He couldn’t believe toy manufacturers would waste money on a flick that clearly had zero chance of ever spawning a sequel. Not that Larry didn’t already try his hand at making a “true” adult version, Illegal Aliens, a Hispanic tour-de-force where he upped the number of skeletal monsters and cast newcomer “Sigourney Beaver.”
But even without a porn parody, Larry could never take the original seriously. If the fictional crew didn’t want to have such a nightmarish encounter, maybe they should have named their spaceship something less haunting than the fucking Nostromo.
“Would they have run into all that trouble if they’d called it something jokey like The Hull Truth or The Gone Fission?” he’d asked his wife on their third date. She reminded him, as they curled up in its vast, faux leather backseat, that he was affectionately calling his Ford Grenada “The Rhinowagon” and look where that had gotten him…
Larry slapped the toy away, breaking its tail against the doorjamb, then shoved the kid into the glass box surrounding the rumbling popcorn cauldron, not caring who saw him do it. He figured it was too late to win over the crowd.
“Before you were born, you had a tail,” Larry told the boy for consolation as the butter bubbling from the metal pot scalded his shoulder and he screamed and ran to hide under the row of gumball machines. The boy would remember those words until his death. Which was about fifteen minutes away.
“Does anyone know we’re making this movie?”
“It’s gonna be a surprise.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
“Do you know your lines? I think I’m just gonna be ‘Jack’ again to save time.”
“Save money, you mean. Will we ever get paid, Jack? I mean, Larry.”
“Patience.”
“We can’t afford patients.”
“I never thought I’d say this, but can we please hurry up so I can go fuck someone I hate for a small amount of money?”
“Almost done.”
“Can I be one of the cops this time? How come Joe and Freddy always get to be the cops? And they get to play those two other assholes. They get all the best lines.”
“Listen to me. I need you to be who I need you to be. You see, men, because of our successful infiltration of the adult film community, we have an unprecedented opportunity to blur the line between reality and movies once and for all!”
“You just wanna make a real movie. That’s what everyone in porn wants to do.”
“Yeah, you’re a dime a fuckin’ dozen, Larry.”
“Wrong. Everyone in porn doesn’t want to do this.”
“Where did you get this ambulance?”
“It was mine.”
“Weird.”
“No shit. They’re even weirder in England.”
Ambulance. Same day. Jack leans on the dashboard, his partner driving. They’re arguing over the blare of the sirens. Jack has just asked him a question. More of a riddle really.
“I still don’t understand the question,” Rick says. “Never have. Of course it would make a sound!”
“How do you not understand the importance of this question? There’s a reason people still ask this.”
“The tree makes a sound. Case closed.”
“Why are you pulling over?!”
“Sorry, the siren in that damn song gets me every time.”
Suburban front yard. Same day. Jack and Rick hop out and trot up to an overgrown front lawn with their tackle boxes swinging. A young boy, about 8 or 9, is sitting in the grass with his mother. The woman is holding a bloody towel around the boy’s hands, which are still clutching the tattered remains of a large kite. Rick gently removes the woman’s hands, then some superficial plastic and wood kite fragments to clean the wound a bit, all the while talking to the boy, but really addressing his questions to his mother.
“What happened here, son?”
“His kite got stuck in a tree,” the mother says. “So he was throwing firecrackers at it.”
Jack smiles at the boy.
“Of course, that plan made sense at the time, didn’t it?”
The boy coughs but says nothing. Not needed, Jack stands up and looks around the yard. Rick plucks another kite shard, then carefully tests the boy’s fingers for mobility.
“You did this with some firecrackers?” Rick asks, frowning at the boy’s injuries, keeping his voice even and soothing, the way he was trained.
“Well, he was playing with a can of spray paint and some gasoline, too,” his mother says.
“With spray paint and gasoline, too?” Jack says from behind them, laughing. “What’s that all about, Mom? You all out of sharks and chainsaws?”
Rick glares at Jack to shut up.
“Did the paint can explode?” he asks.
“Yes,” his mother sighs. “I guess he wanted to see what was inside.”
“What was inside?” Jack says, suddenly interested. “What was inside? I’ve always wanted to know this.”
“We’re going to need to take a little ride now...” Rick tells the boy, trying to ignore Jack.
Jack crouches down next to them.
“No, seriously, what was inside?”
Rick is gritting his teeth.
“Jack, will you please get...”
Jack turns to the mother.
“What was inside the paint can? Anyone get a good look?’
Suddenly Rick is standing up, fists clenched. He takes a deep breath to maintain control and speaks slowly.
“Why don’t you just wait in the truck?” he finally manages, forcing a smile.
“I just want to know what’s in there,” Jack says, defensive. “I mean, it cost this little dumbass two fingers to find out and you’re not even curious? What the hell is wrong with you? Didn’t you ever ask yourself the same question when you were little? Look at you. Of course you did, big city kid like you.” Jack slaps him on the shoulder. The woman looks to Rick, and Rick gives her a shrug and a weary head shake.
“You asked yourself how many balls were rattling around inside spray-paint cans when you were shaking ‘em up and getting ready to vandalize something,” Jack goes on. “They had to be balls, sure. That was obvious. But how big are the balls? And what are they made out of? Ask the fucking kid while we still got the chance...”
Rick starts walking the boy to the ambulance, calling out to his mother.
“Now, we can’t let you ride in the back unless we tie you down, so I’m going to need you to follow us…”
“My car is out of gas,” she says, embarrassed.
Jack steps in front of them.
“One last question. Which tree did the kite get stuck in?” he says, holding up his stethoscope, smiling. “I need to check something. Me and my partner are sort of in the middle of a debate.”
The doors on the back of the ambulance slam, and Rick climbs in, pulling out of the driveway with their hideous broken siren blaring while Jack runs to get to the other door. He has to run to jump in.
Ambulance. Same day. Jack and Rick weave the ambulance through traffic. Jack is driving now, and Rick is flipping through his wallet counting the change as an old man crouches down between their seats. The broken siren is off. Tori Amos’ “Space Dog” is on the radio. No real sense of urgency. Jack imagined a porn parody version of the singer who would call herself “Torn Anus.”
“Someone somewhere must know the ending. Is she still pissing in the river…”
“I’m sorry about that,” Jack says. “I was just trying to make the kid laugh. I think.”
“When did you become motherfucking Patch Adams, dude?” Rick asks from between the two front seats where he’s gripping the dashboard to steady himself against Jack’s driving.
“I don’t know. Just trying to make shit interesting. Ruin the betting pool on our burnout rate. But back to my question. So you still think it makes a sound?”
“I think you make a sound,” Rick says, then turning to the patient in the passenger’s seat. “Sir, why don’t you climb
back onto the gurney, please,” Rick says. “I’m trying to budget my lunch.”
“I’m fine,” the old man insists, grabbing the handle over the passenger’s window. “My arms are strong. I ride the subway every day without falling over. I just want to look out the window.”
“No, the reason you’re not on that gurney is because that’s for people who are actually hurt,” Jack laughs. “Not birdwatching.”
“Please, sir,” Rick says. “Let’s get you back onto that gurney, right now.”
The old man grips the handle tighter.
“I’m fine up here, boys. Don’t you worry about me. There ain’t no windows in the back of this thing. When you going to get around to fixin’ that?”
“Yeah, we’ll get right on that for you,” Jack grumbles. “If it’s one thing we need back there, it’s windows so people like you can keep using us for a free taxi service.”
The old man purses his lips, and Rick holds up a hand.
“Come on, Jack…”
“We know this guy,” Jack snaps. “Just like his wrinkled ass knows our routes, knows the insurance, knows which crew has seen too much of him this week. He’s a Frequent-”
“‘Scuse me?!” the old man snorts.
“Jack, you know we’re not allowed to use that term anymore.”
“You heard me,” Jack says. “How many times have we driven you to the hospital so you can walk right past the fucking front door and get your lottery ticket on the corner?”
“Relax, Jack,” Rick says. “Who gives a shit? He ain’t hurting anyone.”
“These Emergency Rooms are getting weirder and weirder. It’s not right that I know all your middle names by now. You’d think they were in line for a rollercoaster instead of waiting to endure a thumb up their ass for a fix. Redeeming their fuckin’ Frequent Flyer miles…”
“Just drive.”
“Boy, I’ve never had a thumb up my...”
“Enough,” Rick says.
“Not even close to enough,” Jack says. “I know this guy. I watched him the last time he called us. He turned right around at the emergency room doors and went to the leather shop a block over.”
“Huh?”
“He was getting the buckle fixed on his Civil War belt,” Jack says. “He’s wearing it right now. I seriously doubt his broken belt buckle had anything to do with his ‘chest pains.’”
“How do you know that he was getting a belt fixed?”
“Because I went in there after him and acted like I was his grandson. I had to pay for the repair to get the information. So I walked out the door and snapped off the tooth, then took it back into the leather shop again so he wouldn’t know.”
“Jack, you’re like the worst private eye of all time.”
“Son, there’s definitely something wrong with him,” the old man agrees.
“And you did all this when you said you were taking a shit last Thursday?” Rick asks him.
“Probably,” Jack says.
“Just drive, dude, still gotta get there, remember?”
“Fuck that,” Jack says. “Maybe we have to get there, sure, but we could’ve been carrying some kid with his head caught in a lawnmower instead of this worthless piece of shit.”
“You can’t fit a lawnmower back there,” the old man lights up. “Not with those fumes. Now if you had some windows-”
“Shut the fuck up,” Rick says.
“Ambulance. Same day.”
“I know where I am, Jack.”
“The whole point of the question is, how do you know it would make a sound if no one was there?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m so bored with that puzzle. Okay, maybe there’s no people there, but there’s other things there, too. Other things that can show evidence that it made a sound.”
“That’s not the point. I mean, imagine that there’s nothing there. No way to prove it-”
“But there is something there. Just by saying there is a tree there to fall down, you’re saying that there’s something there. To have a tree, you need an environment that supports trees, that means that there would have to be animals. And animals have ears, asshole.”
“Animals have assholes?” Jack says, acting confused. “Listen, the point of the whole fucking question is this, if nothing is effected by an action, did the action happen at all?”
“Of course. At least it did with your stupid tree quiz. Now, if you give me an example that ain’t some Aristotle crap and has rules that make some sense, I’ll give it some more thought.”
“You ever hear of quantum physics? Yes? No? They say that, until an electron or a photon or a proton or whatever the fuck it is, is observed, it’s in two places at once...”
“The only thing scarier than you talking philosophy is you talking physics.”
“...so, unless the tree is observed, then it’s not doing shit, even if it’s cut down, on fire or walking around.”
“You realize that, ever since I met you, I’ve hesitated to give you any reason to run with a little bit of knowledge because you always miss the point and take everything into a direction that suits you.”
“What? Okay, what if-”
“It’s like you’re saying, if a man punches a man in the face, if there’s no face to punch, does he punch a man in the face. It makes no fucking sense-”
“But-”
Rick leans over and punches Jack in the face. Not too hard. Just enough to make his teeth clack and make a point.
“That’s what I’m talking about.”
“Motherfucker,” Jack mumbles, rubbing his mouth on his fist. The punch is effective, and Jack’s quiet for at least 23 seconds.
“Okay, what if you replaced your daughter’s dead dog with one that looks exactly the same?”
“Aaaah!”
“Just listen-”
“Where the hell did that question come from? That shit’s in Pet Sematary! A-ha! Spelled with an ‘S,’ by the way.”
“And?”
“I don’t know. I guess it would depend on how old she was, how sensitive she was, but how many lies would you have to tell over the years to keep up the illusion? It’s not worth it, to have to lie to your family for how long? I mean, if Pet Seminary taught us anything…”
“Okay, what if it was a stranger? What if the swap was timed perfectly?”
“Wait, so now you’re saying, what if we went around replacing dead dogs with sneaky copies? Is that really a rational question? You going to find some kid and her dog then sneak into the house the moment it dies and swap it with-”
“Obviously I’m talking hypothetically. And why did you say ‘her’ just now?”
Rick ignores that question and answers Jack’s other one.
“Then I’d say no. A tree that falls in the forest makes a sound. Definitely. You know why? Because a dog makes a sound, dude. We all make sounds. And the only animal you can replace without any guilt when it dies, and this happens all the goddamn time, is a fucking goldfish. You know why? Because it doesn’t make a sound. Forget Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. A goldfish don’t say shit. No matter what hole you stick it in.”
“Okay, think about this accident we’re heading for right now…”
“Yes, please, do that. Start thinking about your job, man.”
“…what if, when get there, we come across a car wreck and someone who’s unconscious with a dead puppy under their arm. And the truck they hit was on its way to the pound and happened to be full of the exact same puppies? And we could go over to the truck and replace the dead puppy without the girl ever waking up and knowing…” he trails off.
“Knowing what?”
“Knowing about this bad thing had happened to her.”
“We’re not talking about trees or dogs here anymore, are we, Jack?”
“Not sure that we ever were.”
Rick stares at him hard. Jack tenses for another punch.
“In that case, Jack, it makes a sound.”
“Fuck that. You’re wr
ong.”
They park just past the comet trails of blood on the pavement, just like they were trained to do, then they rush to the girl lying unconscious on the sidewalk. Rick has trauma dressings and tape. One look at the girl and he grabs the intubation kit, too, along with his bag of shots, the “Halloween bag of suckers” as Jack calls it; fentanyl, morphine, and Versed, depending on if they have to really plug her up. He’s relieved to see her chest moving.
“Dog got her,” a kid on the scene says around his ice cream bar, but Rick knows this just by looking.
He checks her injuries, deep, ragged bites on her forearms, massive tissue loss on both legs. He checks her eyes for a response, then her blood pressure. Jack gets the gurney off the back and compacts the legs and wheels to prepare to load her up.
“I don’t like her eyes,” Rick tells Jack. “She didn’t flinch when I pinched her, nothing. Shock. Or worse. Be ready to move when I move.”
“Where are we on the map?” Jack asks. Rick seems confused by the question, then understanding washes over his face.
“Let’s get her out of here before they get here.”
Too late.
Another ambulance arrives on the scenes. Their former rivals, the two Mikes, Big Mike and Little Mike, come flying in hot. There’s no siren on their vehicle, as it’s been converted into something a little different. The side of the box reads:
“Highway Wildlife Services.”
Under that, a smaller, hand-written sign:
“Nuisance Wildlife Control Operator. Skunk Specialists!”
Then under that, even smaller:
“Not A Dog Catcher. Please Call Daytona Animal Control.”
They jump out of their truck, still wrapped up in their own philosophical debate, a stark contrast to Rick and Jack’s conversation.
The Last Projector Page 29