CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

 

The movie posters positioned in the front windows of Video Drones were faded. Galaxy of Terror. Private Resort. Scream, Blacula, Scream. Just One of the Guys. The tape keeping the arguably iconic images held askew to the windows was retiring and coming loose, the creases down each poster’s center yellowing and cracking like chronic cheilitis. A jingly little electronic bell rang as Christopher passed through the doorway, the sound fizzling away at the end like it was begging for a fresh battery. A man wearing a plaid sweater vest, pleated khaki shorts, and brown, buckled sandals strutted by him. Then Christopher was suddenly seeing double. Another man, identical to the first in both flesh and fashion, strolled by. The twins nodded politely. Their grinning teeth sparkled like freshly polished china, their hair groomed for a gel advertisement. He wasn’t completely sure, but he thought he might have seen these faces before on some late night infomercial wedged between Columbo and an Elvira double feature.

One of them paused and turned to face Christopher. He sniffed the air like a bloodhound feeling out the scent of the hunt, then turned back to his brother. The twins locked arms and headed toward the door.

“Is it possible? Do you think he knows…” one of them said, barely breathing the words.

“Yes, we’ll have to look into…” the other replied, mimicking his brother’s volume and tone perfectly.

Christopher walked backward for a few steps, giving the twins a dirty look that they would never notice. He bumped into the front counter.

Adam Faith stood behind the register, popping his knuckles. Christopher tried to keep his expression blank so his older brother would not know he was beyond distraught. But he knew Adam would figure it out. Christopher had felt this way many times before: when their parents first announced their divorce, when Doyle—his pet chinchilla—had passed away, and when he had received his rejection letter from the American Film Institute. Christopher was terrible at hiding grief.

“Those guys,” Adam said. He filed away a yellow slip stamped with the names G. & O. Zane and added the two returned documentary tapes to his overflowed rewind box. Pumping Iron II: The Women and Corpse Fucking Art. “Sometimes I think I’d go out of business without them. Sometimes I think I wouldn’t mind that option so much.”

“Yeah,” Christopher said. “Can’t say I blame you. Fuckin’ weirdos.”

“So what’s happening, little bro? You look like someone just stole your tricycle.”

Adam was a lanky, ungraceful man, a baby giraffe trapped in a human body. A pair of bargain-basement Buddy Holly glasses clung to the bridge of his nose, and a too short t-shirt with Alfred E. Neuman proclaiming What, Me Worry? exposed a few centimeters of taut, thin skin above his belt. Towers of videocassettes were erected on the counter like a city under construction. A colorful sign above his head, written in perfect penmanship, read: E.T. or Mac and Me: You Decide.

“You sure you want to know?” Christopher looked up at Adam with zombified eyes. A cowlick that wouldn’t quit sprouted from the back of his head. Sleep had not been working out too well for him in recent days.

“Yeah I got time. This is like my slow hour. Or couple of hours. But you know that already.”

It was true. There was not a single customer in the store. In fact, Christopher could hardly remember there ever being many customers when he visited.

“I may not be Lucy van Pelt,” Adam said, “but I’ll do my best.”

Christopher took him up on the offer. He grabbed a can of iced tea out of the beverage cooler typically used for retail purposes, pulled up a metal stool next to the counter and began to tell his brother all about The Truth.

* * *

After it was exposed, the two brothers were silent for a few moments. Christopher couldn’t take the stress of the wait any longer and decided to continue the conversation.

“So what do you think this means? I’m starting to wonder, did I really know this deep down all along, like in my subconscious, and just conveniently ignored it? Am I gay, or what? I mean, I don’t think I am. I haven’t switched teams, as far as I know. No. No way. But is that just something your brain automatically fills you in on? Like ‘Hey, buddy, guess what? You’re totally gay.’ Something like that?”

Adam considered this for a few moments longer, as if to torture him. Christopher knew his brother was not a cruel soul. He was, however, required by Older Brother Law to fulfill the duty of making his younger sibling squirm every now and then. Adam placed a tape into his rewinder and let it roll. It sounded like a remote control racecar.

“Well, of course you’re not a sausage seeker, man,” Adam said, his arms outstretched like a sideshow barker. “Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t care one way or the other, but you were into her because she’s a cute chick, right? No shame in that.”

“Yeah, I suppose so.” Christopher dug his fingernail into the corner of a sticker attached to the cash register and tried to peel it away.

“I mean, I met her a couple of times. I had no idea. Hell, I wouldn’t kick her out of bed for a box of crackers. I could probably ignore some minor appendages if need be. Might take a drink or two, but still…”

Christopher shot him a cold glare.

“Hey, don’t take that the wrong way,” Adam continued, his hands now held up in defense. “I’m just sayin’. And it’s not like it’s just a matter of physicality. You care about what’s up here, too.” He jabbed his finger into his temple a few times. Christopher nodded in reluctant agreement. A woman’s mind was just as crucial to her identification as her body. More so, even.

“I guess that makes sense,” Christopher said. “By the way, it’s ‘for eating crackers’.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

Adam grunted, shrugged and stuck another tape into his rewind machine.

“Yeah, honestly though,” Christopher continued, “she’s pretty much perfect for me otherwise. Or was. I don’t know. On paper we were like an almost perfect match. This is so fucking screwed up.”

“That’s putting it lightly.”

“And there’s the whole trust issue now, too. I’m not sure if I’m more upset about being lied to or the actual lie itself. Shit. I seriously don’t have a clue what to do. I feel awful for breaking up with her, but I feel like I didn’t really have much of a choice.”

Adam carried a stack of tapes to the shelves and began to re-file them. He started in the action section and let his advisory mojo flow.

“Have you called her lately?”

“No, but I—”

The bell on the front door jingled. Incessant buzzing followed. Two Withering Wyldes floated into the store, their whispering sounded like the hum of locusts.

“Oh, Christ,” Adam said as he returned to the counter. “Not again.”

One of the Withering Wyldes approached the register with a clown-like grin on its face. It placed a stack of pamphlets on the counter in front of Adam. They were printed in an array of fluorescent colors, and the scent of fresh ink lingered in the air. The first of the emaciated duo folded its pencil fingers into a pleading position and ran its frosted tongue across plaque-ridden teeth. The Withering Wyldes may have been devoted to their diets, but they were not famous for their hygiene.

Christopher had never before been this close to any of them. He was astonished at how long and almost insectile their heads were. Elongated necks and facial features stretched to an absurd degree, save for eyes the size of watermelon seeds. Shoulders sculpted into bony points.

“No, sorry,” Adam said. “I’ve told you a million times to stay out of here. Did you think I was kidding?”

The first of the Withering Wyldes spun its head almost completely around, as if defying its own anatomy, to face the other. It stretched out its arms and gurgled in confusion. The second one scratched at its temple with a long, curled fingernail. Flakes of dead skin drifted to the ground in a mist.

“Okay, okay,” Adam continued, “well, maybe not you specifically, but some of your group at least. I really wish you would consider wearing numbers or nametags or something. Just take those flyers back or they’re going straight in the trash.”

One of the Withering Wyldes made a sound like an airbed deflating. It might have been consternation, perhaps even flatulence.

“See that sign?” Adam said, jabbing his finger in the direction of the front door. “No shoes. No shirt. No pants. No service.”

One of the Withering Wyldes contorted its head at an owlish angle, turned back around perplexed, as if trying to determine the answer to Final Jeopardy. There was no sign where Adam pointed, only a television and a rubber chicken hanging from a noose.

“Okay,” he continued, “so there’s not actually a sign yet. Consider it a work in progress. But the policy still stands. Take your freaky cult shit out of my store. Now.” He pounded on the counter, his fist a gavel.

The Withering Wyldes shifted into a bowlegged stance, their fingers twitching like the legs of a mantis. Christopher got off the stool and gripped the seat, ready to defend Adam if need be. The Withering Wyldes glanced at each other, made noises like sipping soup and popping popcorn, then snatched up their pamphlets and scurried out of Video Drones, leaving behind the scent of freshly baked oatmeal cookies.

“Dammit. I really, really hate those nut jobs,” Adam said.

Christopher nodded and reclaimed his seat. “Yeah, that almost didn’t go very well.”

“You remember my buddy Dave Fisher?”

“He was the one who collected velvet Elvis paintings from Mexico, right?”

“No. That was Kurt Wallace. Dave was the guy who skipped town anytime there was a parade. He was globophobic.”

“Okay. Yeah. I think I know who you’re talking about. Chubby red-headed dude with a Viking beard?”

“That’s the guy.” Adam fiddled with a box of Necco Wafers. “Well, Dave eventually got over his phobia, but he ended up becoming so obsessed with the Withering Wyldes’ cause that he joined up. Thought it was going to be a great way to lose weight or something. I tried to stop him, even convinced his family to hire a deprogrammer because they were kind of oblivious to what the end result would be. But Dave wasn’t having any of it. He sold everything he owned which, granted, wasn’t much aside from some T. Rex and Bowie records and some Love and Rockets comics. Then he moved into their compound. You know, that huge warehouse over on Tenth and Magpie?”

“Oh yeah. Steve and I have skated there before. There’s a great double-sided curb in the parking lot. Waxed so smoothly it’s like grinding on butter.” Christopher guzzled more of his tea.

“Well, that’s the place. I saw him a few days before he did that creepy cocooning thing they do, and he was already barely recognizable. He looked like a skeleton, but not like a real one. Like one of those cardboard Halloween decorations. Nowadays I guarantee I wouldn’t be able to pick him out from any of the others. He’s gone, man. Fucking sad.”

“That’s so fucked. I’ll never be able to forgive them for William, even if they weren’t directly responsible for what happened. Not that I believe that for a second. I went to visit him a month or so ago and it was, well, let’s just say the experience was a bit disturbing. More than usual.”

“Yeah, don’t get me started on that crap. By the way, remind me next time you go to the Happy Hotel so I can come with. It’s been too long since I’ve seen him.”

“Yeah. Absolutely.”

Adam grabbed a videocassette and took it to the science fiction section. “You know, Chris, the trust thing with Trixie, it’s always going to be a problem. You can never truly tell what’s going on in someone’s mind. Don’t put too much stock in trust. One of the key aspects of love is the ability to live with your partner’s secrets more than anyone else’s. I don’t think her lies were designed to hurt you. They probably ate her up inside. She didn’t strike me as the type who got off on others’ pain. No way. The bottom line is, do you care about her?”

“Of course I do. That’s why this is so fucking confusing.”

“Who cares about all the other bullshit, then? It’s rare to find someone you really connect with. It doesn’t matter what the rest of the world thinks about it. Well, maybe it does a little bit, but only to the people who don’t deserve to factor into your life anyway. Shouldn’t matter to you or those close to you.” Adam grabbed another stack of tapes and moved on to comedy, filing them away in perfect alphabetical order without even a cursory glance.

“Maybe.”

“No. Maybe nothing. Remember that girl Molly I dated when I was in high school?”

“The one with the tooth so crooked she used to cut her lip whenever she sneezed?”

“Hey, that tooth was one of the more endearing things about her. Bet you didn’t know she had mild schizophrenia.” Adam was now in foreign films, his body now obscured by the perpendicular racks. He had to raise his voice a bit to be heard.

“Well, that might explain why she used to call me Cristóbal Colón. I always assumed it was an attempt at a cute nickname.”

“The point is, if I can stay with a girl like that for almost a year, then you can certainly give a fair shot to a cool chick who just happened to be born wrong.”

The words born wrong echoed through Christopher’s head. He thought that might be the key to this whole issue. Trixie was meant to be the woman she is now, not the little boy she started out as so long ago. And she had struggled so hard to get where she was. She was right where she needed to be. Almost. If it turned out that God existed, he certainly would have a tough time proving he wasn’t a sadistic bastard.

“Why did you end up breaking up with Molly anyway?” Christopher asked.

“She trashed my Nintendo after I beat her at Super Mario too many times.”

“Hmm.”

“Hey, just because I have crappy judgment in my own personal affairs doesn’t mean my advice should be null and void.”

“I still need to think about it for a while, I guess.” Christopher grabbed his drink and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Band practice.”

“Well, the advice is free, but not the tea. Pay the fiddler, little bro.”

Christopher turned around, walked backward, dug into his pockets and inverted them as if to show how dirty the color white could get. They flopped to his sides like puppy ears. “Sorry. All tapped out. I’ll come cover you for a couple of hours next week if you need to take an extra-long break.” Christopher gave Adam a quick wave and kept moving.

The electronic bell buzzed as he passed through the door, but the sound never completely faded. It hummed with quiet, yet persistent annoyance like a jar full of wasps. As he jogged off, he could see Adam through the window, shaking his head and grabbing a screwdriver. A video store owner’s work was never done.