Jules puts the phone down. Defeated again. Guy is out. No deal. The bottom, the barrel, scraped clean. He had been kidding himself, as usual.
It would be funny if it weren’t so fucking tragic. His cherished rocket-car replica, his star prop for all these years, now mutilated by the angry townsfolk and abandoned in the waving tall grass of the backyard. Orange, yellow, red leaves scattered across the dented hood, fluttering down from above. The JULES TREMBLAY HEADQUARTERS sign bashed in and hanging from one corner on the post by the road. The giant leaning ramp and the ever-diminishing hope of an investor. The rain, rain, rain, endless rain.
The stuntman with the limp and his fading yellow shiner.
But wait! There’s more!
How about the cowboy who landed on his head? Hilarious!
James and Mark have been and gone weeks earlier, the room cleared out. Boots and all. They moved back to Montreal — recovering from their so-called careers in rodeo. James is looking for a job while caring for Mark, who wears a halo of steel around his head and a cast covering his whole torso. Like some kid’s bad space-robot Halloween costume.
They are officially done with The Stupid Life. Jules can well understand it.
It has been raining again for the last month, and Jules wears his winter coat inside the big, empty, rambling house. He will not turn on the heat. There isn’t enough money for that. If he is still here — in this town, in this physical mortal realm — when the snow falls, he will see about turning on the heat then. For now, he walks around wrapped in a rainbow-coloured granny-square afghan that Claire crocheted for him. He wears it over his coat to keep out the damp cool air. Occasionally, he even wears a toque. This is the state he is in when Sammy knocks on the door: cold and alone. Despairing of his future, hiding from the world.
The Mad Canadian, indeed.
He flinches when he hears the knock at the door. He considers not answering, just laying low until his visitor gives up.
The knocking comes again in shave-and-a-haircut style. Thump-thumpity-thump-thump. Thump, thump. Two bits. So corny. So showbiz. It can only be Sammy. Why now? Where has he been all this time while everything was going to hell? Not taking Jules’s calls, that’s for sure.
Jules shuffles toward the door, not even bothering to take off the afghan. He can’t bear the cold. Fuck Sammy if he doesn’t like it.
“Hey, Jules. Nice getup.” Sammy walks past him and sits at the kitchen table. His jeans are so tight, he doesn’t actually bend at the hips. He just catches the edge of the chair with the slight curve of his ass and leans against it like a plank. Cowboy boots straight out in front, crossed at the ankles.
“Got a beer or something?”
“No,” Jules lies. “What’s up, Sammy?”
“We’re gonna do it, Jules. We’re gonna do the jump.”
“What are you talking about?” What do you mean we, he thinks.
“The network called me. They’re back in. We’re gonna do it two weeks from Tuesday.”
Jules can’t make sense of this. “Sammy, the ramp is fucked. The car isn’t ready. How can we even sell tickets by then?”
“Not selling tickets.”
“What do you mean we’re not selling tickets?”
“The network doesn’t want to sell tickets. Liability or something. They just want to shoot it and get it done.”
They’re trying to kill me, thinks Jules. “Are they trying to kill me?”
“Relax,” says Sammy. “Everything will be fine. Your dream is finally coming true, man! Cheer up!” Sammy gets up from the table and runs a hand through his feathery hair. “Gotta go. Listen: they want to see you in Ottawa on Monday. I’ll let you know when I know more. Hang in there, buddy.”
He thumps Jules on the back and walks out the door.
Jules is still staring after him when a spider with a body the size and colour of a malt ball drops from the ceiling and dangles in front of his face. He actually squeals and jumps back, pulling his blanket around his shoulders.