by Charles Bock
Things ended. They had to, moving toward termination from the moment they started. And when friendships, when relationships, when people were involved, it was Lestat's experience that things ended badly. You woke up one morning and found out that your unrequited love had rifled through your pack and taken all of your valuables and disappeared without so much as a goodbye note. You discovered that your pool hustling compadre was a profligate tweaker and when he got wired on crystal meth, he picked fights and attacked you with a pool cue. You traveled in the same circles as an irritating and crazy and completely enchanting pregnant girl and as much as you wanted to save something, to take care of someone, nothing you did could stop her from destroying herself, from retarding or destroying the life inside of her, you couldn't stop her any more than you'd been able to stop another unrequited love from toting her wares under an on-the-fritz streetlamp and, late one night, getting into the wrong car. Any more than you could stop any number of friends from accidentally filling a main vein with some bad shit. Any more than you could do anything about your own disintegration. Your own destruction.
A valley gust blew sand into his eyes and set his shirtsleeves whispering. He completed his route, and arrived at the dormant rows of cars, the small group of people gathered at its head, grouping around a pickup truck. Lestat glanced at the truck where three boisterous yahoos were standing—one taking money from a heavy-legged woman, another guy pouring beers from one of the kegs. The third yahoo tried a pickup line on the girl. As Letsat ran, he noticed the plastic of different cups shining atop the sand, and though he would not have minded a beer, he passed the plastic cups by. The bass line did not match the tempo of the rest of the song; the lead singer's voice had turned scratchy and off-key. Lestat wanted to be someplace safe and warm where he could write down everything he had ever seen. He wanted to write a book that would change the world.
He paid no attention to the popped hood on the station wagon, or the rat-tailed delinquent fucking with its distributor cap. Lestat's destination was just ahead: the ancient pink ice cream truck. It was shaking in place. Rocking to and fro.
7.2
Lincoln removed the videotape from the kitchen pantry, carefully wrapping its broken ribbon around the casing. If all went well, barely a blink would be lost, not even a handful of the twenty-four frames that filled a viewing second. But if the film had been crumpled or shredded, who could say how many images would need to be cut.
The editing geeks couldn't guarantee how things would play out with Lincoln's tape, not by just looking at it, which complicated things. For Lincoln, the possibility of having one more second of his son taken away was a gratuitous and keenly pointed insult, a lit cigarette to a wound that refused to heal. But really, what choice did he have?
He paid the fifty bucks to get the tape spliced back together, the twenty to transfer the contents onto a DVD, and the piddling surcharge to rush the job. If this went well, he had untold videotapes to convert. He had a short lifetime of material. Precisely at three-fifteen, the air-sealed package arrived and Lincoln closed the door to his office and felt his pulse in his throat. The disc he had been waiting all day for slid into the machine, and in short order, images Lincoln had not seen in months began as plainly as they ever had, the sequence tattooed on his brain: the lens zooming in, then drawing back; the children in bright orange jerseys, the matching baseball caps worn backward, the chins shining with grease.
The break came just before where Lincoln—and Lorraine, he guessed—always stopped watching and hit rewind. Newell was being ignored at the pizza party, growing frustrated, giving up and beginning to sink into his chair. A count later, the flesh of his cheeks would go slack, small eyes would cloud and turn dark. But no. A boy and girl in the team jerseys, busy playing rock-paper-scissors.
For Lincoln, watching the jump was akin to taking a step and discovering there was no ground beneath him, as if he had been sent aimlessly through space. The missing frames captured Newell slouching and unexpressive. They provided a clear glimpse of the trouble that Lincoln had refused to acknowledge before his son had disappeared, the unhappiness that, long after his son went missing, Lincoln still hadn't wanted to face, yet had forced himself to confront, studying the still image that stared back at him from thousands of those flyers, going over that video sequence as if it would provide him with the secret behind those blank eyes. Lincoln loathed those images. Lorraine always accused him of cutting the tape, and the truth was that if the idea had ever occurred to him, he well might have done it. But now he'd never have the chance to watch that sequence again. Those brief seconds no longer existed.
He zoned out through his four o'clock, settling on thoughts of Newell and Lorraine together in the living room, sitting on the couch and passing a box of cookies between them. Newell caustically dismissing a situation comedy or telling his mom to switch back to a summer blockbuster, Lorraine sticking to the classics channel, answering the boy in a pleased voice, just because the film's in black and white doesn't mean it's not any good. Their running commentary would continue throughout the prime-time schedule, and Lincoln thought about the regular occurrence of coming home to find the two of them on the couch, laughing at a clever bit from one of their favorite programs. He thought about all the nights when they were deep in some show and too absorbed to fill him in on what he'd missed. All the nights he was too tired to concentrate, but pretended to follow what was going on, and was just happy to sit there.
And, too, there was the brilliant summer day when Lorraine had put floaties on Newell's arms and taught him to swim. There was the time when Newell had given her the huge wax candle he'd made in art class for her Mother's Day present. And some random time when Lorraine tried to help him with homework, and she didn't know how the hell to figure out the questions, either, and they called Lincoln to come down from upstairs, just so the whole family could be utterly confused by this stupid assignment.
He would have sacrificed a limb to be able to watch any of it. We have the lovely and talented Cheri Blossom here tonight.
Focusing, the camera panned in. A dry white wall, a woman seated in the center of a brown sofa.
She was preoccupied, motioning toward someone just out of viewing range, but this did not stop the camera. Rather, its leer continued, documenting her blond, luxurious hair, her long-limbed body.
Skin seemingly carved from a deeply tan bar of soap glowed against her pink camisole of mesh fishnet, packed breasts all but bursting through the tight, sheer fabric. The gemstone in her navel appeared to posterity as a discolored flash. Where her waist tapered, and the swell of her hips began, black strings traced toward a thin panty. But her legs were crossed, so the view was blocked.
Life's hard when everyone wants you, right, baby?
As if caught passing notes by a teacher, Cheri stopped gesturing. Her face froze. If someone had adjusted the tracking on their VCR—and also had been staring above her neck—that viewer would have seen how unsettled she was.
Well. This is going to be a real treat. We are lucky enough to have Cheri Blossom with us. Cheri is like the hottest dancer in Las Vegas right now. And she's decided to get into the industry.
Her eyes settled on the camera. Blood-red lipstick stretched into a plastic smile.
How are you doing tonight, Cheri?
“Oh, I'm just ducky.”
Heh. I like that. You're just ducky and tonight you're going to get fucky.
Lashes batted defensively. The smile stayed frozen.
What? I'm a poet. You just didn't know it. . . . Wow. Tough room. So tell me, Cheri. What made you decide to get involved with adult films.
The camera was still and it was silent for a moment and it did not seem she was going to respond. Then she said, “My boyfriend.”
Wow. No kidding? He must be a great guy. Gruff laughter. Remind me to thank him later.
She shot a look toward the side of the screen.
FORGET ABOUT HIM.
The lens shook with the
order, then settled and calmed. Just worry about the camera, okay, honey?
A pan now, forward, until the camera was a yard or so away from Cheri, right above her, looking down from a point of dominance, the shot capturing the liquid of her eyes, their terror, and their quick change under way—Cheri's trapped fury, her outrage, and then her cool distance. A woman taking in exactly what had been said to her, precisely what was happening, not only the ridiculousness, but how scary the vibe was, how predatory.
The uncomfortable sound of a smoker's cough emerged from the other side of the camera. But the shot remained focused on Cheri, and the longer it stayed on her, the more ornamental her layers of makeup appeared. Beneath her attitude and glamorous stylings, beyond her body glitter and sparkling tan, the truth was strikingly obvious. A face that was nothing special, as plain and midwestern as the upbringing she was trying to hide.
Tell you what, went the voice. Why don't we get started? Let's take a look at you.
It seemed she was calculating, reaching some sort of decision. For more than a second, it appeared possible she was going to leave.
“So this is what you want?” she asked, looking toward the left side of the shot.
We'll get it in editing, the voice told someone at his side.
Rising, she stood with her legs a shoulder width apart, her movements sharp now, but exaggeratedly so—an angry slinging of weight onto one hip, a defiant push of her chest. Cheri tossed her hair so it fell in front of her face and she pouted and, in an obvious fuck you, put her middle finger into her mouth, sucking on it.
Oh, you're a horny little thing, aren't you. How about you give us a—turn around. Let's see that butt.
Was it possible these people were too stupid to recognize that she was mocking them?The thought entertained her. She snarled over her shoulder.
Yeah. That's it. The feisty ones are always the best, aren't they? Now bend over for all the people out there at home. Give us a sexy little show, baby.
Maybe she followed orders because the voice was so stupid, so unbelievably cheesy; or maybe because each of her slights was ignored, every jab and haymaker she threw was rolled with; because she got to display her power and get out her aggressions and put these nimrods in their place; because the whole scene plugged into her own natural desire for attention, and the pent-up colt released from the gate finally had something to do with all this nervous energy. The red light stayed on, the film kept rolling, the voice, grainy and businesslike, kept egging—Into the camera. That's right. And although the woman in the lens was not giving the guy behind the camera exactly what he asked for, neither was she telling him to fuck off. Indeed, with each move—a strap of the camisole falling over one of her wriggling shoulders, her hand covering a breast—the natural give-and-take of a working relationship seemed to form, its movements incrementally becoming more professional.
There you go, baby.
Hooking a finger into each string of her thong she slowly began its descent. The camcorder closed in, too fast, blurring the bull's-eye. Just as quickly the video pulled back, regained focus.
Very impressive. I'm sure our millions and millions of viewers out there would love to hit that bull's-eye.
Quickly she opened her legs, spread eagle, then snapped her knees shut. A camera flashbulb exploded, the screen filling momentarily with white light.
Make sure you get the bull's-eye, ordered Smoke Voice.
Murmured assent. The flashbulb popped again, creating a strobe effect.
Now a jiggle. From the right side of the screen someone entering the shot, a middle-aged beach bum. He had complex braces on each knee and was otherwise nude, his tan line the width of dental floss. Far more body hair than any sane person wants to see on a naked man.
Well, well, well, here's a welcome surprise. I guess it's time to meet your woodman, Cheri. Couldn't wait for her, I guess, could you, Rod?
The guy continued limping as quickly as he could, his legs rotating in wide half circles, accommodating the Erector set constructions. Even half-hard he was humongous.
Cheri's instinct was to look away, but she fought through her embarrassment and nerves. He reached the couch and looked at her and his eyes were small and dark and droopy.
Here he is, you know him, I know you'll love him—the one and only Rod Erectile.
He smiled. Deep grooves appeared down the sides of his face. “Hey,” he said, and for the briefest of moments, Cheri thought she recognized a resignation in him, an apology. But before she could process this thought, he was putting his mouth on hers, forceful, pressing, his thick cow tongue was pushing down her throat, too much for her to defend against.
“CUT.”
Now something impacted her, someone shoved her. She wanted it to be Ponyboy, saving her, beating the hell out of everything in sight. But when she opened her eyes, it was the guy with the cow tongue, Rod Erectile, flinging her body away from him. “FUCK,” he was yelling. “CUT.”
Rod.
“God DAMN!”
Stepping away from the couch, Rod turned his back to everyone and seemed to shake his head and look down. He put his hands on his hips. His face was that of a boy watching his birthday balloon trail toward telephone wires. “I'm sorry, Al. Her dance—”
I know. I know.
“I was feeling it. I went for it. I just—”
This shit always happens with you, man.
“I just lost it, I don't—” Rod turned to her. “I'm really sorry about this.”
You're just lucky I know you so well. Hiro, you got the instant wood?
The camera continued taping, and in the next moments captured Cheri's ashen face. Unsure of where she was, she collapsed backward, reclining fully against the couch, feeling its back with her hand to make sure it was there. Rod Erectile, looking pissed at himself, grabbed the loaded syrette away from the slim Asian.
“Why you don't just take a Viagra?” asked the Asian. “Eat a bunch of celery like the old-school days?”
Don't kid yourself, kid. An entertained snort from the director. Ol’ Hot Rod lives for that needle.
To Cheri he said, Stay ready. But don't masturbate, we want that for the take.
Once again Cheri looked to the left side of the screen, searching. Fixing on him, she all but implored: take control, protect me, do something.
Ponyboy chomped rigidly on an unlit cigar and looked as if he were about to be sick. His eyes met Cheri's, then broke contact, instead watching the syringe; it was moving toward Rod's penis.
A groan. Rod's musculature went tense. His hand balled into a fist.
Whenever Lincoln neared a convenience store, fast-food joint, or anywhere else a twelve-year-old boy might be found, he slowed down just a bit more. His contacts weren't in, and even with the high beams blaring it was hard to make out objects and shapes. Still, strangely enough, he felt contented.
He believed he was wasting his time, that his kid was already home. He imagined Newell inching the front door open, relieved that his parents had left it unlocked. Newell had to have liquor on his breath, Lincoln figured, and the stench would be masked in a cursory way, grape bubble gum was what he'd used, back in the day. Lincoln imagined Newell's eyes were dilated, too, red from a little weed, maybe some eye-drops. The instant that front door budged, Lorraine would pounce, rushing over from the kitchen, where she'd been in her bathrobe, on the phone with her mom, probably brewing a pot of that green tea crap. Or maybe she'd give the kid a break, let him make it upstairs on the balls of his feet. Could be that she'd wait until the boy had changed into his pajamas and tucked himself underneath the sheets, until he was thinking that maybe he'd gotten away with it.