Swing State (15 page)

27.

W
ELCOME BACK TO
L
OVE
B
ALLOON
, Z
ACK
Fox says.

The cameras cut to the contestants—nine, now—standing on risers on the dark soundstage. Behind them Jenna's face is on the big screen.

“What's my favorite type of cake?”

“Chocolate,” the contestants say in unison. They grin at each other.

“That's right,” she says. “I've been having a stressful day at work. I'd like to celebrate the weekend by having some chocolate cake. And you're going to make one for me. You will be given fifty dollars. You'll go to the store and buy all the supplies you'll need. I will judge the two best cakes. I bet you're wondering how I'll know which two cakes are the best.”

Everyone nods.

“One of my friends is going to help me out.”

Zack Fox smiles. He says, “I'd like to introduce you to celebrity chef Pierre Lefevre!”

Cut to a contestant: “Pierre Lefevre! He's only one of the most famous chefs in the world. He's got restaurants in Paris, Vegas, and New York. And his TV shows are great, too.”

Another contestant: “I watch
CookRight with Pierre
. Like, all the time.”

And another:
“ChefWars
is my favorite show. I can't believe he's here.”

“ 'Allo!” he says to the contestants. His catchphrase.

They shout back, “ ‘ALLO!”

“Today you are going to make a cake for Jenna. I will taste the cakes and decide the winner. The best cake will win three hundred points. And for both finalists, a prize.

On screen, Jenna's face is replaced by a cooking set.

“Pierre Lefevre cookware for you,” he says. “The best in the world.”

“Now, are you ready?”

“YEAH!”

“To the store.”

They pile into SUVs and are driven to FreshMart.

One contestant, a striker, says to the camera, “Cook? I never cooked before. That's why I need to win this thing. So I can get Jenna to cook me whatever I want.”

A normal guy says, “My mom and I used to cook all the time. She showed me some tricks.”

Another normal guy says, “She said chocolate was her favorite, and I looked it up just in case. I wanted to know how to make good chocolate desserts. And now we have to make one!”

The contestants run around the store. Most congregate in the cake aisle, where they look at boxes of mix. One normal contestant heads straight for the candy aisle.

“Fifty dollars is a lot of money for a cake,” he says. “I'd better make it good.”

He selects several expensive-looking triangular chocolate bars, then heads for the dairy aisle. Some contestants are already there looking at eggs. He finds heavy cream.

Several aisles away, a striker stands looking at a tub of frosting.

Pierre Lefevre waits by the cash registers. He yells, “FIVE MINUTES!”

Most everyone gets change back when they pay for their groceries.

The SUVs drive the contestants to a new location.

The group is brought inside a huge, plain building, each carrying a bag into an expanse of glistening steel ranges and ovens. Each of nine stations is stocked with cookware: bowls, cake pans, whisks, and spoons.

“You have one hour to make your cake,” Pierre Lefevre says. “Begin!”

Some contestants lay their cookware out first, some read cake mix boxes, others immediately dump ingredients into bowls.

“An hour's a long time,” one contestant says. “I'll take my time and make sure I do the best job I can.”

“I've made cake before,” another says. “It's hard to get frosting to look good on a hot cake.”

Cut to Pierre Lefevre: “I enjoy watching groups of people cook in my kitchen. Some of them have cooking experience, others do not. It always interests me to see the different approaches people take. But I do not watch too hard because I know I will have to eat from all their cakes. It is hard not to correct them when they make mistakes.”

Mix prepared, one contestant pours batter into a rectangular pan. The next adds brown sugar. Another forgets to grease the sides of a round pan. Yet another adds an entire small bottle of
vanilla extract. Still another puts a cake into the oven, then turns it on.

The first contestant to get his cake into the oven—who said his mom taught him tricks—removes his cake. He flips the pan upside down and taps gently on the underside. His cake falls onto a serving plate.

“When I saw the cake,” he says, “I wasn't that worried. It looked fine. Not perfect, but fine. Plenty of time.”

“Ten minutes,” Pierre Lefevre says, pacing the kitchen. “Make them look pretty.”

“I never made a cake before,” one contestant says. “How was I supposed to know you have to grease the pan?”

The contestants are either frosting their cakes or staring into ovens. The first contestant heats a pan of cream on the stove. He pours the hot cream into his bowl of chocolate triangles.

“It looks really bad at first,” he says. “It always does. I remember my mom saying that you'll think you made a big mistake. But whisk it, then taste it. You'll be surprised.”

He sticks a finger into the mix, then takes a taste and smiles, nodding.

The camera cuts to a digital clock counting down to zero. “FIVE SECONDS,” Pierre Lefevre shouts. “THREE.”

The contestants put the finishing touches on their cakes.

“Time is up,” he says.

The kitchen is instantly clean of all cooking supplies as Pierre stands next to Zack Fox, looking at the line of contestants. On the counter in front of each is either a cake or a pile of scraps.

One says on camera: “I never baked a cake before. Or frosted one.”

Another, a striker: “I made layers. I divided the mix into three small pans and joined them with frosting.”

Pierre says, “Let's see what we have here, eh?”

“This one,” Pierre says after expertly cutting a slice, “is very good, but your frosting is horrible.”

“This one is tasteless,” Pierre says of another. “Overdone.”

Then: “This one is very nice. A little plain in presentation, but nice.”

“A little plain,” the contestant says, “but nice. Just like me!”

Pierre eats from every cake. The contestant who made layers is singled out—not the most elegant, the chef says, but ambitious—as is the contestant who made his own chocolate sauce.

The plain cake and the chocolate sauce cake are the final two.

The contestant who made the layers says, “Today wasn't my day. I thought the design would be enough. I should have spent more time putting the frosting on. Or let the cake cool a little. I bet that would have helped.”

“These two are the best,” Pierre Lefevre says. “Congratulations. Both of you win a set of my cookware, plus my new cookbook,
Pierre's Way Every Day
.”

The contestants smile and nod.

“If I win
Love Balloon
,” one contestant says, “I can cook for Jenna with my new pots and pans.”

“I bet you're wondering how I will determine which cake is the victor today,” he says.

They both nod.

“The answer is I will not. Jenna will do that for me.”

She walks in and stands next to Pierre. The contestants have only ever seen her on-screen.

One contestant, a striker says, “Dude, she's hot. I knew she was a looker because of the TV and all, but man!”

Another: “Whoa!”

Another: “She isn't as tall as I thought.”

“Hello, everyone,” she says.

Cut to a contestant: “Her voice sounds nicer in person.”

“I'm going to sample these two cakes. The best one wins three hundred points. Plus, I'll take the rest home and finish it later.”

Everyone laughs.

Cut to a striker: “She can take me home and finish me later.”

“Let me try this one first,” she says, cutting into the plain cake.

“Wow! This is really good. I didn't think it was going to be anything special—is that a horrible thing to say? It looks so normal. But it's great.”

Cut to the contestant who made the cake: “Yeah. Just like me!”

She tries the second cake. “Oh, wow,” she says. This cake is good, but the frosting, especially. This isn't store-bought. Someone made this. And it's really good!”

A shot of the second contestant. “Thanks, Mom,” he says, “for teaching me how to make chocolate sauce.”

“Wow. This is a hard decision.”

“Take your time,” Zack Fox says.

“It is hard,” Pierre Lefevre says. “Both cakes are very good.”

“They are,” she says. “But you know, after thinking about it, I know which one is the best. It's going to be . . .”

Cut to commercial.

When the show starts again:

“But you know, after thinking about it, I know which one is the best. It's going to be . . . this one.”

She points to the plain cake.

“Even though it's not very exciting, and the other one has frosting, I like this one better.”

The contestant whoops for joy.

“Excellent choice,” Pierre Lefevre says.

Zack Fox, smiling, awards three hundred points.

* * *

Zachariah read back what he wrote.

This is dumb, he thought. It wouldn't happen like this.

For one thing, the plain cake wouldn't even get to the final round. Maybe it tastes good, but the guy who made layers would get further along. Presentation.

Even if he was a striker.

And another thing: she wouldn't pick a cake that tasted worse than the one made with real chocolate. Zachariah couldn't wait for the day when he could afford to make chocolate sauce himself. Whenever it was a birthday—his or his dad's—frosting was always premade, from the store. He couldn't get his dad to buy chocolate bars and cream. Especially now. His dad had been so mad at him, first about the barbecue sauce, then about the cost of his broken arm.

He couldn't keep writing the game show, trying to let losers like himself win. It was broken and he knew it.

He had to do something. He couldn't just wish, or pretend he had powers. Not any more. Not since Dixon Dove.

Instead of writing his game show, he had to work on his plan. Getting everything together. He knew how to impress her.

28.

S
HIVERING IN THE APARTMENT.
L
IBRARY CLOSED.
Too early for pool.

Needed money. Bad. Didn't think the check would come from Ahmed. Worked four days. Training wages. Minimum. But they'd keep it. At least. Might take more. Sue. Hoped not. No way to pay.

Everything going so good. Stupid. Thinking he and Mark were friends. And Artie. Going to see the Sox together. Playing pool. Bars. Hanging out. Now he could never call. Not after Ahmed. Yelled. Maybe cost Mark his promotion. How could you let a trainee do this? A man on the fourth day of the job putting a car on a lift unattended.

Hummer pulled in. Mark said hey, man, check it out. Ever drive one of these over there? Meant Humvee. Knew what he was talking about. Said no, he never drove a Hummer.

When they went out to find one they were going to ride Jeeps. But didn't want anyone to see. Took a transport instead. Peck. We'll throw him in the back. If anyone asks, we'll say we're moving supplies. But no one did. Went out. Got one. A prisoner. Brought him back.

Mark said hey, man. You want to?

What?

Drive it.

It was awesome. Black. Looked brand new. They got discontinued. Heard that. Couldn't remember where. Maybe the radio. Or someone told him. Wasn't sure how it looked so new. Someone famous? Probably not. From Boston probably. Mass plates.

Whose is it?

No idea. Never saw it here before.

No man. You take it.

I've driven one. You should.

So he did.

It was okay.

Around the building. Could've gone straight into a bay. Didn't think anyone would mind. Wouldn't show on the odometer.

Drove in. Got out.

Didn't know what he did. Or didn't do. Thought it was the same. Mark showed him. A bunch of times every day. Remembered going through all the steps in his head.

Usually news radio for Doris. Wasn't there. Music instead. Echoes all over the garage. “You Shook Me All Night Long.” Loved it before he went. Him and Artie. Driving to Boston. To see the Sox. Or just around town. Turn it up! Echoed in the garage. All songs echoed there. Made it sound like an arena. Felt the music in his chest. System of a Down. Saw them at the Civic Center. Sounded like that. Echoey. He wanted to see AC/DC. Angus. Be right up front.

The drive. The room.

The desert.

AC/DC.

We have to get them back. For what they did. Show them.

Behind his eyes.

Oh shit.

Oh shit oh shit.

Keep it together man. Keep it together. Don't freak out. Don't let them see. They think it's cool. You love this song. Great song. Want this job. She was a fast oh god machine driving Peck his head man keep it together. Follow the steps do your job she kept the motor together clean keep it together the lift. Hummer. Transport. The lift change keep it together.

Hit the button. Started moving up.

Then a second where he saw and knew but couldn't move and felt his mouth go noooooo like in a movie when someone shoots and someone else jumps in front of the bullet. It wasn't like that. He knew. One second alive. The next dead. Head a red and gray cloud. Metal taste. His buddy got shot and they went out to get one of them. Take a prisoner. And they got him and fucked with him so bad the broomstick the pig impersonation Peck and his video camera they hit him and kicked him pissed all over him his face all he knew in English was please please didn't know if he was on camera probably was kicking the guy pissing on him and when they were done with the prisoner they went to take him back and he got shot right in the leg they all got shot ambushed so worried about dumping the guy they weren't careful weren't paying attention oh God Peck his head was there one second not there the neck brains all over him tasted like metal head there then nothing his head was nothing but a gray cloud blood tasted like metal in his mouth Peck's brains in his mouth please oh please.

But the Hummer was like that. In the air. Then fell. Landed on the back bumper. A huge CRASH. Breaking glass. Echoed. And there was Ahmed. Mark said he came in Thursdays.

Watching him drop a Hummer off a lift.

And not just a new Hummer. One with Mass plates. A Masshole's Hummer.

Ahmed yelled and yelled. Everyone stopped. Mark first, then him. I can't believe Sheila would recommend someone as incompetent as you. You're fired. Hopefully your pay will cover the damage you caused to this car.

Ahmed poked him in the chest. Leave the shirt. It's mine.

He'd call Sheila. Every garage in town. Do not hire Royal Eggleton.

Walked home. Freezing. No idea what to do.

Letter on the kitchen table. Nothing else.

Sat there. Shaking. Realized he had been since the garage. Since before the Hummer started to slip from the lift.

Didn't know how long he sat.

Needed something. Didn't know what to do. No money. Check gone. None coming in. Had to find something. Had to.

At some point he watched himself pick up the phone. Called the office. It's Roy Eggleton, his voice said. I need an appointment. My benefits ran out. I need to pay the bills. No money. Help.

They told him Monday, nine a.m.

Hoped to get in today. Friday. Had to wait all weekend.

They had to have something. Could go around to garages and apply. But Ahmed would call them all. Do not hire Royal Eggleton.

No construction. No garages. No factories. No call centers. No security. No groundskeeping. Not in the winter.

Didn't know what else to do.

Sat watching himself for a long time.

Back to normal after hours. Back.

Went to the library.

Looked at the want ads. Nothing. Office jobs. Nurses. Nothing he could do. Got on a computer. No email. No one wrote to him. No friends on PalCorral.

The library closed. He went home. Heated beans. Made Minute Rice. Ate. Not much food left. Or money. Get more beans. Rice. Cheapest food. Ramen. Getting sick of it. But needed to eat cheap. Couldn't remember the last time he ate at a restaurant. That ice cream the other day. Five bucks. Twenty ramen. Each beer, twelve packages after tip. But he needed beer. To play. Couldn't just go in. Needed to have one. Look like he belonged. A prop. Like this guy's not drinking? Just playing pool? I can't play a hustler. Had to look right. Weekends especially. People playing on weekends. He'd make some money.

Waited.

Missed baseball. Something to do. On in the background. Paying attention was hard before. Worse since he got back. Didn't know why. Maybe hearing. Listening. Hard to shake. Like finding himself on the ground when cars backfired. Still happened. Hard to sleep. Hard to read. Waiting for something. Always distracted. Didn't have to be. But couldn't stop. Reading gave him a headache. Top of his brain. Always thinking of something else. Pool was easy. Different shots. Fixing cars. Little things. Each nut. Bolt. Belt. Newspapers, no. Hard stringing words together. Couldn't remember the one before.

Hard concentrating on anything. After Peck. Long. The video. College Boy gone. Always knew. Would have said something. Like hey. Those pictures. Guy with the hood. Electrodes. Remember? You want that? Aw, heck, Peck would have said. You're right. We don't want this getting out. But College Boy got hit. Wasn't bad. Hospital, rehab. Flew back. No one there to say anything. Even
though they all knew what College Boy would say. And did it anyway. Recorded him. For personal use, Peck said. My phone. And you know I'm not showing it to no TV channel. Relax. He laughed.

But then Peck. And Long. There one minute. Next, covered. Blood. Tasted like metal. Frick on the ground. Blood. His and Peck's and Long's. Couldn't hear anything. Prisoner running away. Blindfolded, hands tied. Hadn't tied legs. Didn't know why not. Cords in Frick's neck standing out, screaming. Always there in his head. Friends dead. Head a cloud. Frick never emailed. Or called. Donaldson. Waiting. Every day. Hoped he wasn't in the video. Tried to remember. Couldn't. So fast. Had been there. Remembered the phone. Might've been. Had the shovel. Blindfolded, bare feet. Dance, I said! You speaka English? Like in Westerns. Except Westerns had shooting. He didn't do that. Might hurt him. Didn't want to. Just scare him. Humiliate him. Peck, with the pig 'persination. So funny. Like
Jackass
.

Couldn't wait any more. Couldn't sit. Had to go. Grabbed his jacket and walked to Patterson's. Half-full. No one at the table. Practice.

Hello, Roy, Patterson said. How's the job?

Good, he said. Good.

Looking for some pool?

Yes, ma'am.

It's been quiet. Maybe later on.

Maybe, he said. Hope so.

Venerable?

Yes, please, he said. Thank you.

She gave him the beer. He paid, tipped. Brought it to the table. Out of quarters. No roll. Needed change. Got some. Seven dollars left. Lucky.