The Last Days of Video (29 page)

“Uhhhhh,” Jeff said again. “Cool.”

She turned, looked at him coyly over her small shoulder, and swished toward the front of the store.

Jeff: King of the World.

After Match Anderson left
with Tabitha Gray and Celia Watson, all three conveyed in individual SUVs, Waring called a conference with Alaura in
The African Queen.
Alaura surrendered and trudged up the steps carrying a carton of fresh popcorn, though she didn't feel like talking to Waring—she needed to process what had just happened with Match.

For four days, she'd been taking care of her old friend, reconnecting with him late at night when his perpetual director duties went on pause. For four days, they'd hung out and watched movies, like old times, joking and laughing and confessing secrets and sleeping together in his bed, but nothing more than sleeping. But just being with him—and helping him in any way she could—had been enough to bring about, for both of them, she believed, a sense of calm. Match was going to save Star Video. And helping Match
had helped
her
shroud the residual shame she felt attached to the Reality Center, of getting lost in something so ridiculous.

The point was, she was really helping Match. She made sure he ate healthy food. She mixed him smoothies and juices. She told him when to take his pills. She'd convinced him to cut down on the bourbon and the cigarettes. The result: He'd told her that he hadn't been seeing Hitchcock nearly as much and that things were going well on set. He hadn't mentioned hallucinating, nor ranted manically, for the past seventy-two hours. She was fairly sure he wasn't sleeping much, but altogether, he seemed to be improving. And there were only eight days left of principal photography. Three days until the celebrity auction at the Siena Hotel. They were almost there.

But then the door to Star Video had opened, and in had walked . . .

“Tabitha Gray,” Waring said, his breath especially rank and boozy this afternoon. They settled on
The African Queen
's crusty couch. “We just met Tabitha Gray,” he went on, “which needs to be discussed at length. For example, I couldn't stop staring at her
teeth
, which were, like, perfect.”

Alaura devoured a handful of buttery popcorn, which was absolutely delicious.

“And I'm not sure I actually
heard
anything that she actually said,” Waring went on. “Did you? She was here, wasn't she? I'm not imagining that, right?”

“Is there anything important you want to discuss?” Alaura garbled, her mouth full.

“Yes. So I have to ask you—what the hell was going on with Match?”

She sighed—so Waring had also noticed how suddenly Match's demeanor had changed when Tabitha Gray entered the shop. It was like all the good work Alaura had done dematerialized in an instant. Seeing Tabitha Gray, Match had immediately started sweating, and scratching, and talking too quickly. Tabitha had kissed Match's cheek, and thereafter he had followed her around as if connected by an electrified leash. He'd stared off into space. He'd laughed at
all her jokes, which Alaura, like Waring, had barely heard, because Tabitha
was
completely overwhelming.

All at once, Match was wearing that strange, frightening glaze. Alaura knew he was seeing Hitchcock again. She just knew it. And Tabby, somehow, was the catalyst.

“So what's going on there?” Waring asked.

“I don't know. He hasn't really mentioned much to me about Tabitha—”

“It's like he's on drugs,” Waring interrupted. “
Is
he on drugs? I'm not used to being more sober than other people.”

“Oh,” Alaura said. “That.”

“What do you mean,
that?
Your boyfriend is one seriously weird dude.”

“He's not my boyfriend. And he's not weird. He's stressed out by all his work.”

“Is that how he always acts? Is this the guy we're relying on to save my store?”

Alaura picked up the remote control with her butter-smeared hand, turned on
The African Queen
's flat-screen—but the DVD player was empty.

“Shit, Alaura. What's going on?”

She knew he wouldn't leave her alone about it, because Match had been acting, for his entire visit, and not just after Tabitha Gray's arrival, like a crazy person. And anyway, she
had
to tell someone.

So Alaura confessed to Waring about Match's Hitchcock hallucinations. She told him about Match's rambling monologues, and his speaking about himself in the third person, and his too-frequent aphasiac swaps of actors and actresses who had appeared in Hitchcock films . . . She let it all out, trying to keep her voice down so no one below
The African Queen
would hear.

As she spoke, Waring's scruffy face slackened in astonishment. His bloodshot eyes widened.

“Holy fuck!” Waring said when she finished. He leaned forward
and began scrounging the empty cigarette packs on the small coffee table. “I pinky-swear I won't tell a soul, Alaura. But you can't hang out with him anymore. If he's really hallucinating—”

“Keep your voice down. It's fine, Waring. He just needs my help. There's only eight more days of shooting, and then he can get some counseling or whatever. And by helping him, I help Star Video.”

A thought that suddenly made Alaura sick to her stomach—that she might be putting Star Video's survival ahead of Match's.

“But if he's hallucinating,” Waring said, “if he's seeing Alfred Hitchcock, then he might be dangerous.”

“I said keep your voice down! He's not dangerous, Waring. He's a good guy, a
really
good guy who's having a hard time. He's been better these last few days. Almost back to normal. We have fun together, okay? We always did. And I'm just helping him out. Just for another eight days.”

Waring had abandoned his cigarette search and was now looking at Alaura with concern—then, when she fell silent, he reached out and took her hand. She did not pull it away.

“It's okay, Alaura,” he said with an un-Waxian tenderness that stunned her. “You're right. The celebrity auction's in a few days. We can make it until then. I'll take the cast and crew to a bar tomorrow night. It will probably be best if you occupy Match, keep him at the hotel. Seeing as he's insane. They'll be gone in a few weeks. Match'll be gone, and we'll have the money we need. The end. Simple as pie, right?”

Simple as pie, Alaura thought.

SH** HAPPENED ONE NIGHT

The following night around
nine p.m., Waring and company burst into Hell, a basement dive bar in West Appleton. They were a horde of fifty consisting mostly of nerdy crewmembers. The place was empty. For a while, they'd have it to themselves.

“Hell” was in many ways a generous appellation for the bar. For example, the true home of Satan most likely has functional plumbing and doesn't flood every time it rains upon the surface of the earth. But the drinks here were plentiful and cheap. The décor was all retro band posters and demon-themed dioramas. The regular patronage was half blue-collar local, half Ape U literati, and, thankfully, no prepsters. There were four beer-stained pool tables, an air hockey table, and a pompous jukebox for which Super Furry Animals would likely be too mainstream. It was the perfect shitty dive bar into which to bring a Hollywood film crew, if one was hoping to show off how perfect a shitty dive bar can be.

Cigarettes were lit. Drinks were ordered. Waring watched some guy with a braided beard hand Jeff a Red Bull and vodka. Then Jeff walked over to Waring and held out his drink. They cheersed.
Jeff said something that Waring didn't catch, and Waring said, “Go on, have fun, don't get killed.”

As Jeff scampered away, the juke sprang to life, blasting an eighties punk song and leading quickly to a small, arrhythmic dance party. Soon the crew had divided into age groups, twentysomethings, thirtysomethings, and older. Only the actors maneuvered between the groups, materializing for a few minutes to command attention, to tell a dirty joke, to degrade a crewmember for some physical or social shortcoming, only to then apologize with jocular camaraderie, thus cementing a new friendship for life. And while the actors were the revolving torrents of light in the otherwise dank space of Hell, the mood, Waring noticed, was one of equality, of, “We're all in this movie together.” The few heated squabbles that broke out (inevitable with such a high concentration of creative minds) ended as quickly as they began.

Celia Watson was there, wearing a ridiculously skimpy white dress. Alex Walden was there, too. So were a few of
The Buried Mirror's
lesser-known actors. Even Tabitha Gray made an appearance, but only for five minutes, accompanied by five bodyguards, before retreating quickly to her SUV.

Waring watched the scene from the corner of the small room. He sat alone at a dirty black booth constructed from cheap plywood, and he started on a crossword puzzle, a pint of dark, hoppy beer in his left hand. He took in a mouthful of the beer, winced as he gulped it down.

Alaura wasn't here. She was with Match at the Siena. Waring had instructed her (and for once she had obeyed him) to stay with Match that night, thinking that Match in public could only lead to disaster, such as the cancellation of the celebrity auction, and Star Video losing its ridiculous, gimmicky chance for survival.

But what does it matter? Waring thought. Even if the celebrity auction was a rousing success, which was a big
if
, they'd probably lose the eminent domain battle in court anyway.

Everything was falling apart. What the hell was Waring going to do?

“Our noble host!” a voice cried. Waring looked up. It was Alex Walden, who had just detached from a group of dorky, giggling makeup artists playing pool on the corner table, and who was now strutting toward Waring's booth.

Alex Walden—a big actor with a big voice and a big reputation as a drinker and a yeller. Recently he'd been arrested for public intoxication in Canada, Waring remembered, and in his now-infamous mug shot, Walden had grinned like he'd wanted to kiss the camera, or eat it.

He now turned the same expression on Waring.

“You look grim, my friend,” Walden smiled.

Without thinking, Waring retorted: “And you look older than ever.”

“Ouch!” Alex Walden laughed loudly, a yawp that drew the attention of half the bar. “A dagger to my heart! Your name is Waring, correct?”

“Mm.”

Walden took a seat across the booth, and without asking, he removed a cigarette from Waring's pack, lit it with Waring's lighter.

“Help yourself,” Waring said.

“Tell me, what
is
the deal with deep-fried sandwiches in this town?”

“Mm?”

“Every where I go, every take-out menu, its deep-fried turkey sandwich this, deep-fried bacon sandwich that. Deep-fried custard sandwiches sprinkled with powdered sugar? I actually saw that on a menu. What the hell, man?”

Waring shrugged, didn't answer, wondered how many deep-fried sandwiches that Walden saw had ultimately reached his belly. Walden was not as thin as he used to be. He had recently made the transition from features to television comedy, a definite backslide in his career, and his waistline showed it.

“We don't fry like this in California,” Walden explained, still smiling his million-dollar smile.

“Methinks the fat man protests too much.”

Alex produced a Technicolor eye twinkle, studied Waring for a moment. In a low voice, he said, “I like you, sir. You say what you mean.”

“Is that rare?”

“Of course. No one's honest in Hollywood.”

“Next thing you'll say is that I'm real,” Waring said with a sneer. “That you don't meet
real
people anymore.”

“Ha! That's what I mean! I'm envious of you, my friend.”

“Mm.”

Waring lit a cigarette of his own. Walden looked off into the bar, still chuckling to himself, his internationally known profile—like an exquisitely designed mountain range unmarred by caloric intake—displayed perfectly for Waring's viewing.

Of course the celebrity's presence intimidated Waring. It had simply taken a few moments for this intimidation to register. And that Alex Walden seemed, at least for now, to find Waring entertaining excited him more than a little. But after spending a few stuttering minutes in Tabitha Gray's presence the day before, and seeing that she, like all human beings, was made of flesh and blood—if perhaps a more expensive vintage of those basic commodities—Waring for some reason wasn't as nervous as he knew he should be. Waring could look at Alex Walden (and it was hard
not
to look), and he could see the actor's many iconic characters: the noble CIA operative aboard the stolen Russian submarine, the evil doctor, the manipulative and sadistic real estate salesman . . .

But Alex Walden was still
just a man.

Or was he? That Waring was thinking about him this much, and was thus unable to maintain his normal thought patterns . . . maybe there was something intrinsically
more
about Alex Walden. So Waring decided to maintain his sneering expression, and with
forced boredom, he looked down at the table in front of him, where he'd forgotten that he'd been working a crossword.