This Location of Unknown Possibilities (32 page)

“It's nothing. Actually, I guess I'll see everyone at the party.”

“I'll let Chaz know where you are, if you'd like that.” Lora winked.

“That's not necessary, but thank you.” She surveyed the dingy room. “Okay, I've done all I can do here, so I'm going to, well, I'm not quite sure what yet. Float where the winds take me?”

“Sounds like a plan. We'll see you in a few hours, okay?” Lora's cellphone trilled from the back of the room. “And there's my cue.”

“See you later.” Marta walked to the computer at Lora's desk and typed an email to Chaz:
“Need a lift to the wrap party? I'll be at the Star-Lite until then.”

6
.

B
efore returning to
#10
, Marta dropped by the front desk to remind Mrs. Simms about the morning check-out, the visit a formality since the production company footed the bill. Still, it couldn't hurt to double-check; perhaps the contract excluded calls.

“We'll miss you,” Mrs Simms said. “I wish all my guests were as quiet as you movie people.”

Counting the red doors en route to the room, Marta thought about souvenir options for her family. She struck fruit off the list—too perishable, and delivery would push her into an unscheduled early summer visit. Ordinarily wine made for a reasonable generic choice—but her parents, practically teetotalers, would say obligatory thank yous and stow the bottle away indefinitely; and Les already drank too avidly.
A jpeg
, she thought: easy, inexpensive, novel, efficient. No one had mentioned setting aside time for a group crew photo at the crash site or at Djoun. She'd find out later. Lora, the queen of details, must have arranged documentation of the shoot. When Luna arrived at the party Marta would ask for a memento, and email the shot with the tie-in story once comfortably ensconced in Vancouver.

With luck, a new photograph would inspire Dianne to remove one of four variation on a theme cap-and-gown snapshots of Marta in the living room's digital photo frame. Their sameness might lead a casual viewer to conclude, based on available evidence, that the only daughter of the Specks had disappeared mysteriously—along with a promising career—on the afternoon of her final graduation ceremony.

Marta shut the door after the breeze had swept out the room's stale air.
The cavernous stillness encouraged her to stretch out with closed eyes. Marta didn't expect to nap. Instead, she'd use the time to organize and prioritize—summer's writing and research schedule needed to be pieced together, as did preparative reading for autumn's graduate seminar. She decided those details couldn't be mapped without a notepad and a calendar, and turned to the
Holiday Archetype Personality
sequel. The publisher's proposal had gnawed since the email at Joan's.

“A companion volume does not serve my interests at this time, thank you”: she knew the intelligent and unequivocal response to compose. Still, Marta's mind circled the offer. Her own ethical core demanded to be swayed, a compelling justification outlined and proposed. If the first effort had been more or less successfully rationalized as an experiment—a series of experiments, to be accurate—the next one required stronger logic and allowed for fewer permissions; she'd slump, feeling miserable, if pursuing a follow-up volume, an exercise in advanced cynicism featuring a sad grab for petty cash and pitiful and anonymous demi-celebrity that would also look like a finger of self-accusation.

And if improving creative reach or pursuing fame or dabbling with alter-egos truly named her fundamental goal, then she ought to evolve and try for something else. Larger too: a serious work of realist fiction, perhaps, or complex allusive verse sent to small-circulation literary journals. Or, admitting multiplex-or-bust motives, then why not a genre exercise,
Angel V: The Return of the Killer
? Chaz would say, “Go for it!”

For the grand experiment that included Sadie Lighbody's
HAP
to have further value, only full committal made sense—“Go big or go home,” as she'd heard Jake declare?

Marta opened her eyes. The hour for that decision could be postponed indefinitely. Sadie, a junior member of Apate+Global's stable of financial gurus, psychics, dietitians, and self-help royalty, lacked status; and in light of total sales figures, Marta guessed, she stood a hair's breadth from never being contacted again. Not one of A+G's cadre of publicists stored either Marta or Sadie on speed dial.

Unable to resist dwelling on worrisome details, Marta recalled that the crew—and their girlfriends in particular—had appeared decked out for the wrap party she'd attended in the city years ago. A suitcase inventory revealed no suitable cocktail party items in reach; still, she felt sure that the location shoot's party would be wall-to-wall T-shirts and jeans: “Come as you are” did imply informal attire. No alternatives sprang to mind; the valley towns were no fashion meccas, and purchasing anything she'd wear exactly once meant wasted money. Another party, glitzy and cosmopolitan, might be in the works for the city once all the studio work ceased. She'd ask Lora.

Marta sat up, any hint of relaxation or refreshment scattered; she'd practically fallen into a chagrined dream as soon as her lids joined. The radio alarm clock informed her of slow-running time and that remaining penned up in the room served only as an invitation to fret. Picturing herself behind the wheel of the rental, Marta reached for the keys. For Chaz she'd leave a note under his door—the corner unit a refuge for which he'd offered no walk-through—before sliding into the driver's seat.

She signaled right at the highway for no other reason than she'd be turning left later for the casino party.
This is the last of my workation
, she thought,
whither shall I wander?
Sentimentality, a personality aspect that usually lay dormant, whispered about the windmill ice cream shop that she'd visited before the hairpin turns to Anarchist's lookout.

Lactose intolerance be damned, Marta ordered two scoops—one chocolate, one vanilla: the unwavering choice for childhood visits—and scrutinized the vineyards, tenacious grasses, and sage on the tawny hills above while seated atop a shaded picnic table. Lines of vacationing vehicles and squabbling families, the other immediate views today as with yesteryear, would have ruined the moment.

WRAP

1.

M
arta stood a few paces from a round curtained table set with plates and cutlery. After striding though the hotel's lobby—a boxy affair countrified with a deer antler chandelier and rustic-effect lampshades with visible stitching—at twenty minutes past the time printed on the invitation, she'd been chagrined to enter a hall populated with meagre pockets of crew. The majority arrived a half hour later, and she now watched the rhythmic convergence and dispersal of these small groups near the banquet room's centre.

The multipurpose space adjacent to the casino that Lora had booked presented its occupants with architectural clip art—a standard rectangle featuring painted metal fire doors and perpetually lit Exits on two opposing walls, the room was papered pinky-beige and carpeted with an unobtrusive pattern. It could be anywhere, as though such rooms, like the pie Marta had ordered at the Husky, came pre-fabricated from one warehouse in a flat manufacturing hub. At conferences in Boise, Orlando, Toronto, Vancouver, and Dallas, Marta had stood in near-xeroxes of the venue; and while attending Les' two wedding receptions, she'd scooped up lasagna from identical steel trays set on buffets skirted with spill-resistant nylon fabrics in soft tints that blended with the domesticated pastel of the walls.

“Ghastly, isn't it,” Lora said. She'd slipped on a fresh camouflage T-shirt; the v-neck offered viewers clearly displayed Points of Interest. “It's like a crime scene: the mother of the bride exploded. We should alert the local CSI.”

2
.

N
icos arrived with Jake and toasted the clique with a bottle of Perrier. “All hope abandon, ye who enter in. And, folks, remember the motto of this place: ‘Know Your Limit, Play Within It.
'”

Marta tracked the Location Manager's weaving. He marched up to another departmental klatch, and raised the green vessel for an identically foreboding toast. “My, what is that about? The rancorous witch in
Sleeping Beauty
could be his ancestor.”

“All I'll say is somebody, no names, had a little problem with online gambling a few years back,” Lora said, leaning close, hand cupped close to Marta's ear.

“And booze too.” Jake opted against Lora's low decibels. “Now's he's got the born-again bug, big time.” He held up a highball glass and rattled the ice.

“Oh, I see.”

“And here's to getting the hell out of Dodge.” The others touched their glasses to his.

Marta, familiar with the easy smile—wide, baring dentist-straightened polar drift teeth—saw little humour in eyes that swept the half-circle of crew before terminating at an Exit's red glow.

3
.

M
arta spotted Luna, who cut through the crowd with Lornette trailing a step behind. She waved them over. “You made it.” In flip flops, a short denim skirt, and a black T-shirt, Luna hadn't bothered to dress up, but Marta noticed that her sidekick, in tendrils and tiers, could pass for Loretta Lynn attending a prom.

“Yeah. I'm not keen on parties, but ‘bite the hand that feeds you' and all that,” Luna said, fingers quoting. “Besides, Miss
National Enquirer
here wanted to snap some celebrities.”

“Oh, shut up, you.” Lornette turned to Marta, “This is a fancy spread.”

“Yes, it's not bad.
There's a good chance that most actors will opt out of the party.”

“Oh. I guess they're itching to get away from country living.”

“That may well be. Luna, I asked Lora to take a picture when she saw us.” Marta spied the room for a suitable location. “I'm guessing that you're not at all shy in front of a camera.”

“A picture would be great. Something to pin up at the O-K and show off to the regulars after the hubbub dies down.”

“As if, Luna,” Lornette said. “You wait and see, they'll be fighting each other to get you into their movies.”

“I dunno, the O-K's not so bad.”

“Hmm, let's see,” Lornette displayed her open palms as a mock-scale, “a limousine and driver or twenty-five cent tips during the breakfast rush? Like there's any comparison!”

“What limousine?”

“Say ‘Djoun' everybody,” Lora said. The camera's screen provoked a frown. “Okay, once more, but this time keep your eyes open, my dears.”

4
.

“W
ell,” Lora said, “was all this movie stuff what you expected?”

“It was and it wasn't,” Marta said. “Sorry for the politician's answer.”

“No problem. I take it you're not ready for a change in career?”

“A change in scenery was what I needed. I guess.”

Lora reached for her phone. “His Nibs demands an audience. Pick this up after my tour of duty?”

“Sure, that'll be fine.”

“Hey guys.” Chaz held a plate and a highball glass; he bent forward in a flourish and achieved the semblance of a bow-curtsy. “What's going on?”

“I'm about to track down Jake, then I'm going to gamble away the futures of my unborn children,” Lora said. “You're here sooner than expected.”

“No problemo, not a hitch, everything just fell into place, and we're set to go.”

“Impressive, miracles never cease! I'm off, ladies, wish me luck.”

“I'll see you in there,” Marta said. “I need to finish this lasagna first.” She'd have to turn over the remaining waterlogged noodles to one of the servers or, failing that, maroon the plate on a nearby table. Catering staff witnessed all species of slovenly manners at these events, Marta had noted, and opted to wait for a server instead of contributing an anecdote to an after-shift bitch session.

“
Hasta pronto
,” Chaz said. “That's it for you? I'm thinking second helpings for me.”

“I had a late lunch.” Marta's habitual white lie came out easier than exposing a judicious diet others might categorize as finicky and high maintenance; and by now Chaz was partially up to speed and ready with Princess Pea quips.

“That was quite a long day, eh?”

“Yes, it was that. I've begun to get used to them. In another week I'd be a veteran.”

“Can you hold on here a sec? I wasn't joking about the second helping. I'm starved. Jake kept us at his beck and call all bloody day and then thought a pint would smooth over the slave driving and assholery.”

“Sure, I'll wait here.
The gambling next door doesn't have much appeal.”

“I figured as much. It's hard to picture you chucking dice and yelling ‘Mama needs a brand new mink.'” While Chaz's observation was essentially astute, Marta heard a backhanded compliment.

Chaz set the plate on the floor. “Man, this place could really hire a few more waiters.”

Marta smiled. “You'd better head over to the buffet table before the food's gone. You know, now that you mention it, I think I'll take a brisk tour through the casino. I won't be but five minutes.”

“No rush. See you.” Chaz turned for the buffet.

5
.

T
he deserted triangular foyer between banquet room crew talk and the neon enticements of the afterthought-sized casino contained a monitor bolted to the ceiling that advertised husband and wife country and western acts appearing next month in the hotel's lounge—Doc and the Missus, The Petermanns, Jonny & July. Tan papered walls remained bare except for pioneer-style sconces and a poster announcing PPV fights; from it, a trio of surly tattooed bald white men glared thug challenges to onlookers. In one corner a pair of two-foot yuccas in pebble-effect plastic urns stood at opposing edges of a trickling fountain on whose cultured stone rim sat an empty wine glass containing a balled napkin.

Feeling a barely tepid curiosity cooling with each breath, Marta charged into the adjoining room. She viewed the loud decor as culturally threadbare, the climate profane, forced gaiety needful of an alcohol crutch.
A chasm stood between the garish carpet beneath her feet and the affluent Monte Carlo sophistication of Bond film set casinos.

Further scrutiny revealed the enthralled faces and boisterous laughter looked authentic. Marta admitted that perhaps her personality lacked an essential something that prevented her from humming with the hopeful, nail-biting tremor of tossed dice, selected cards, and pressed buttons.

Whereas recklessness barely registered in the ranking of her daily traits, Marta predicted Chaz would take to gambling like the proverbial duck to water—the Brat Pack tie-in served as reason enough.

The meander was expedient—a circuit by noisy machines flashing lights of candy brightness and tight groups leaning into games. At one table, a groom hooted encouragement as his new wife breathed good luck on dice cupped in his hands.

As though secured within a spacesuit, Marta couldn't breathe in the ebullient atmosphere. She studied the windowless room. From the piped-in muzak to the flashy neon- and brass-accented decor, gambling struck her as a spectacular void—bread and circuses—not to mention a costly waste of time.

Still, she mused, the history of letting loose made for a respectable volume. And an authority as reliable as Nietzsche had claimed there'd be no real art without chaotic irrationality.
Perhaps my Dionysian rite should begin with the purchase of a lottery ticket one of these days
, she thought, lips curving into a grin. Or not. Hope against hope, the whole enterprise—to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life—seemed so unreasonable, so wishful, and so ridiculous, but perhaps that was the point.
Another time, another place
, Marta thought. Steadfast—a nun at an orgy—she knew she could wait in vain here all night for the moment of her unfastening.

Pushing against an inbuilt aversion Marta veered toward an unused video slot machine at the end of a short aisle. She stood by two grey-haired women, sisters evidently, if not twins, and watched them insert tokens; as one pulled the lever the sibling gestured like an orchestral maestro—conjuring a charm for good luck.

When bounty failed to pour from the machine's mouth, the duo switched roles. As the newly-appointed luck hunter, the other sister dispensed with hand movements altogether: “C'mon, you dang one-armed bandit, we've been at it all night.”

The women sat entranced, but they didn't smile; huddled, both held straws in their fingers, replacing outlawed cigarettes with the nearest passable substitute. Marta wondered if their stance signaled territoriality: the machine's luck belonged to them and no one else.

Marta slid a token into the slot. Pulling the lever she noticed a large raised lit lozenge near the place where other players had rested drinks: a start button. The lever had no real physical purpose—with guts entirely computerized, the machine's arm offered comfort as decoration, a nostalgic emblem.

The device became animated with carnival lighting and the nerve-jangling clang of recorded bell noise during the ten-second interval that coloured images on virtual reels appeared to whir. When the unit returned to relative calm, Marta stared at twin cherries, a grimacing clam, and a can of spinach through square viewing ports. She'd lost, and grew aghast calculating how many dollars a player could lose in a single hour.

“Better luck next time,” the sisters chimed automatically.

Next time? Marta smiled politely, but received the encouragement critically, certain she'd never be part of this dire community and its textbook enabling. Preparing to insert another token, the canned spinach reel caught her eye.
I 'yams whats I ams, and dats all that I 'yams
, she thought, and nodded with approval at Popeye's self-acceptance, the figure's fundamental at-homeness.

“You know what, I think my luck has finally run out.” Marta wished to appear weary, as though gambling since breakfast. “Here are my tokens, ladies. Maybe you'll strike it rich with them.”

“Why, aren't you an absolute dear!”
Twins definitely, Marta concluded, fondly calling up a Diane Arbus retrospective poster hanging back in the Dark Tower's office.

Marta couldn't help but hear surges of excited voices around the adjacent tables—unsure about the full range of games that the government allowed, she pictured blackjack and roulette. Freed of the gift tokens she felt no inclination to mill about and watch additional women and men—
on a losing streak
or
on a roll
—throw down cards and bless dice: she understood the gist of it.

Turning for the exit, she walked directly into Jake. His body was solid, as expected.

“Oh, I'm sorry.” She stepped back and looked up.

“No worries. I was watching over your shoulder, so I was asking for it. That sucks, eh?”

“Pardon?”

“Gambling. I get the idea and the charge and all that shit, but c'mon everyone knows the cards are stacked against them. Me, if I'm going risk my ass for something, I gotta at least think there's a good chance I'll get what I want. Why bother otherwise?”