Alaura laughed awkwardly. “Mr. Wheat was just telling me about his extensive research on Coney Island carousels,” she said.
Waring attempted an expression that wasn’t outright horror.
“Fascinating!” Barney Wheat suddenly exclaimed, and the crumpled old geezer began bouncing on his heels like an automaton nudged to life. “Hand-carved and painted, those old carousels. Amazing mechanical invention. And a truly intriguing history, dating back to the Byzantine Empire—”
“Come now, Barney,” Clarissa Wheat said. “We’re not here about carousels.”
“Yes, dear,” he said, and the automaton stopped bouncing.
“I think carousels are interesting,” Alaura said politely. “And it’s just nice to meet Mr. Wheat. I speak with him every month when I order movies.”
“I am aware of my husband’s job description.”
Waring watched the two women smile tightly.
Oh goodie, he thought. Now Alaura and Clarissa Wheat hated each other, for no reason whatsoever.
“That gives me an idea,” Clarissa Wheat said, still eyeballing the younger woman. “Miss Eden, why don’t you show Barney your sales floor. That way you can continue to be entertained by his wonderful carousels. And Waring and I can catch up.”
“Catch up?” Waring said.
“Yes, that will give you and me time to . . .” and Clarissa Wheat pulled at the crisp white collar of her shirt with a knobby finger, “to go over the books. Don’t you think, Waring? Isn’t now a good time to, you know, pore over the numbers?”
Waring whimpered but found himself nodding.
A few minutes later, Clarissa Wheat sat primly upon the director’s chair at Star Video’s long counter, in the same place where Waring usually posted up when forced to wait on customers. Now Waring stood behind the director’s chair, behind Clarissa Wheat, gnawing on his thumbnail while she studied a series of reports on the dusty host computer. She had been working silently for ten minutes, navigating the ancient computer system Waring had never forked over the money to modernize. This outdated system enabled him, however, to reset the shop’s operating date very easily, effectively presenting Clarissa Wheat with financials from two years ago, when business had still been declining but was at least more impressive than this year.
“Interesting,” she said, still focused on the computer screen.
“Interesting?”
“Very interesting.”
“By interesting, you mean?”
“But Waring, these computers are simply prehistoric! A decade old at least. You’re being left behind. They’re not even hooked up to the Internet, are they? And are these dot matrix printers? My heavens!”
She stood up from the director’s chair and faced him.
“Waring,” she said with a thin smile, “you know I love the kitsch value of your store. And you were sweet to wear your Sunday finest, just for little old me.”
“Sorry about the hair tonic—”
“But you’ll have to work very hard for me to ignore the obvious.”
“I see,” he said, nodding assuredly. “Meaning?”
“I think you know.”
“I do?”
“Oh, Waring,” she said, and she sighed as if overcome by exhaustion. “Barney is a nice, sweet man. Very nice and sweet. He’s been a good father. And a leader in our church. And he knows more about carousels than you could possibly imagine.”
Waring nodded thoughtfully. “And what’s with the carousels?”
“Exactly,” she said. “What’s with the carousels?”
“Huh?”
“Oh, Waring, I should have known. When I married Barney five years ago, I thought he had a quirky sense of humor. The way his mind jumped around, it always made me laugh. But then I realized, rather quickly, that he isn’t quirky. He isn’t funny.”
“He isn’t?”
“No. He’s going senile.”
“I see.” Waring nodded. “I guess that explains the carousels.”
Clarissa Wheat leaned back against the counter. “I’m lonely, Waring. And I’m tired of sweet, kind, nice old Barney.”
Waring looked around.
Jeff was nowhere in sight.
Alaura’s voice echoed far off in the store.
And of course there were no customers—that would be too convenient.
Clarissa Wheat’s eyes fluttered shut. She did not move. She sat there silently, head tilted back as if praying upward, or perhaps waiting for a bucket of water to splash down onto her.
If Waring was going to do it, this was (unfortunately) the moment to act.
So he slowly guided a hand toward Clarissa Wheat. His palm met her hip, which under the crisp navy fabric of her suit felt stiff and crooked, and for a moment he imagined touching, of all things, Katharine Hepburn’s back. This bizarre flash confused him, and he tried to understand why Clarissa Wheat’s hip should remind him of Katharine Hepburn’s back, which he had no memory of ever thinking about before.
He felt a hot pain in his wrist.
Clarissa Wheat was clawing him with her fingernails.
“What the hell?” he whimpered, gripping his wrist when she released.
“Honestly, Waring! What kind of woman do you think I am?”
“I’m not really sure.”
She shook her head, grimly disappointed. Then she turned back to the computer. “I’m not understanding these numbers, Mr. Wax. Not to mention that Blockbuster is two hundred feet down the street, not miles, as you reported to me on the phone.”
“But . . . but . . .”
“And is that The Last Temptation of Christ I see in the Spiritual Spotlight section?”
Waring bit his lower lip. Words began building inside of him. Angry words, dirty words, but all of them, he knew, truthful words.
“Don’t you have anything to say, Mr. Wax?”
Clarissa tapped at the keyboard, her back to Waring, and Waring found himself withdrawing an invisible dagger and raising it high, ready and willing to plunge the blade deep into his bony nemesis’s back. Like Hamlet, he thought, like Olivier (way too old to play Hamlet when he did!) about to kill Claudius, played by that guy, oh, what was his name, from Treasure Island? And though the blade itself was incorporeal, the fantasy Waring had conjured was more than a little invigorating, and he realized that his murderous gesture and the attendant expression of glee on his face must have looked rather incriminating when he heard Jeff yell:
“Waring, stop!”
“Just stretching,” Waring blurted, thrusting his arms to his sides.
“Well hello, young man,” Clarissa Wheat said brightly.
Waring looked at her. Her chin was tucked coyly near her shoulder. Her tiny mouth curled into a tiny smile on the right side of her face.
“Hello, ma’am,” Jeff replied.
“And how do you like working for Mr. Wax?”
Jeff approached them. He set the DVD cases he had been holding onto the counter and said:
“Well, to be honest, ma’am, he can be a real pain in the you know what.”
Alaura was smiling for the first time since Pierce had broken up with her; hard to believe it had occurred only three days ago.
But things were looking up. It turned out that Barney Wheat was the least of their problems, because he lived in a happy little world, all his own. The old man stared off toward the ceiling, muttered disconnected phrases, all but confabulating. A content yogic smile shined on his face. And if she asked him a question, he mustered the focus to answer, but he only seemed able to do so in the affirmative:
“Did you have a good flight?” she asked.
“Yes. Planes are so exciting.”
A bit later: “Did Waring tell you that we’re having cleaners dust between the grates, replace lights, polish the floor?”
“Cleaners. Wonderful.”
And later: “Star Video is a staple of this vibrant college community.”
“Oh, yes? Community? Fascinating.”
At first Alaura had tried to steer Barney Wheat away from racier sections like Anime and Concert Videos. But now it was clear: Barney Wheat had no interest in movies. Alaura had always suspected this. When placing her monthly order with him, the only comments he ever made concerned movie ratings; she was now positive that his primary capacity at Guiding Glow was to consult a spreadsheet listing movie titles in one column and their corresponding ratings in another. Too many R-rated movies, and he would casually suggest a compromise. Thankfully, however, he seemed unaware that “Not Rated” or “Unrated” usually meant that the movie was too racy for the MPAA—Barney seemed to think that “Not Rated” was akin to “G.”
They approached the Russ Meyer section, all those breast-heavy and self-consciously schlocky show boxes with the greatest titles ever conceived—Common Law Cabin, Beneath the Valley of the Ultra-Vixens, and Faster Pussycat! Kill! Kill!—the absolute pinnacle of campy sexploitation, and the absolute worst movies, besides outright porn, for Waring to have left on the floor.
But Barney Wheat didn’t react. Instead he gazed at the bodacious babes, thumbed the silver cross around his neck, and smiled pleasantly—a conduit of spiritual detachment, carousels spinning in his mind.
“I’m really enjoying this,” Alaura said happily.
“So am I, Ms. Eden.”
“To be honest, Mr. Wheat, we were nervous about your visit. But you’re so nice.”
“Why, thank you!”
“What were you saying about carousels? Byzantine Empire?”
“Carousels? Yes, a long and fascinating history. Originally used to train horseback soldiers—”
But then Alaura saw something terrifying. Someone. Pierce. Pierce was in the store. Standing ten feet away. Her jaw clenched; her eyes closed.
She heard Pierce’s voice:
“Why the hell are you dressed like that, Alaura?”
She opened her eyes. She stared at her ex-boyfriend.
Pierce looked pissed off.
And for some reason, he was holding a brick.
•••
“So tell me, Jeff,” Clarissa Wheat said, “how long have you worked here?”
Such a disgusting woman, Waring thought. And was she really flirting with Jeff? She had loosened her ridiculous tie, undone the top button of her blouse. She asked stupid questions and laughed at Jeff’s stupid answers. She played teasingly with a strand of black hair that had fallen from her bun, twirling it on her Cruella de Vil finger.
And for fuck’s sake! everything Jeff had said—every stupid thing—had been totally fucking honest.
“I’ve only worked here for about three weeks,” Jeff said, easing back from her slightly and, Waring could see, squirming a little.
“And why exactly is Waring a pain in your . . . well, your you know what?”
“Well . . .”
“Don’t be shy, young man. Please be truthful.”
“Truthful . . . okay. He, um . . . he gets mad sometimes. Says rude things to me . . . and to customers.”
“He’s rude?” Clarissa Wheat said. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Well . . .” and for the first time Jeff looked guiltily at Waring.
Waring flipped him the bird behind Clarissa Wheat’s back.
“He calls me Blad,” Jeff said with a sudden defiance for which Waring, at his first opportunity, would kick him in the face. “And Sasquatch. And a retard. And he calls me preppy, which makes no sense, because I’m from the most rural mountain town ever. And yesterday he told a customer who was wearing exercise tights that she looked like a doll made of sausage links.”
Clarissa Wheat turned briefly to Waring, frowned as much as her small mouth would allow, then looked back at the young traitor.
“Very good, Jeff,” she said. “Just a few more questions. How familiar are you with the titles of the Spiritual Spotlight section?”
“Actually, I’m quite familiar.”
“Oh?” she said, her voice rising skeptically. “So if I wanted an animated family film without all the moral fuzziness of those Pixar and Disney monstrosities, what would you recommend?”
Jeff answered at once, and he sounded, Waring thought, a little pleased with himself:
“I always liked the Adventures in Odyssey series. They were fun.”
“Excellent,” Clarissa Wheat chirped, nodding in agreement. “And what would you recommend to a parent whose teenage daughter is thinking of, well, engaging in illicit behavior with her boyfriend?”
Again, Jeff seemed to have the answer on the tip of his tongue: “The movie Only Once comes to mind, ma’am. And if you’re trying to, you know, scare it out of her, there’s an old documentary I remember—Teen Sex: Challenge and Decision.”
“Very good!” Clarissa Wheat said. “Jeff is a wonderful employee, Waring. He has the perfect blend of knowledge and compassion.”
But what was this sensation now trickling through Waring’s brain? It amplified with every word Clarissa Wheat spoke. The feeling clearly wasn’t jealousy. Jealousy would require some affection for Clarissa Wheat. Jealousy would imply a slight or a loss in her approval of Blad. No, this feeling was disgust. Pure disgust. Disgust of a certain green hue. His normal level of disgust at the nightmare that was humanity now twisted and rotted by the power Clarissa Wheat held over him, and by that little side glance she now gave him every few seconds, a glance that asked, Are you jealous? No, you skinny old snake! I’m not jealous! And for a moment he thought of The Godfather. The classic moment when Pacino lies to Diane Keaton: after instructing her repeatedly not to ask about his business, he tells her that he didn’t kill Carlo, and wham! the audience hates Pacino, the audience thinks, You son of a bitch, for lying to your wife, and in the next breath, the audience realizes that Pacino just had about seventy-seven people murdered. And for a moment, Waring thought that yes, lying, acting, pretending, like Clarissa Wheat was clearly pretending now, could be just as disgusting as any other crime—and he realized he wouldn’t be able to contain himself.
So when Clarissa Wheat opened her mouth to ask Jeff another coy question, Waring blurted: “Enough!”
He stepped between Blad and Clarissa Wheat.
“Enough what?” Jeff asked.
“Just go away,” Waring barked at him. “Help customers or something.”
“But there aren’t any customers.”
“Go!”
Jeff took a few steps back.
“What do you want?” Waring said pointedly to Clarissa Wheat.
“You know what I want.”
She reached up and removed a bobby pin from her hair, and her tight bun fell loose.
Dark curls spilled over her shoulders.
“Don’t you think we’d have more privacy in your office?” she asked.
“Oh, God,” he said in a pained voice.
“I’ve thought about you often, Waring.”
He felt his body deflate. “So the last time you were here, you and I, we actually, you know . . .”
“Oh, yes,” Clarissa Wheat said, and her tiny smile rose so high that he thought it might pop off her face.
“And I was capable?” Waring went on ashamedly. “I was physically able . . . I mean, I didn’t have any trouble . . . we were able to . . .”
“Oh, yes,” she repeated. “You were absolutely wonderful, Mr. Wax. Now, as I recall, your office was back this way.”
•••
“But why are you here?” Alaura asked Pierce in a pleading whisper, standing so close to him that she could smell the turpentiney paint on his clothes. His face was as striking as she remembered, brown and glowing, but now it was tinged with an anger she had never before seen.
Barney Wheat inched closer to them with dazed interest.
“It’s simple,” Pierce said, “I want to discuss this brick.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m serious, Alaura.”
“But this is a business associate, and today has to go well—”
&nb
sp; She turned to Mr. Wheat. His eyes quivered with confusion. She offered him a strained smile. At this point, she could only hope that Barney Wheat would forget these events as soon as they transpired. “I’m very sorry for this interruption, Mr. Wheat,” she said soothingly. Then, turning back to Pierce: “Thanks for simplifying my emotions about our breakup, jerk.”
“So now you’re tough?”
“I am tough!”
She thrust two palms into Pierce’s chest, stepping into the motion and sending him back several feet. He steadied himself by gripping the Spike Lee section. She Hate Me fell facedown onto the floor.
“What’s your problem?” Pierce said furiously.
“You’re a fake, that’s my problem.”
“What?!”
“I really liked you, you fucking fake!”
“So you have no idea why I’m here?”
“No clue, dumbass.”
“You didn’t throw this brick through my bedroom window?”
Alaura stopped short. She looked at the floor. She had been drinking quite heavily in the three days since he’d broken up with her. But surely she would remember throwing a brick through his window.
“And this was rubber-banded to it,” he said. He handed her a dirty, wrinkled piece of Star Video receipt paper. A note in blocked handwriting read:
MEMBERSHIP CANCELLED, PIERCE!
“That’s creepy,” Pierce said.
Alaura had to agree.
“If you didn’t do it,” Pierce went on, “then tell that little freak Waring to leave me alone. Whatever he told you about me, he’s wrong.”
“Get. Out. Of my—”
Something breezed past Alaura.
It was Barney Wheat.
For a moment, Alaura imagined that the older man was swatting a bug away from the younger man’s face.
But then Barney Wheat grabbed the collar of Pierce’s black hemp shirt and said sternly:
“Ms. Eden asked you to leave.”
Oh shit, Alaura thought. Pierce will kill him.
Pierce raised a hand to dispatch little Barney Wheat.
But Wheat took a deliberate step backward, yanked Pierce’s collar, and pulled the younger man’s shirt over his face.
“What the—” Pierce yelped, his arms flailing.
The Last Days of Video Page 7