The Road to Mars: A Post-Modem Novel (1999) (6 page)

The little old ladies looked up at him in alarm.

“Forgive me, dear ladies,” he said in his strange declamatory style, “a man cannot help but ejaculate upon such a glorious sight.”

The little old ladies looked startled at his strangely archaic speech, but they were held spellbound.

“It is my way to excoriate upon the beauties and bounties of this glorious Universe, for I am but a simple man of feeling. It is sadly true that the expression of these sentiments has often caused me trouble from the unfeeling masses, but when my sensibilities are aroused, I regret there is no suppressing their articulation. It must come out, ladies, it must come out.”

“What’s
he
doing here?” said Lewis.

“No sign of Boo though.”

“Yeah, he’s hard to miss,” said Lewis.

“Think his green hair’s natural?” asked Alex.

“His hair is. It’s the rest of him that isn’t,” said Lewis.

They watched Boo’s manager with the little old ladies.

“Is this guy on the level?” asked Alex, watching him close in on them.

“Managing Boo? How serious can that be? One of the shortest jobs in the Universe.”

The fedora was off again, doffed, swept low before them, and replaced. “Ladies, dear ladies, permit me to introduce myself. Rafael Los Lobos Dos Santis at your service. Occasional Professor of English, sometime Comparative Reader in Various Things at several major academic establishments, and currently Visiting Professor of Applied Comedy at the University of New Sydney.”

“I thought you were Cosmic Management.” He turned and surveyed Alex and Lewis from under a bushy eyebrow, entirely unfazed by their sudden appearance. “That, as they say, gentlemen, was yesterday. Today is a whole new ball game. How very pleasant to renew our all-too-brief acquaintance.”

“Cosmic Management is over?”

“My clientele, or client, as he is, seems to have an unnatural aversion to people who might employ him. I am seeking to remedy this unfortunate weakness by soliciting direct audience of the great and good. Your Miss Wallace, I am told, is the woman who might intercede on our behalf. It is to her bosom that I shall make my request. The boy, as you know, is harmless, he just needs encouragement.”

“You said your name was Brown,” said Lewis, wondering what sort of a con he really was.

“My father, a William Morris agent before they were unhappily replaced by machines, advised me that a man might change his name as frequently as his underwear. What’s in a name? said the divine Shakespeare. And some say his name was really Bacon.”

“Are you an actor?” asked one of the blue-hairs. “An actor, moi?” said Charles Jay Brown. “My dear lady, I once aspired to that most demanding of roles, but sadly a lack of talent and an outstanding warrant precluded my pursuit of that noble career. Now these fellows whom you behold are comedians of the first rank. They have the good fortune to be your entertainment for tonight, if you have the good fortune to have tickets. Should you not,” he added mysteriously, producing a booklet of authentic-looking tickets from the nether reaches of his coat, “I am the fortunate gentleman who can help you in that department.”

“The Brenda Woolley show?”

“The very same bill.”

“How much?”

“I have excellent seats reasonably priced.”

“You’re a scalper?” asked Lewis with distaste. “I do so dislike that word,” he said. “It is my way to invest in show biz futures from time to time, an art of great skill, at least as honest as stock investments, for I must gauge exactly the public demand to the supply. As it happens, the great and good Brenda Woolley has exceeded her demand, but these sweet young things are not to know.” He turned to his prey. “Now, ladies, you have met two of the stars of tonight’s show—how many shall I put you down for each?”

Business was intense.

“What’s your game?” asked Lewis when the ladies had been satisfied.

“My game, sir, as you put it, is not dissimilar to your own. The immediate future of Cosmic Management, Inc., which with the attitude of its current clientele”—he cleared his throat—“client, is somewhat insecure. I shall while pressing the case for his employment also be offering my own services to the ship.”

“As what?”

“What indeed, sir? A variety of possibilities are available. I might lecture on my exploits as a traveler, for I have visited many antique lands. I give tango lessons up to intermediate level. Drama classes are my forte and my talk on the detective in Shakespeare has been very well received.”

“There are no detectives in Shakespeare.”

“That is the beauty of the talk, sir. My discourse on the sadomasochistic subtext of Gilbert and Sullivan operettas has been called a minor masterpiece.”

“By whom?”

“By myself, sir,” he said unashamedly “and
I
should know. I am also available for legal counsel, emotional advice on any matter, I have a license to marry at will, burial of the dead is my special preserve, and if all else fails I have experience in catering.”

“He’s just a harmless crackpot,” said Alex as they waited in line to pass through the airlock. Their tiny tender had been swallowed into the
Princess Di
’s hold like a shrimp in the mouth of a whale.

“What if he succeeds?” said Lewis. “I couldn’t survive six months on the same ship as Boo. I’d have to kill him.”

“He won’t get a gig here,” said Alex. “They won’t let him on with little old ladies. Besides, we haven’t got the six months yet.”

“But we will though, Alex,
won’t we?
”

“Oh yes,” said Alex.

“Unless one of us screws up.”

“But one of us won’t screw up, Lewis.”

“No farting around.”

“Me fart?” said Alex in mock outrage. But he knew what his partner meant. Lewis, the White-Face comedian, hated being out of control on stage. Alex, the Red Nose, loved it. He lived to improvise. To him, nothing was as funny as the first time he thought of it. Lewis liked to have it all locked down and learned. Alex could just roll with an idea, play with it, toss it around. Lewis would stand there silently fuming until he’d finished. “No improvising.”

“All right.”

“Just stick to what we agreed.”

“Okay, okay. Loosen up, will ya.”

But a loose Lewis did not exist. He was born tense. He shook his shoulders and twisted his head from side to side. “I need a massage.”

“I need a total body rub,” said Alex, “and that’s only the beginning.” He glanced at his partner. “Hey, pal, relax, we’re gonna do fine.”

“Of course you will,” said Carlton. “Thanks to Miss Wallace the odds are now 52.67 in your favor.”

Who needs money, when you’re funny?

—
Randy Newman

They were met by a uniformed page in regulation white pants and blue jacket, holding a card with their names on it.

“Hello, I’m Jeffrey, your page for today. Welcome to the
Princess Diana
luxury cruise of the solar system,” he said. “If you would walk this way.”

“If I could walk that way…” said Alex.

“Don’t go there,” said Lewis.

They followed Jeffrey to a waiting cart, climbed aboard, and were whisked onto the express lane of a wide electric people mover. Passengers in holiday clothes were going about the business of the day, heading off to the many pools, the entertainment malls, or the three gigantic golf courses which occupied the space between the X’s. Keppler Cruise attendants in their blue-jacket-and-white-pants uniforms were everywhere, leading little groups or ferrying guests towards their quarters.

“You know how many people actually work here?” asked the page.

“About half?” suggested Alex.

The page ignored the gag and settled down to a list of statistics he had clearly swallowed parrot-fashion. Only Carlton feigned interest. Lewis watched the ads as they shot past, and Alex scanned the faces of their potential audience, looking for encouraging signs of their future.

“Largely LOLs,” he said.

“What’s that?” asked Carlton.

“Little old ladies,” said Alex.

The electron cart moved swiftly for a good five minutes before suddenly swinging off the main people mover towards some giant doors marked BACKSTAGE. They dismounted the cart and walked through security. Alex and Lewis were nodded through, but Carlton was stopped by the security guards and taken into a guarded area for screening.

“Security’s tight,” observed Lewis.

“You can’t be too careful with Brenda Woolley,” said the page.

“Someone going to steal her handbag?” asked Alex.

“Brenda Woolley does not carry a handbag,” said the page with dignity.

“Oops,” said Alex.

“What’s she like to work with?” asked Lewis.

“She is a star,” said the page, his eyes shining.

“Oh,” said Alex. “Thanks for the warning.”

“What exactly does that mean?” whispered Lewis.

“It means she has a whim of iron.”

They waited a further five minutes. There was no sign of Carlton.

“Look, perhaps you’d better leave him here,” said the page, “or you’ll be late for the Brenda Woolley Experience.”

“The what?”

“It’s what Miss Woolley likes to call her show. She doesn’t like the word ‘show.’ She thinks it’s common.”

They came upon a broad open area where several corridors met. Ahead of them there was a sudden shoving and pushing as a flurry of security guards broke through large double doors and held their arms wide as if to push people aside. This would have been more effective if there had been any people to push, but there was no one around. They yelled anyway.

“Stand back. Gangway. Make room. She’s coming through.”

“Good grief,” said Jeffrey in an awed voice. “It’s Brenda Woolley!”

He might have announced the arrival of God Herself.

“Ouch,” said Alex as he was shoved aside and pushed flat against the wall by a brute in a black serge uniform. “Be very careful,” said Alex. “I carry a lethal fart.”

“It’s true,” said Lewis. “There are two great gas giants in the solar system: him and Jupiter.”

“Don’t look at her, don’t make eye contact, and shut the fuck up,” said the security man.

“They’re on the show,” said the page.

“Where are their pins then?”

“They’ve only just arrived,” said Jeffrey. “I haven’t given them their security package yet.”

“All right, she can come through, it’s clear,” barked the mustache.

And now Brenda Woolley herself appeared, a vision in cream, her blond hair impossibly bouffant, her eyes outlined in black, a faint smile playing round her pastel pink lips. Her fierce green eyes, her signature blue mole at the corner of her mouth, her fine alabaster profile, all this they saw as the security mob led her forward. She avoided eye contact with anyone, but drew her shawl protectively around her like an overage Ophelia. She behaved like a small child, at once grateful and surprised by their treatment.

“What are they protecting her from?” asked Alex. “There’s nobody around.”

“She needs her privacy,” said Jeffrey.

They watched the retreating mob holding off the imaginary hordes around her in the empty corridor. It was both impressive and funny. A display of pure power and a sop to ego.

“Wow, that was close,” said Alex. “I could almost see her facelift.”

The security guard reluctantly let him go.

“Watch it,” he said.

“Thank you and fuck you too,” said Alex with a nice smile.

“She’s divine,” said Jeffrey in total awe as he watched her gliding away. “Totally divine.”

The divinity was not yet done with them. At the far set of double doors Brenda turned and looked back dramatically at the deserted corridor.

“You there,” she called, singling out Alex as if he were in the middle of a crowd.

“Me?” said Alex.

“Are you one of the guests on my Experience?”

“Yes.”

“We both are,” said Lewis.

“Do you have names?”

“No,” said Alex. “We can’t afford them.”

“Muscroft and Ashby,” said the page.

“Ah, Muscroft and Ashby, I do so
adore
country music.”

“That’s Alex and Lewis, not Clint and Billy Bob,” said Alex.

“They are comedians, Miss Woolley,” said the page.

“Oh, of course. Well, welcome. Welcome, one and all. And you, the cheeky one. Are you single?”

The blank faces of the security guards stared impassively at Alex.

“No,” said Alex, “I’m with him.”

“Aha,” said Brenda significantly as if divining the secret of his sexuality.

“I’m his partner,” said Lewis firmly.

“That’s all right by me,” said Brenda. “I’m very broad-minded,” and she swept away to more important things.

“Thanks a lot,” said Alex. “Now she thinks we’re gay.”

“You should be so lucky,” said Jeffrey.

He showed them to their dressing room in wounded silence. It was a smallish box with a bathroom attached. The box contained a sofa and a tiny table dwarfed by an enormous bowl of flowers with a card which said PLEASE ENJOY YOUR BRENDA WOOLLEY EXPERIENCE.

“Enjoy the Experience,” said the page, leaving them to the amenities.

“Do you think it’s like an out-of-body experience?” asked Alex.

“Not the way she was looking at you.”

“Oh come on, she’s old enough to be my mother.”

“You have a problem with that, Oedipus?” asked Lewis.

There was a discreet knock at the door.

“Hello, Jeffrey,” said Alex in his screaming camp voice. “Couldn’t tear yourself away from me?”

He opened the door. Katy Wallace stood there.

“Who could?” she said.

“Oh. It’s you.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” she said.

Disappoint. My God, she was dynamite. She had her hair pulled back from her face, which let him enjoy her high Slavic cheekbones and her deep brown eyes. Flawless olive skin, and those lips; when she smiled at him, he felt a deep desire to kiss them immediately. She exuded a kind of healthy animal confidence, as though she was entirely comfortable in her body, like a dancer or an athlete. He said nothing for a minute, just feasting his eyes and letting the wave of her perfume wash over him. She held his glance and then broke the silence.