Chapter 21

In the monitoring lab, Urian peered up at the main screen and turned to Skitter and Saeger.  “Makes you kind of sorry our shift is ending, doesn’t it?”

Skitter looked on, a grin of pride enveloping his face as he echoed the words of the large banner stuck to the stone base of the bridge.  “The Future of the Past, a play brought to you by the Bridgebase Players.”

Saeger chimed in with, “Bridgebase… Bridgebase Players.  Hector’s something else.”

Skitter shook his head.  “The slammer does different things to different people.  How long was Hector in for again?”

“Think it was five, maybe six years,” said Saeger.  He turned to Urian.  “Six years, Urian?”

Urian nodded.  “Six for good behavior.  KH5 found him right after he arrived in New York from Nepal.  Had himself a twenty sentence for what was labeled “negligence” in the India court.”

“Jesus.  In a Nepal prison, no less.  Sherpa’s should be exempt from lawsuits, you know?” said Saeger.

Urian nodded.  “Yeah, well, the whole world is suit crazy.  The climber, some professor from Europe, blamed Hector for the loss of his feet to frost bite on Annapurna, forgetting, of course, Hector saved his life.  Didn’t matter then… doesn’t matter now.  We’ve all but forgotten how to be thankful for what we have.  Too much faultfinding, you know?  Part of what this study is trying to figure out and help correct.  Lot of disturbed minds out there masquerading as confident and secure people.  But that was then.  Look at him now.”  Urian stood up, stretched and strode toward the exit.  “Got to get some air.”

“So, this guy never gives up,” said Skitter with a sense of anticipation.

Saeger looked over.  “Huh?”

Skitter nodded toward another screen where Richard sat before his laptop, scanning an on-line dating service and studying multiple pictures.   He paused, punched up the home page, changed countries from Sweden, to Denmark, and continued, continually muttering to himself.  “I know I’ve seen her on one of these pages.  Know it.”

“Richard has been one horny toad since that crazy dream the other night,” said Skitter.  “Too bad we couldn’t climb inside his dreams that night.”

“Thanks to you, Skitter.  You’re the one that fixed the fuckup, remember?”

“Yeah… well, the way he’s going, whatever it or she, or he was… we’re both probably better off.”

Saeger chuckled.  “Speak for yourself.  I’m an old fuck, remember?”

                                                      ***

After weeks of telephone calls and e-mails, Roxanne’s strategy to get Mrs. Turner to persuade her husband to clean up his bills, appeared to be paying off. 

Exiting from The Godard, Roxanne smiled at Sam as he talked on the intercom to another resident.  At the curb was a black stretch limo with the motor running.  All seemed like just another night at The Godard.  The driver jumped out and opened the back door of the limo, touching the brim of his hat.  “Miss Daniels.”

“Lester,” said Roxanne, “New car.  Nice.” As she stooped to enter, she tapped his coat pocket.  “Leonard leave you with something for me?”

“It’s inside.”

She stepped into the limo and as Lester closed the door, a man in the back seat held her, while another pressed an ether-soaked handkerchief against her mouth and nose.  Roxanne slumped to the floorboards as Lester got in and drove off.

The two men lifted her into a sitting position and positioned themselves on both sides to keep her propped up.  After a few moments of driving, one man turned to the other with, “Nice perfume.”

“Yeah.”

***

In the dim light of the stables, several horses hung their heads out their Dutch doors.  Their perked ears all pointed toward the far end where a light bulb illuminated the last stall.  

Pages flipped chaotically as Tito, leaning on his crutches, thumbed through his dog-eared script.  “So, anyway, I just wanted to say that, and let you know, no hard feelings, okay?  I know you didn’t mean to stomp me.  Somethin’ spooked you, and… well, I know we still got this thing, okay?”

Satan nuzzled Tito, playfully pushing him toward his stool. 

“Okay.  Okay.  I’ll sit down.  Damn.  You’re bad as Hector mother-hennin’ me.”   He sat down, found his place in the script and took a deep breath.  “Now listen up, Satan.”  He peered into the horse’s eyes.  “So, now I know what I'm tryin' to say.  It's all about road-kill.  Yeah.”

He leaned forward from the stool and continued, whispering to Satan’s ears.  “You think those little creatures that cross the road know what's comin' at them?  They're not stupid, you know.  But… but, they got a purpose, see.  They're just tryin' to get away. They've got their own hell on one side of the road and think it's better on the other side, ya know? But…”  He paused a moment, then continued.  “But it’s usually a myth, you know?  Maybe it ain't better on the other side, man.  But like I said… they're not stupid.  They're just wantin' somethin' better and don't know for sure how to get it.  Like you and me.  Now, they'd be stupid if they were runnin' up the road 'long side a hovering machine, man.  You never see a chicken or a freakin' rabbit run up the road, racin' a classic Beemer, do ya?  ‘Course not.  They're not stupid like us.  Hell, we race along side anything we can in our machines, don’t we?  Our self-navigating, self-parking with the little beeps, self-adjusting air, heat, sound, and seats of insulation so we can ride high in the saddle, or low... so we can pull up along side another self-everything machine and challenge.  Yeah, challenge everything.  That’s us.  ‘My gizmo can beat your gizmo, man.’  Right?  Then we put the pedal to the metal and crrrrash, man.  Twisted metal on metal... dead.  Now that's road kill, man.  Road kill obituary.  And we call rabbits and squirrels crazy?  Trouble is, we know better, be we don't stop there.  Nowadays, the Haves gotta get some asteroid or techno collision to feel alive.  And, the Have-nots?  Well, that’s more people than we think.  And they… well, it’s all a delusion, you know.  All of it.  Just like a bubble waitin’ to pop.”  He locked on Satan’s eyes.  “But you already know that, don’t you?”

Neither moved.

Further down among the other stalls, ears remained perked up.

All was quiet, save for the breathing of a half dozen steeds.

The light bulb at the far end was switched off.

For a moment, the heavy sound of horses breathing ceased.

The air was teased by the quiet whispering of Tito.  “Sorry, I forgot to bring an apple.”

Satan gave a snort.

“Mind if I just rest on this hay a little while?”

Satan’s quiet whinny brought the other horses’ ears to rest.

All was silent now, save for the quiet snoring of Tito and the breathing of Satan—hesitant breathing that suggested Satan wasn’t ready to sleep.  Not yet.

***

Orbiting A2’s dome were the last few minutes of images from Tito’s point of view of Satan, and Satan’s of Tito.  

***

With Hector’s opening night production now history, he jumped out of a cab and ran up to the entrance to The Godard speakeasy-fashioned private club open only to the tenants of the building.

“Hey, Hector!” said the bouncer peaking through the small hinged window in the door.  “Almost missed your own party.”

“Murphy’s Law,” said Hector.

He opened the door and ushered Hector in.  “Know about that, Bro.   Know about that.  It’s a wild and woolly night in there.”  The bouncer eyed Hector’s tie-dyed scarf.  “Nice.”

Hector returned the jest with a smile.  “One of my actor’s creations.  Rather garish, don’t you think?”

“Hey, it’s an ‘opening night’, Hector.  How’d the show go?”

“We'll read the papers and see.”

Inside, the party was in full swing, with an avant-garde jazz combo laying out sounds that mustered up perplexed looks on some, and finger snapping movements from others.   Gloria ran up to Hector.  “Yo… Mr. Director is here!”  She latched onto his arm and ushered him through the crowd of applause and whistles mixed with confetti and streamers.

Hector stepped up to the platform.  “Thank you.  Thank you.  Before things get too rowdy, apologies for my late arrival.”

Everyone applauded and cheered once again.

“No, really, sorry I'm late, but getting dressed under the bridge was not without some problems, and after endless searching...” 

Laughter and cheers filled the club as Hector showed his mismatched socks; one red, one white.

He chuckled at his own joke, then raised his hands.  “Thank you.  Thank you.  It was very generous of you to haul your asses down to a bridge to be entertained and I hope you all enjoyed the show.  And yes, to those who couldn't make the opening, your joining us in hoping it gets the reviews to support a long run is more than appreciated.”

The crowd interrupted him with applause and a chant of, “Hector rules, Hector rules, Hector rules.”

Hector held his arms up once again to quiet the enthusiasm.  “Okay, everyone...  So... let's enjoy this wonderful party Gloria was so generous to give us.”

Gloria gave Hector a big hug and popped a magnum of champagne, sending an explosive cascade of bubbles all over the crowd. 

Servers popped more bottles and the band started up again, the funky sounds drawing couples onto the center dance floor.

***

As 1 a.m. neared, with most everyone sufficiently intoxicated to take whatever the papers might dish out, Gloria slipped out to the corner newsstand, where she bought up the early morning edition of the papers.

Pushing her way to the bandstand she raised the papers and said, “It’s a hit, Hector!  A motherin’ HIT!”

With everyone cheering and whistling, Gloria glanced around and shouted, “Where’s Hector?”

Marge yelled back, “He thanked everybody and ran out a few minutes ago.  Said he wanted to be with his actors when the reviews came out.  Hey, let's have a read.”  Gloria moaned Hector’s absence momentarily, then turned and addressed the band.  “A fanfare and a mike to read these jewels!”

***

Beneath the Manhattan Bridge, sitting around some burning trashcans, was Hector and his excited street players, most of which were out of costume and back into their homeless clothes.  In front of them was a pile of the daily papers.  Zip,the very tall-emaciated homeless man with an Orson Wells voice, finished the last read.  “…and the Great White Way might take some lessons from this eclectic group.  Void of any costume designers, prop masters, set designers... just raw imagination and energy, this inventive collection of instinctual talent under the leadership of Hector Alejandro, the director behind 'Rag Rock,' is making theatre history once again beneath the Manhattan Bridge.  welcome to the cool fall temperatures with what should be one of the hottest tickets in town.”

The group of homeless players cheered and threw more firecrackers into the blazing cans.

Hector stood and gave them all an informal salute.  “Well, you did good... really good.  However, the repertory is just “A Premier” old now.  In a couple of weeks, another new show, and after that, our third show has to be mounted.

More cheers bounced off the rock foundations of the bridge.

Continuing, Hector said, “Now, like the reviewers said, we have reason to worry about the winter coming up.  Anybody with ideas on where we can find a home with a roof, let’s talk about it at rehearsals, okay?  And, oh, Zip, get in touch with that catering thing you know.  We had fifty chairs tonight, and a lot of people stood.  We might need a lot more after these reviews.

Zip gave him the thunbs up. 

“Good, Zip.  So, he waved and walked from the circle toward the city, throwing one last kudo over his shoulder.   “You did better than good, people.  Much better than good!”  He let out a little Hector hoop.  “Love you guys.  See ya tomorrow night.”

As he passed Laudy, he paused and turned.  “Laudy?”

Laudy stepped into the light, still in her "Madam Rosie" costume.  “Yeah?”

“You kept the gown on, and well you should.  You were really beautiful in that get-up.”

“Get out of here, you,” she shouted, the embarrassment bringing the kind of color to her cheeks she hadn’t experienced since she swore off the sauce. 

Hector leaned in and kissed her on the forehead.  “…really beautiful.”  He turned and disappeared into the darkness.

Laudy touched her gown respectfully and turned to another homeless person.  “The Daily News said it was beautiful too.”

The man in rags shook his head. “He said you were beautiful.”

Laudy nodded shyly, looked into the flames of the burning cans, then back into the darkness where Hector had disappeared, heading back to the party.

                                                      ***

By 2 AM. the celebration started to wind down, the band segued into some ‘oldies, but goodies’ sounds.  A few final throws of confetti and streamers reflected off the lights, reminding everyone that it had been a fun night, and one they were happy had turned out so well for Hector and his fledgling repertory company. 

The chameleon director, philosopher and doorman, moved slowly through the crowd, thanking everyone once again for coming, and then disappeared out the exit.

Handbags were picked up, shoes put on, and coats shouldered as the partiers began to shuffle out.

***

From the furnace room beneath The Godard, sounds of rustling script pages suggested Tito was back at pushing himself.  He sat on his chair staring at the glass of Kool-Aid and almost empty bowl of M & M’s, effort and tension bringing lines of sweat down his face.  He watched out the basement window at the legs of the party guests passing.   “Striving for the best, always the best.  Best of what, man?  We don’t know really.  What looks good today will look like shit tomorrow; soon as it’s replaced by a better this, better that… better everything… so we tell ourselves.”

Tenants lazily moved away from the club, as if in slow motion.  Good-byes and well wishes could be heard, as well as the slurs of some too drunk to create whole words.  Still others complained that it was only 2 a.m.  “It’s early!” shouted one. 

Tito leaned toward the window for a closer look.  Pausing for a moment, lost in his own thoughts, he nodded.  Lost faces, ambitious faces, longing for faces.  Just plain lonely and hurt faces, all trying to make sure they remember the short respite that will comfort their tomorrow.  He glanced at his script and recited.  “We wait for answers, don’t we?  Oh, how we wait.  The machines and digits and squares and zeros keep makin' more of this and more of that and... It makes us look across that old road, and we remember it looks just like it always did when we were kids.  Sunny and simple over there… we think.  But the TV shows tell us it's sunny UP the road.  The proverbial religious shows, reality shows, soap shows, big media masquerade-of-life shows keeps dressing the robotic world differently, but it stays the same, really.  Still all about sex, power and money… Some panacea for happiness eh?  ‘It’s UP the road...’ they keep tellin’ us.  UP the road.”

He looked at his glass of Kool-Aid, considered it for a moment, then gulped it down, chasing it with his last handful of M & M's.  An unexpected sensation enveloped his face.  Suddenly, his imagination brought the furnace alive with flames.  His mind began shoveling the make-believe coal, faster and faster.  “The gratings are gonna be gone soon.  Air-cooled this and the miniature that... we'll forget what it's like to be just plain warm, man.  So, you tell me.  Why we lettin' the digits control everything?  Simple.  'Cause we're scared.  Some of us soak the fear in alcohol, while the educated ones drown it in their work… the lucky ones, at least.”

His shoveling became more aggressive, arresting primal sounds from him.  “Man, we're suffocatin' each other.  Tearin' up the livin', breathin' stuff.  Everything's gonna be Road Kill soon, man.  We’re scarin' shit out of ourselves and don’t even know it.  And the digits only do one thing, man--create more fear.  That's why we're standin' on the side of the road, lookin' over there where it's simple.  While we're lookin', we dream about this illusion that it's better on the other side, you know?  Digits make us look UP the road and run over us with their reality.”

He slammed the ghostly shovel into the furnace.  “Then it's get up every day; roll our weary asses out of bed while it's still dark outside.  Yell at our wives.  Take a leak.  Yell at our kids.  Brush our teeth.  Yell at the dog.  Gulp our first cup.  Take to the road.  Get in that fast lane.  Yell at anybody around us.  Get to work and do what we got to do to beat the competition... pay the price.”

***

As the elevators and hallways of The Godard filled with shadows of the guests making their way back to apartments—opening and shutting doors, some quietly, others slamming while an occasional couple held the door for a good night kiss—Tito progressively ran out of breath, “…and it's just... just takin' us where?  Back in the car, the cab, the subway...Yell some more, get home and... Hey, where’s the wife, the girlfriend, the kids, the freakin' dog?  Why's everybody gone?  Why am I surrounded all the time, but alone?”

A final door at the Godard was shut.

Tito slammed the iron furnace door, as various chains, deadbolts and tumblers quietly echoed through the building.