When she recovered her faculties enough to speak again Flo pointed a pudgy finger at the novelist.
“You! You’re the reason we’re stuck here like this! God has brought His revenge down to bear on you and we are all going to suffer for it!”
Max said, “Hey, let me clue you in on something: God doesn’t care about those of us in this room, okay? We’re too insignificant for God to worry about because God’s got bigger things to focus on, alright? There’s hunger in Africa; there’s AIDS; nuclear proliferation; priests who molest children; overfishing and how to get rid of Justin Bieber while making it look like an accident.”
Mafi coughed discreetly and then said in a very diplomatic tone, “Perhaps it is best if we change the subject?”
Putting up her hands in a mock gesture of surrender Danielle said, “Hey, she started it, Mafi. People should not ask questions if they’re not prepared to hear the truth.”
***
Six hours later. The poker game was still going on with Laila recovering from earlier losses and now possessing an impressive pile of chips. HeyHowYouDoing was lying atop the pool table, snoring, and Andrea and Danielle were both reading fashion magazines. The Henshaws had isolated themselves as much as was possible in this room by holing up in the corner farthest away from everyone else and just staring into space. Meanwhile, Max had finished his list several hours ago and he and Katie had spent the time from then till now engaged in amicable discussions about Woody Allen films, Ingres paintings, the music of the Pet Shop Boys and favorite restaurants in New York. Every now and again someone would get up to use the restroom or to walk around stretching their legs and at one point when both Mafi and Koni had folded in the poker game they went into the kitchen and brought back a cartful of snacks, canned foods and fruits.
Suddenly, though, Andrea looked up from her fashion magazine when a new sound reached her ears.
“Mafi,” she called, gaining the elder’s attention; just in time, too, for just as he registered that something had caught the younger volcanologist’s attention the sound repeated itself. This time others heard it and all activity and conversation ceased. Mafi stood; again the sound came, a sort of half scratching, half thumping noise.
“It sounds like it is coming from the near the lab!” Mafi declared, rushing out of the game room followed by Koni and Tuli. The others, except HeyHowYouDoing, who was still asleep, and Max, who just didn’t want to be bothered, now stood as well and clustered together in the center of the room.
“What do you think?” Danielle asked the group at large. “Good noise or bad noise?”
“Good noise.” This was from Katie who came over to wrap her arms around Danielle from behind. When the Henshaws saw this, they turned away and went back to the safety of their corner.
“Yes, good noise,” Andrea said, but her voice had a quaver in it which suggested she was merely being hopeful. Katie picked up on this and so amended her own answer to make it even more optimistic.
“I bet it’s a rescue squad,” she stated. “It’s been long enough, hasn’t it? Max, don’t you think it’s a rescue squad?”
“How the fuck should I know?” the writer said.
Now a heavy repeated banging was heard, loud enough to awaken HeyHowYouDoing from his nap. Apprised of the situation by Laila he wordlessly went off to aid his countrymen in the investigation, his face revealing that he was as hopeful as anyone else that it was indeed a rescue squad.
“Max,” Danielle began, “perhaps you should go too.”
“What for?”
“All the other men went.”
“Danielle, have I ever struck you as the type of guy who would be useful in a rescue operation? Why don’t you go? Most of the time you’re more of a man than I am.”
No sooner had he said this, however, than the sound of happy shouting reached them and a mere moment after that HeyHowYouDoing ran back into the game room.
“The French have broken through the lab’s ceiling!” he exclaimed exultantly. “We have been rescued!”
Cheers greeted this news which even managed to crack Max’s diffidence; he joined in the backslapping and handshaking because as far as he was concerned it meant he was finally getting the hell out of Antarctica.
After Mafi heard what the French rescuers, who had arrived from their research station on McMurdo, had to say about conditions outside, and after he had gone up through the hole the French had cut in the roof to take a look at the buried station himself he finally allowed his guests and staff to return to their quarters to gather their belongings but to please do so quickly and carefully. Once done each person was assisted up a ladder through the lab’s ceiling and across the snow to where the French crew’s Sikorsky was waiting to transport them all to McMurdo.
During the flight one of the rescuers leaned forward and, shouting to be heard over the rotor noise, apprised his new passengers of what had been learned so far about the eruption and its aftermath.
Turns out Erebus’ “eruption” had more in common with a fart than anything else. Those two big blasts they’d heard was all there was to the eruption, really, and although the violent expulsion of gas created a very dramatic plume of ash coming out of the summit it did not produce any red-hot tributaries of deadly lava like what is seen in the Hollywood films. It did, however, shake loose quite a bit of the snow clinging to the volcano’s slopes and the ensuing avalanche buried those facilities closest to Erebus. But again luck prevailed for what could have been fatal disaster turned out to be a mere inconvenience; the amount of snow Erebus sloughed off was simply not great enough to actually wipe those facilities from existence, it was just enough to cover them.
His update finished, he then added:
“We went to your nayBAIRS first, zee Americahns. Zhey were cloSAIR.” He made a face and then whistled. “Boy, deed eet steenk in zhere! Like a sooAIR. Zhere was sheet—pardon my French—all ovAIR zee place!” He went on to explain that when the avalanche occurred the Americans had all apparently rushed into the main building to check the data from their science equipment but that the passageway which led back into the dormitory collapsed soon afterwards stranding everyone in that main building until they were rescued.
“Zhey were gagGEENG and had cotton stuffed up zheir nostrils but it deed not help any. Zhey even tried spilling zee, how do you say?, laundry soap all ovAIR zee floors but it deed not help. Zhey had spent zee en-tie-AIR time vomiting and trying to hide from zee steenk! Very sad.”
Chapter 21
Three evenings later Max was reading in his den when Katie knocked on the door.
“Just thought I’d let you know that Diego has turned in his homelessness story,” she said.
Max sat up straight.
“When?” he asked.
“Today; his editor messengered the final draft to my office this morning.”
“Well, where is it?”
“You’re not reading it, Max,” Katie said with a twinkle.
“Why the hell not?”
“Well, two reasons,” his metamour began, “one, I don’t get very many chances to tempt you with something you really, really want only to keep it from you, and two, this…” She reached into the back pocket of her slacks and pulled out a folded piece of note paper. Handing it to Max she said, “That was included with the manuscript.”
Max opened the note. In Montrose’s handwriting, which Max always thought was kind of effeminate, was this message:
Dearest Katie,
As promised here is your story and I do hope it meets with your approval. Thank you so much for allowing me to be part of something so worthwhile and important. The less fortunate in this country are truly lucky to have someone like you working on their behalf and I do hope that if there is anything else I can do for you concerning this project you won’t hesitate to call me at home. Best of luck in this endeavour and give Danielle my love. Why don’t the two of you call me soon? Simone and I would love to have you over for dinner.
Che
ers,
Diego.
P.S…Our mutual friend, Max, will most assuredly beg you to read my ms but why don’t we keep it from him for now? That and the fact that I finished before him will absolutely drive him nuts, don’t you think?
D.
“Moron!” Max snarled, crumpling the note.
“Hey!” Katie hurried forward and snatched the wadded up paper from him. “Be careful with that, I want to add it to my scrapbook. It’s not everyday a girl gets a personal handwritten note from such a famous writer; a writer who’s a knight of the realm, no less.”
“A writer who’s a knight of the realm,” Max mimicked Katie. “You and Montrose can both kiss my ass. Besides, all I have to do is live here a few more years and they’ll make me a knight of the realm, too. Anyway, I can write you all the notes you’d like.”
“But yours would say ‘Fuck off’ or contain some obnoxious joke about Nebraska. No thank you. Anyway, how’s your story coming?”
Max told her the story was pretty much how he left it before going to Liverpool, that he more or less had the framework of the tale all set and that all he needed now was the time she promised him with someone who is formerly homeless in order to add some authentic-sounding details to the narrative.
Katie nodded.
“Well, that was the other reason I came to bug you now. I found someone to help you; a brave woman willing to put up with you. Can you come by my office tomorrow?”
***
“Will he mind that I haven’t read any of his books?” Jenna Trachsel asked Katie the next morning. She was the young woman whom Katie had chosen to give Max whatever information he needed to complete his story and she was now in Katie’s office at Rivers Foundation headquarters. Jenna was nearing thirty and had once spent just over eleven months living on the streets of London. Often, when Katie visited the particular shelter at which Jenna worked she would often find Jenna sharing stories about her homelessness experience that could be, depending on the tale, funny and adventurous or sad and heartbreaking.
This willingness to share her stories was one of the reasons Katie chose Jenna for this favor. However, the primary reason had to do with the fact that Jenna was really quite attractive, and Max Bland simply behaved better around attractive women.
Katie said, “No, he won’t mind that you haven’t read any of his books, Jen. In fact, it’ll probably work to your advantage. I mean, I live with him and think he’s a god in the literary world but if I even bring up his writing when he’s in the wrong mood then heaven help me.”
Jenna said, “He’s that bloke what’s been on the news recently, right? About that suicide, right?”
“God, don’t mention that to him,” Katie sighed. “In fact, don’t mention a lot of things to him: the Middle East; George Bush; the Boston Red Sox; organized religion; marmite; Nicole Richie; Africa; United States healthcare; conservative Christians; Wayans Brothers films; the Beach Boys—”
She would have continued but the phone on her desk beeped.
“Katie?” issued Jesminda’s voice from the speaker. “He just stepped off the elevator.”
Moments later Max entered the office carrying his camera bag. He gave a nod to Katie and tossed something at her which she caught.
“I picked it up for you down in the lobby,” he said.
It was a box of Bendicks Bittermints, one of Katie’s favorite snacks.
“Thank you. And I was just feeling the urge for a bite before lunch. Max, this is Jenna Trachsel; Jenna, Max Bland.”
“Ah,” Max said, shaking the young woman’s hand. “Are you meant to help me, then?
“Yes, sir,” Jenna replied. “Ms. Shaw has filled me in on what you’re after so hopefully I can help.”
“Should be simple; I’ll pay you, of course, for your time.” He reached into the camera bag and pulled out his digital voice recorder “I hope you won’t mind if I record your answers to some questions while we’re out and about?”
Jenna told him that would be no problem at all and then asked how he’d like to begin.
“I dunno,” Max answered. “I mean, what I’d like is for you to show me how you typically spent your days and nights back when you were homeless—what you did; how you kept safe; how you ate; where you slept…things like that. Of course, I’ll adapt to your work schedule.” He looked questioningly at Katie.
“Oh, I’ve spoken to Jen’s supervisor at the shelter,” Katie said. “I’ve told her Jen is on special assignment until otherwise noted.”
“And your nighttime schedule?” asked the writer. “Can your significant other spare you for a few hours for a couple of nights?”
Jenna smiled.
“Well, I talked it over with my imaginary boyfriend yesterday and he tells me to take all the time I need even though I may have to miss that imaginary dinner with his imaginary parents.”
Katie suppressed a chuckle. If Jenna had weighed two-hundred pounds and looked like Ricky Gervais in drag Max wouldn’t have appreciated the wisecrack. Instead he laughed and enjoyed the joke. Being pretty has its advantages.
***
Max and Jenna left the Rivers Foundation and went straight to the borough of Hackney. The cab dropped them off before a rather dilapidated housing project on a rather dilapidated avenue about a block from Kingsland Waste. Max took a look around. It was the kind of weedy, neglected neighborhood common in the Bronx of his youth; a neighborhood just begging to be gentrified. The sidewalks were cracked; the buildings looked exhausted and the populace apparently had nothing better to do at eleven-thirty on a weekday morning than stand around outside the apartment towers watching the world go by while drinking God knows what out of brown paper bags. Max cut an odd figure in this neighborhood dressed as he was in a custom-tailored Armani suit.
“So, this is it,” Jenna stated. “I spent most of my homeless year right in this vicinity.”
“You from here?” Max asked. He began snapping pictures with his camera to use as visual references later when writing.
Jenna shook her head.
“I’m from Brixton. But Hackney is where I was when I lost everything.”
She explained that several years ago she was living in a rented house in Hackney with her boyfriend, a bloke from Manchester who sold marijuana. She had found her weed-dealing lover exciting and daring. Besides, business was good and because he was careful and because he only sold marijuana the cops were never really a threat.
“We were under the cops’ radar,” Jenna said. “When you’ve got a city full of coke dealers, meth labs and IRA bombers then who really cares about a small-time weed dealer in Hackney? But then 9/11 happened and suddenly everyone was on the radar. Just a few months after 9/11 the cops raided our house which couldn’t have happened at a worse time because just six weeks earlier Trevor had decided to not only sell weed but to grow it as well. He had a hydroponics lab set up in the basement.”
Jenna was arrested along with Trevor and spent eight months in jail.
“The funny part was that I was never part of Trevor’s drug operation. Sure, I smoked some of the weed but all I ever really did was spend the money he made; it was his brother and his best mate, Liam, who were partners in the business but back then if you were even remotely associated with any crime then you were potentially a suicide terrorist so off to prison I went.”
When she was released after serving five months her family in Brixton had wanted nothing to do with her, and the friends in Hackney she’d had, which were all Trevor’s friends/customers, were either in jail themselves or fled to parts unknown.
“So I literally had nothing, Mr. Bland, and so I ended up on the street.”
“Wow. Seems like that came at you fast.”
“It blew me away, Mr. Bland. You never really expect something like that to happen, do you?”
Max gave her the kind of look a father might give a child who was claiming she was completely innocent though there were cookie crumbs all down the front of her dress.
Jenna offered no objection. They sat down on a bench fronting the street and Max gave her the rundown on what he had so far in his story and where in particular he was stuck—his protagonist, Herbert, needing to improvise a stove in order to cook some ramen noodles he had found.
When he was done Jenna asked, “Why ramen noodles?”
Max blinked.
“Um…well, he found the package, you see. Someone had thrown them away.”
“No, I get that but why did you make it ramen noodles?”
“I dunno,” Max said. “It just popped into my head, I guess. Anyway, Herb needs a stove to cook these things with and…what’s wrong?”
Jenna was shaking her head and frowning.
“Does it have to be ramen noodles?” she finally asked.
“Well…um…no. I mean, the story hasn’t been published yet so nothing’s really official. Why, what’s wrong with ramen noodles?”
“Nothing; I happen to like ramen noodles—especially on my budget—but a typical homeless person would never bother with them even if they were handed to him or her for free.”
“Why not?”
“Well, because they have to be cooked.”
“Right, this is why I need you to tell me how to jury-rig a stove.”
“But I have no idea how to jury-rig a stove, Mr. Bland, because during the entire year I was living on the streets I never would have tried to cook a package of ramen noodles. In fact, I never cooked anything.”
“Then how did you eat?” Max asked. “My character has to eat and he has a package of ramen noodles to cook.”
“Your character needs to forget the ramen noodles and get some food that doesn’t require jury-rigging a stove,” Jenna declared. She took a look at her watch. “Listen, are you hungry now?”
Two for One-Relatively Speaking (The Two for One series) Page 20