17
ONE HUNDRED BEERS
Outside the lecture hall, Alex was jittery with adrenaline. “I can’t believe what just happened,” he said. “Will we have to give a police statement? I’ve never given a police statement before.” He turned to Tracy, who was still writing notes as fast as she could. “How’d we do? Is there enough for a story?”
“Oh yeah,” she said, shaking her hand to fend off the cramping. “All I need is to get one of those SFSS guys on the record while he’s still nice and pissed off. They’re probably back at the office by now.”
He tossed her his recorder. “I think it’s safe to say Rachel will make this a priority.”
“She better,” Tracy said, shoving it and the notebook into her dummy backpack. “Okay. I’ve gotta get to work on this. I’ll probably have a draft ready by the time you get in tomorrow.”
“Don’t forget the debate,” he said.
“Jesus. This is going to be a miniseries by the time it’s all settled.”
“Oh, who cares,” said Tyson. He was panting and nursing a bruise on his cheek. His air horn had been confiscated. “The real scoop would be figuring out why Holtz treats his sex life like it’s goddamned classified information.”
“What?” Alex asked. “You mean—that make-up lady? That’s what you’re taking away from all this?”
Keith and Chip sat on a nearby bench, eating fistfuls of Sour Patch Kids. Claude stood a few tentative steps away, cradling his camera with both hands.
“It’s not like he’s campaigning on his virginity, is it? It’s like, c’mon dude. Spill the beans already.”
“I don’t know,” Alex said, watching Mack scurry through the crowd in the distance, trying to get some kind of coherent quote from anyone who would talk to him. Holtz, his manager, and the other celebrity were all nowhere to be seen. “Isn’t that kind of private?”
“Fuck no, it is not,” Tyson hollered. “I learned more about that guy in five minutes of googling than from anything he’s done since coming back here. The internet already showed me pictures of him filming at SFU. I saw his signed contract for Maximum Death 2, page by page, on The Smoking Gun. I even saw a picture of that make-up artist’s tits. It was decent, but kind of blurry. You could barely make out how big her nipples were.” Tyson sighed, then winced as his cheek muscles twitched involuntarily. “That’s the kind of knowledge I want dropped on me. Not all this political bullshit.”
Tracy looked up from closing her backpack. “You’re not a very likable person, are you?”
“I’m a pragmatist. If they’re not embarrassing themselves for my benefit, what are celebrities good for?”
She turned to Alex. “Thanks for your help back there. I hope I didn’t give you too much of a panic attack.”
“You wish,” he said.
Alex felt a little light-headed, and, in his endorphin binge, something that could easily be mistaken for powerful. He’d just been part of a legitimate event. Forget a piddly little police statement. Right now he could alter reality itself with a nod. Or maybe even just by showing up.
But first he needed a drink.
“Hey, Tyson,” he said. “When does Pub Night start?”
Alex put his arm around his friend’s shoulder and playfully slapped the bruise on his cheek. “Let’s go drink a hundred beers.” He looked to the bench. “Keith, you’re in on this, too.”
“Actually,” Keith said, “I’ll have to pass. Sorry, dude. I promised Chip I’d go to his place and watch some DVD about Vimy Ridge if he came here with me.”
“DVD set,” corrected Chip.
“Yeah. But I don’t know. It actually sounds kind of cool?”
“Suit yourself,” Alex said. “Claude?”
“Me?” Claude said, fidgeting with his lens cap. “Really?”
“You better believe it,” Alex said. The three of them walked off toward the Pub. “One hundred beers. It’s happening.”
