Leaving as his only assets (1) a Dodge clunker, (2) his house, and (3) the building that housed Star Video and Pizza My Heart—the rent for which, Waring now saw, he was hugely undercharging for.
And now, on top of all this, the county government was scheming against him. Something was going on. And no matter what, it would cost money.
He had broken even, but not for long.
That night, Waring stood in front of West Appleton’s Board of Aldermen—seven wealthy citizens sitting behind a tall curved table that was positioned on a short stage. It was a small room, with scalding, Blockbuster-esque lighting. Large ficus plants were clustered in each corner of the room, as if to distract from the antiseptic vibe of the place, and a ridiculous flag hung from the ceiling that read “West Appleton—Home of Understanding.” Five rows of metal foldout chairs, half-filled with citizens, were lined up behind Waring, who was the only citizen now standing. No one else had even raised a hand when they’d asked for opinions from “the public” on the Green Plaza/ArtsCenter, because no one else, it seemed, was currently concerned that his or her life was on trial.
Standing there, Waring felt like General Zod in Superman II, about to be cast into the Phantom Zone.
“Isn’t there some sort of process?” Waring said. “Some sort of procedure?”
This is our first public meeting on the subject, the head alderman answered into her unnecessary microphone. You will have two weeks to file a grievance if you feel it is necessary.
“But how was I supposed to know?”
The head alderman—a white-haired woman wearing a sunflower-yellow blazer—proclaimed in her amplified, God-like voice that letters had been repeatedly sent, and Waring suspected these letters lay either on the floor of his office or decomposing on his lawn at home. Still, he couldn’t believe that Alaura would not be aware of these proceedings, or that none of his customers would have informed him. But of course Alaura had been distracted—first by that Peckerdick person and now by her stupid “leave of absence”—and most of his customers disliked him.
“Well,” Waring said, clenching a podium for support, “I don’t care. You can’t have it. It’s my property.”
There is also the issue of back taxes.
“Eh?” He stuck a finger in his ear, wiggled it as if to dislodge an obstruction.
Property and business taxes, the head alderman said. We’ve recently finished sorting it out, or we would have informed you earlier. It seems that you owe the county, not to mention the state and federal governments, a fair amount of money.
“Says who?” Waring protested.
Says we, she said.
Someone handed Waring a small stack of papers. Waring leafed through them. They were tax forms—each page reporting more money owed than the last.
Your property has been chosen for many reasons, Mr. Wax, and the proposal has near unanimous support from this board and from various advisory boards.
Waring continued rifling through the tax forms.
The Arts Committee, for example, believes that a performance space for theater and music will act as a symbolic bridge between the communities of Appleton and West Appleton.
“But Star Video is already an important part of West Appleton’s arts community,” Waring said, using Alaura’s words.
There is also a report from the Environmental Advisory Board, which states in no uncertain terms that the proposed Green Plaza/ArtsCenter will have a lower carbon footprint than the decaying building you currently own.
“Decaying?”
In fact, every single advisory committee we tasked with reviewing the proposed Green Plaza/ArtsCenter has returned in the affirmative. That is, against you. County approval is expected within the week. So unless you are willing to submit to negotiations for the purchase of your property by the county . . .
“Absolutely not!”
We will be forced to invoke our right of eminent domain and to seize your property without your consent, with due monetary compensation.
The head alderman announced the amount of said due monetary compensation.
Waring guffawed. Then he turned to look at the audience behind him, whom he had completely ignored until this point. He discovered a small crowd of blank disinterested faces.
To the head alderman, Waring said, “Eminent domain, meaning?”
Meaning we take your land.
“Well,” Waring said, “I’ll see you in court.”
Menacing chuckles rained down from the Board of Aldermen.
Mr. Wax, it is very rare for anyone to successfully challenge eminent domain in North Carolina. In fact, it has never been done. If the vote passes tonight, the building of Green Plaza/ArtsCenter will most certainly come to pass.
“Not if I have anything to say about it.”
In that case, I must ask the audience and my fellow board members to pardon me for my candor. Mr. Wax, your business is seen by many as a blight on West Appleton. Each and every member of this board has had at least one terrible experience in your store. We discuss it often—Star Video is something of a joke around here. You are an embarrassment to this town.
Waring: poleaxed.
That you provide pornography is also a serious issue. Everyone in surrounding counties knows that if you want pornography, you come to West Appleton.
“But the law allows it!”
Of course. We would never stand for censorship, Mr. Wax, and we are offended that you would even imply that. But now with the arrival of a Blockbuster in our town, the existence of Star Video feels a bit . . . redundant.
Waring, for once, was totally speechless.
After many months, we have come to a final vote. Do you have anything else to add, Mr. Wax? May we proceed?
Waring stared at the aldermen. Indeed he recognized several of their faces as people he had yelled at, cursed at, degraded over the years. They were all middle-aged, all wealthy-looking, all staring down at him with flaming, righteous eyes. He could smell their mingling perfumes and colognes, could imagine them watching Pokémon and Snow White with their children. They were entirely different from him—they were businesspeople, successful, motivated, having sought local office in order to better their community or run local scams. They thought of twenty things at once. There were hundred-dollar bills in their purses or wallets. They were him, Waring realized, before he’d left New York.
Waring looked again around the conference room—this had all happened so quickly that he had not taken in the space, and to his right, he was surprised to see Adam Pritt, the owner of Quick Dick’s, and Paulsen Crick from Blockbuster. Pritt was smiling wickedly, Waring thought, like a diminutive Jack Palance, while Crick looked intensely bored as he tapped on a shining, futuristic-looking cell phone. Around them sat a band of similarly tanned and healthy men, and all at once, Waring knew with crystal clarity that they were all in it together—they were investors—they had probably conspired to keep news of Green Plaza/ArtsCenter out of the newspaper—they had been planning for months to take down Star Video. Today was, as Crick had warned, Waring’s day of reckoning.
Then Waring saw Farley. His portly employee aimed a video camera at him from the back of the room; he was filming this entire debacle.
“You’re fired,” Waring said, pointing at the camera. “I mean it.”
Farley didn’t respond, fiddled with device, zoomed in.
Those in favor, say “aye.”
All seven aldermen trumpeted, “Aye.”
Those opposed, say “nay.”
Silence.
Waring yelled, “Nay!”
Final approval for Green Plaza/ArtsCenter is passed. Eminent domain for purposes of urban blight shall be exercised. Mr. Wax’s objections have been noted, and if he decides to challenge the vote, then he will need to contact the county judiciary. Next on the agenda . . . we will discuss the recent application from [name of film studio omitted] to film exteriors in West Appleton, starting September 30 and ending no later that October 17. This
production has already obtained a permit to film in Appleton, in the Historic District and on Appleton University’s campus. But I’m not sure we in West Appleton should be so hasty. I know we’re all excited about Tabitha Gray and Alex Walden coming to town. And my daughter in particular is wound up about Celia Watson. [Chuckles from all.] But we’ve recently learned that the film’s real title is The Buried Mirror, which to me sounds a little, well, suspicious . . .
“Of course, because movies are evil!” Waring yelled, unable to think of anything more clever, and he stalked out of the room.
REALITY BITES
On Alaura’s mind when she awoke that morning was (1) that today she would begin the Advanced Experience at the Reality Center, and (2) that after almost three weeks of mental debate following The Corporate Visit, she was ready to quit Star Video.
So at seven a.m., before walking down from her apartment to meet Karla, her ride to Reality, she called the shop to leave a voicemail, certain that Waring wouldn’t be there this early to answer.
“I have to quit,” she blurted into the phone. She cleared her throat, realized she was more nervous than expected—she’d known it wouldn’t be easy to quit, but she hadn’t anticipated this pang of stomach acid, this dry mouth, this odd sense of weightlessness. But she’d resolved to do it, to finally do it, and to cover several mapped-out points in the message, so finally she continued, speaking quickly, “From Star Video. I need to do this, Waring. I’m sorry. I hope you understand. I’ll work for the next few weeks to help you get on your feet. You need to hire someone. If the store’s going to stay open. And find a new distributor. This is the best thing. For me. I’m almost thirty. Years old. Thank you for understanding.” She coughed. “And sorry to do this on voicemail.”
When she hung up the phone, her legs felt painfully numb.
Later that morning at the Reality Center, after two hours of energy exercises and group cheering (she had to admit that she was tiring of energy exercises and group cheering), the Advanced class—smaller by 50 percent than the Basic class—was ushered into a room of cubicles with cream-colored partitions. The cubicles were numbered, and inside each of them, Alaura could see, was a shiny Mac computer and multiline office phone.
What the hell? Alaura thought.
Thom Trachtenberg, their mighty-haired leader, appeared as if by magic amongst the cubicles. He looked over the class with a benevolent smile, then began one of his typical motivational monologues. His voice rose and fell hypnotically. Alaura listened closely, hoping for some kernel of information, some sliver of philosophy that would bring everything together. But no such kernel, nor sliver, nor rational line of thinking emerged. Nor any of the vibrant, self-confident energy she’d enjoyed for the past few weeks.
Thom’s speech lasted ten minutes, and the concluding gist of it was: “So we all know now how important it is to live with real intention, and the power of investing ourselves in the future, and in the well-being and interconnectedness of others. This is the power of love that we all feel around us, that connects all of humanity. I feel it. Do you feel it?” Alaura’s classmates cheered, but Alaura, looking at the cubicles, could only manage a blunted “yeah-huh.” Thom continued, “I think we all agree how powerful and important this message is and how simple it will be to change the world, one person at a time, if we get this message out there. Don’t you want to change the world?”
Cheers!
“Well, we’re going to help you do that. We’re going to provide you with the platform. Here, today. We have made printouts for all of you, all the things you’ll need to say to change the world, to get the message of Reality out to your friends, and that’s what you’re going to do, that’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to call our friends and show them how to change their lives, to change their world.”
More cheers!
“Does everyone have the iPhones we asked you to purchase in advance of the Advanced Experience?”
Hands shot up holding iPhones, like lighters at a concert. Alaura, meanwhile, fingered her own new iPhone, which was resting in her pocket.
“We want you to text, e-mail, Facebook, instant message, everything! The entire world is there for the taking!”
Even more cheers!
“And you get thirty dollars cash for each prospective classmate who completes Basic. Now go get ’em!”
The group dispersed gleefully.
As Alaura rounded a corner in search of her cubicle, #18, she felt a tingling all over her body, as if she were wrapped in a blanket of pine needles.
Recruiting? The Advanced Experience, the most expensive stage at the Reality Center, was about recruiting?
She found cubicle 18, sat down. On her desk lay a twenty-page printout.
“We’re so happy you’ve decided to continue with us,” a deep voice intoned behind her.
It was Thom Trachtenberg, standing with Karla. They both beamed majestically.
Alaura smiled back, said thanks, and they floated away, carrying their glossy teeth and amazing hair with them.
She began studying her script—in fact, it was a complicated rubric, with pages of alternate responses to different objections a “prospective” might present. After fifteen minutes of studying, she felt prepared to make the first call. But a creeping fear had surfaced—she did not have many family members (only her father, really) or friends (a few old drinking buddies, the girls, Waring, maybe Jeff?). She knew lots of people, but . . .
They would all think she was totally fucking crazy.
But she had to try. Didn’t she? And though she wasn’t quite sure why she did it, the first call she placed was to Star Video.
Waring answered. “Well, well, well,” he said upon hearing her voice. “If it isn’t the deserter.”
“Did you get my message from earlier?” she asked.
“You know I don’t check the messages, Alaura.”
“Waring?”
“What?”
“I have a question.”
“I have a hangover.”
Ignoring him, she read from the script: “I’ve recently experienced the most incredible thing in the past three weeks. And the first person I thought of was you. I’ve finally seen how I can change my life, Waring.” She had almost said, Insert name here. “And I want to share with you the power, the real power—” she made sure to add emphasis, “of this experience. Have you ever felt lost in life, Waring?”
Waring was silent.
She repeated the question.
“Alaura?” he said finally.
“Yes?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
She flipped the pages of her rubric, searching desperately for advice on how to manage hostile responses. “Waring,” she muttered, “this is very important to me.”
“Are you trying to recruit me, Alaura Eden? To this Reality Center shit?”
“I think it could really help you—”
“Shut up, Alaura. Shut up and listen to yourself.”
“Waring, please don’t.”
“Why would you call me unless this is one of those cry-for-help things?”
“It’s not a cry for help. It’s not a cry for help.”
“Well, that’s convincing,” Waring said. “I’m coming to get you. Now.”
He hung up.
Twenty minutes later, Waring was driving with Jeff in the ancient Dodge, his eyes fixed on the streaming road ahead, a phantom ride down an undulating country highway lined with infinite pine trees and the occasional dusty gas station. They were driving to Raleigh. Waring had found the address of the Reality Center in, of all places, a phonebook, which now sat on Jeff’s lap, opened to a small map of the state capital. Both Farley and Rose had agreed to work, at a moment’s notice, and they were currently manning Star Video—that Waring had “fired” Farley a few days ago at the Board of Aldermen meeting was not mentioned. Nor was it mentioned that Farley and Rose had arrived together: Star Video’s biggest and smallest employees had apparently been hanging
out together at a café down the street, talking about Farley’s video store documentary, which they were now both working on. But Waring couldn’t concern himself with these lesser entities.
I might lose Alaura, he thought, but not to some cult.
“So this is your car?” Jeff asked over the rattling scream of the engine.
“I park it behind the store,” Waring said, now regretting his decision to enlist this third lesser entity for backup.
“Why don’t you drive it more often?”
“It’s not registered. And I don’t have a license.”
“I have a license.”
“So?”
“So maybe I should drive.”
Waring considered the suggestion—he was driving too fast. And he was still soused from the night before. So he pulled the car over, and they switched seats.
“So what are we doing exactly?” Jeff asked as he eased onto the highway.
“Search and rescue,” Waring said.
“But what’s the actual plan?”
“We storm in, take her out.”
Jeff pointed a finger at his head, imitating a handgun. “Take her out?”
“No, idiot. Remove her from the building.”
Then Waring remembered the scene from Pulp Fiction, how Sam Jackson had said, “Take her out?” in the exact same way. The young joker was attempting to be funny, and Waring, annoyed that he had missed the obvious reference, barked at Jeff to speed up. When Jeff did not comply, Waring barked at him to pull the hell over. They reswitched seats, and a minute later, Waring once again careened down the highway, over an on-ramp surrounded by orange and yellow flowers, and onto I-40.
Sounding a little terrified (which wasn’t an entirely unsatisfying sound in Waring’s ear), Jeff said, “You really care about Alaura, huh?”
Waring sneered at the blurry road. He should have picked up a deep-fried ham sandwich for the drive—that would have helped with his hangover.
“I care about her too,” Jeff continued. “But if the Reality Center is something she wants to do—”
“She doesn’t,” Waring said. “I heard it in her voice.”
The Last Days of Video Page 14