets up, dresses, and goes to the TV studio. He puts on the tape that shows Dr. Sam Lafferty curing Melissa of her afflictions. He watches it once. Twice. Twelve times in all. The happy ending chokes him up again and again.
He returns to Melissa at dawn, pleased to see she’s finally managed to go to sleep. He shakes her gently to wake her, then, smiling, takes her in his arms and hugs her as hard as he can. He holds her tightly to him and kisses her.
While she pounds on his back, screaming soundlessly, wild with pain, trying to get him to let her go.
But he doesn’t notice.
* * * *
that last bit didn’t come across very well, we’d better redo it. cut out the symbolism and tighten up the continuity.
* * * *
He takes it, rolls with it, and comes back swinging. Sock. Pow. No dippy spies can get the best of Mike McCale. He slams the fat one up against the wall. Turns, picks up the little guy, and throws him into the other two sending all three to the floor in a big, sprawling heap. He kicks the fat man in the teeth for good measure, and leaves. To find—the girl.
He knows where she’ll be. In his apartment. Waiting for the fat man to call. To tell her Mike McCale is dead. Is she in for a surprise.
He’s lost his key in the scuffle, but that doesn’t stop him. With a powerful kick, he demolishes the door to his apartment. He steps over the wreckage into his living room. She isn’t there. He walks to the bedroom door, eases it open, and finds her. Lying in bed. Smiling. With a big .38 Smith and Wesson Police Special in her hand. Pointed right at his gut. She speaks. “I’ve been waiting for you, Mike.”
“Have you?”
“Yes. I knew they’d never stop you. How did you guess it was me?”
“Simple, really. You slipped when you mentioned the doll. Only MasterMind could have known about that. When I put it all together, everything fit.”
“I suppose it did. Too bad you’re not going to live long enough to enjoy the results of your efforts.”
“Don’t be too sure about that. Inspector Blanchard is outside the window this very minute with a gun pointed at your head. Make a move to pull that trigger, and you’ll be dead before you hit the pillow.”
“Don’t give me that old crap. You can’t fool me. You’re through, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Say your prayers, big boy. This is it.”
hey, hold it a second, cut it off. cut it off. this is the big scene, let’s see if we can get it right on the first take, ready? here we go. cut to a close-up of the gun in her hand keep up the tempo, come in. keep up the pace, show her finger on the trigger, build up suspense, come in tight, don’t stop, fast, now. do it! show her pulling the trigger.
Bang.
Mike pitches himself sideways the instant the gun goes off. He hits the floor, rolls over and pulls out his own gun all in one easy movement.
Bang.
She fires again. The bullet grazes his cheek. From a crouch, he brings his gun into position and shoots her, Point blank. Right between the eyes. Her head explodes like a punctured balloon. He puts his gun away, turns, and walks out of the room as his theme music builds slowly up and over.
* * * *
“Okay, Melissa. Beautiful job. Wow. I think that’s one of the best we’ve ever done. What do you say we watch it. then go out and scrounge up some food? Melissa. Melissa, honey, are you asleep? Come on, let’s take a look at it. Melissa, come on. What’s the matter with you? Wh
y don’t you get up? Melissa, get up. Get up, get up, come on, get up . . .
* * * *
DAVID: I’m terribly sorry Bernice couldn’t stay for the whole program, but we’ll be
seeing her again. If not here, on some other programs. In another series. Or for sure on summer reruns. Won’t we?
pan to shot of dead girl lying on bed in pool of blood, hold shot, cue music, roll credits, end on title. And dissolve.
<
* * * *
Edward Bryant
DUNE’S EDGE
Except for us, only the wind and sand move. Intermittently the wind rises and flays us with tan curtains of sand. It would be a good penance if I were only guiltier.
We think we are climbing the east face of the dune. None of the five of us has any directional sense. The sun parcels our days by rising at our backs and descending beyond the dune’s edge. We recall another sun, and call this shifting slope the eastern face.
The five of us:
Toby is—was—a dancer. She has no breasts; her hips are wide, her thighs very muscular. Her black leotard has frayed through at elbows and knees. She was born in New York City.
Albert is the fool. He is dressed in tweeds rather than motley, but he is the target of all our gibes. Albert has the physique of a professional wrestler.
Paula is my enigma. I know less about her than about any of my other companions. Her skin is copper stretched over fragile bones. Her face lacks expression. Paula is strikingly beautiful. She speaks with a Portuguese accent.
Dieter is the old man with the gun. He was here long before us other four. He wears a ragged uniform. The automatic rifle cradled in his arms is new; the wooden stock oiled, the metal shiny. He stares past us and mutters often.
Myself. What is there to say? I have forgotten my face. Paula says I have horseman’s hands—fingers strong enough to use the reins well but tender to soothe a frightened animal. There is little point in self-description.
I scramble toward the summit of the dune, always slipping back frustrated, lungs burning. There is a woman I imagine to be beyond the dime. Her name is lost; neither do I recognize her face. The keys of memory jangle painlessly when the locks have been lost.
* * * *
It is getting toward dusk and the sky has turned purple. My sweating skin holds the dust. I lie spread-eagled so that no part of my body clings to any other part. Paula kneels beside me, to shade my face.
“I think we’re allowed more rest periods,” I say.
“No.” She shakes her head slowly and sadly. “You think too wishfully.” She moves her shoulders and for a moment the sun moves out of eclipse. I close my eyes against the dazzle, then open them again and watch the tiny translucent planets drift across her face.
“I like to shelter you,” Paula says. She stretches her arms stiffly.
“Christ on the mountain.” It is Dieter leaning over us, using the automatic rifle as a cane.
Paula looks up. “You know of him.”
The old man smooths back his thinning white hair. “I know of him. Every morning when I left my apartment I would see him up there with arms spread wide in benediction.” He laughs harshly, a dry ratcheting sound. “No benediction. All he gave down the mountainside was a shadow of superstition and ignorance. I often watched the gullible spending their centavos on candles rather than food. It was quite amusing.”
“Is not redemption more important than a full stomach?” says Paula.
“I am skeptical of a redeemer who looks like nothing more than white plaster over chicken wire,” answers Dieter.
Paula’s green eyes turn toward me. “Were you ever in Rio?”
“No,” I say. “I’ve seen movies. I’ve always wanted to visit Brazil.”
“It is a green and wild country,” she said, “and beautiful. In your movies, did you see the statue of Christ on the mountain, arms outspread, eyes turned toward Sugar Loaf?”
I nod.
“What of the favelas, do you remember them?”
“I think so. The slums on the mountainsides. Shacks of wooden lath and corrugated metal roofing. There were scenes of the favelas dwellers dancing joyously. At the time I suspected it was a fabrication, like an American image of happy darkies singing in the cotton field.”
“I remember, the favelas very well,” says Paula. “I was reared in one. Joy seldom came.”
“What about your Christ?” says Dieter. “Did he not bring you joy?”
“My Christ? You’re quick to attribute allegiances.”
“My job, once.”
“Old man, your memory seems clear. Let me test you. Do you know a bar in Ipanema called the Club Roca?”
“In Ipanema? Of course. I found many nights of diversion there.”
“There was a woman you saw. Her name was Floriana.”
“Yes.” For the first time Dieter looks startled. His eyes flicker between Paula and me. They are clouded sapphire. “What about her?”
“Floriana was a very beautiful woman for a while. Did you know she was a mestiço?”
Dieter shrugs. “I knew. I didn’t care. We must sometimes settle for what is available. The woman amused me.”
“Isn’t that cold-blooded?”
“I am not a warm man.” He smiles without humor. “What is your interest in Floriana?”
There is a shout from above us: “He’s going to make it!” Toby stands with legs wide apart, braced ankle-deep in the sand. “Albert, you’re going to make it.” Her cupped hands amplify the words. “Just a little further!”
Albert is only a few meters from the dune’s crest. He scrambles up the final, steepest part of the slope, arms and legs moving like the limbs of an enormous spider. He scrabbles frantically in the sand, beginning to slip back.
“Albert, please.” It is almost a prayer from Toby. Her hands clench.
“That’s it!” I yell. “You’re there, Al.”
With a despairing screech, Albert falls. He topples backward and flip-flops down the dune like a weighted clown-toy. He pushes before him a landslide in miniature. The sand eddies around our ankles.
“Clumsy animal,” says Dieter.
“Baby, poor baby,” Toby croons, brushing sand away from Albert’s eyes.
Albert is crying. Tears form in the corners of his eyes but are quickly clotted by the dust. “Had it almost paid off,” he whispers. “Only a few months and mine. Paid.”
He is both comic and pathetic. I’ve seen his headlong pratfalls too many times to be amused now. I feel an abstracted sympathy.
“He must be very hot in those tweeds,” says Toby.
“Why not take them off?” suggests Paula.
Toby does not hear. “He must be very hot.”
I look around for the old man. Dieter has left us and is climbing determinedly toward the summit. I wrinkle my nose. Dieter has left behind him a strong scent of decay: the smell of carrion in the sun.
* * * *
I walk the beach, picking up bits of driftglass. Green and amber shards dry on my palm. The luster swiftly dulls.
Down the beach a low mist has settled over the headland. The morning is still chilly. The sound of the surf overpowers everything except the cries of gulls. The white birds wheel low over a mound on the wet sand.
At first I think it’s a drowned animal washed up. I hurry closer and stop. The dress is striped red and blue; the waves have covered her face with the hem. I gave her the dress a birthday ago. She wore it last night.
I kneel and slowly pull the edge of her dress down. Her eyes are driftless. I let the cloth fall back. Then I am screaming into the surf, but I cannot hear myself.
Paula kisses my forehead, hugs me to her breast, repeats again and again, “It’s all right; you’re dreaming.”
The incantation works. Gradually I stop shaking and stop crying. The base of my skull feels as though someone is tightening a garrote.
Paula’s lips are cool. “Was it the same?”
“It was.�
�
“Do you know her?”
“Yes. Not her name, but I know her.” The pain begins to subside to its permanent background throb. I think of the girl on the beach and I feel sorrow. There is grief and pain, but no guilt. I should feel guilt.