Story Girl (32 page)

When James finally finished reading me my script, I felt something that I wasn’t really sure I’d ever felt before – utter relief. My transmissions had somehow been received… and understood.

“So?” he asked.

I stared at the shadows on the carpet, waiting for them to change their shape.

“Tracy?”

“I can’t talk about it just yet.”

“You hate it?”

I stared at him, wondering how he could say such a thing.

“No – I don’t hate it. And you know I don’t.”

Children were laughing in the street; their dreams were still intact, because to them, everything was a dream. But for me, my dreams had started to fade – and this guy was so casually handing me back their brilliance.

“You finished it, James.”

“I just followed your lead – you laid the foundation.”

“But it was trapped in that concrete. I was stuck.”

James got out of the chair and stared out the window, “Maybe you couldn’t finish it because you were terrified of how good it would be. Maybe you were afraid to go to the next level in your own life. So it was easier to stay stuck in what you knew – in what was familiar.”

“Maybe.”

“And maybe I was afraid to begin anything again because of what happened last time. So it was easier for me to finish… rather than begin.”

“Maybe.”

“So can we talk about it, Tracy? I mean, really talk.”

“Not right now.”

“Why?”

“I just can’t.”

He sat back down.

My eyes wanted only his face. It was like the chemistry between us had grown into an entity that was threatening to swallow us whole.

“I’m overwhelmed, James.”

We both sat very still and very quiet until I knew what had to be done.

“It’s time to send it to Mitch.”

“Now?” he asked.

“Did you bring your laptop?”

He nodded, “It’s all ready to go.”

“So add your name to it, and I’ll show you where the Ethernet cable is.”

“You’re really ready to send it now?”

“It’s already gone.”

“But we haven’t even discussed it.”

“We will.”

“When?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tracy?”

He followed me into my mother’s sewing room – a place that doubled as my so-called writing office when I was home. Neither of us spoke while he set up his computer on the floor. And when he finally hit the send button, I’d never felt so fired up – but when he turned around to look at me, I wondered if I’d simply die of exposure.

chapter
47

O
LD SCRIPTS WERE
being re-written all over the place.

The idea of success – in all its forms – was gathering speed through zones that were once restricted. And with
Space Boy
zipping through cyberspace and James right next to me, there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it. I didn’t want to stop it.

We were walking in the direction of Bud Jarkinson’s motel, our arms casually interlocked. The sky was as blue as I’d ever seen it, and children and dogs were out in full force – along with a variety of people who I’d never once noticed before. The sun was handily sweeping people outside, demanding that the day be witnessed.

Or maybe I was just seeing with fresh eyes.

I could hardly wait to tell my father that his shed would remain standing, certain that his vegetables could lure him back home. Thanks to Mary’s generous sprinkle of shock dust, everything might soon be back to whatever it had been.

When we sauntered past the donut shop, I wondered if we’d ever end up like the elderly couple I’d watched the night before.

“Tracy?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m nervous.”

“About Mitch?”

“About meeting your father.”

“Just be yourself.”

“He’ll think I’m a psycho for just showing up like this.”

“He’ll be flattered for me.”

When we finally arrived at the Creekside Oasis, there were only two cars in the parking lot – and one of them belonged to my father. I heard the laughter before we got to the door – the kind that emanates from unfiltered and boisterous joy. I wondered if he might have a woman in there – some random stranger he picked up in a bar, or worse yet, a long-stashed mistress who could finally be aired out.

“It’s just Bud,” I said, out loud to myself.

“What?”

“The guy who owns the motel.”

We stood outside and listened as they yelled excitedly about the past – about all the gargantuan fish they’d caught in the little creek beside them.

I knocked on the door and my father answered it with a beer in one hand, and a pizza slice in the other.

“Tracy?”

“Can we come in?”

“Get your pretty little rug-rat butts in here.”

We walked into a room that was littered with beer cans. There was a bucket on the floor containing a tiny fish draped over ice.

“Dad, this is James. He flew in from L.A. – we just finished collaborating on a script.”

“Well – that’s terrific news. It’s a pleasure to meet you, James.”

My father scrutinized him as best he could through his booze fog, and then tossed him a can of beer.

“Give it a second or it’ll explode all over you, son.”

I couldn’t help but cringe inside.

“A script, heh?” Bud asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “You know, a movie blueprint.”

“A Hollywood thing?”

“Yes – wouldn’t that be nice.”

“Bunch of nuts,” Bud said.

James gave me a look, and I was disappointed to feel the embarrassment on my cheeks.

“You want some pizza?” Bud asked.

“What kind?” I asked, although the room reeked like a greasy mix of pepperoni, sausage, bacon, and beef.

“Meat lovers.”

“No, thank you.”

“Why not?” Bud asked.

“I’m a vegetarian.”

“See – fruits and nuts,” Bud laughed.

“Bud and I were just talking about going up to Alaska,” my father said. “He has a little shack up in Fairbanks.”

“Quite a road trip,” I said.

“Would we drive up through Canada?” my father asked.

“How the hell else would we get up there?” Bud asked.

“Who will take care of the motel while you’re gone, Bud?”

“That old battle-axe of a wife sure won’t. I can’t trust her not to take off shoppin’. She’d spend her whole life in Wal*Mart if she could. Which leaves Becky, I guess.”

Becky was Bud’s daughter – we were the exact same age and had attended the very same schools and the exact same classes.

“But what if she doesn’t want to?” my father asked.

“Come on, Herb. She’s wanted to be a chambermaid her whole damn life. If she does this for me, then she’s got the job. She’ll be a top banana, full-time.”

I looked around at the dingy room and suddenly found myself defending the dreams of a girl I would no longer even recognize on the street, “She wanted to be an astronaut in grade school.”

Bud frowned at me, “We’re not that la-di-da, Tracy. We don’t have them big ideas like you do.”

James snickered and I felt a pinch of anger sprinkle through my body, and I didn’t think I could ever tell him about my grandmother.

“Becky’s not even here to defend herself,” I said.

“She doesn’t need defending,” Bud said. “I can speak for her just fine.”

“There’s nothing wrong with having dreams,” my father said.

“And nothin’ wrong when you dream of being a maid,” Bud said.

A vision of an alternative future flashed through my head – I was working here full-time as a chambermaid, dragging the giant pail of sudsy water that was chained to my leg. The image made me shudder and I scratched at something on my thigh; I was certain it was a hive, but my thumb and index finger revealed the body parts of a swollen dead mosquito.

I turned to James, “We’ll have to be sure to follow up with Mitch – quickly. We can’t just let it languish.”

“Tell me about it,” he said, and looked around the room as if it were a torture chamber.

“Listen, Bud,” I said. “You’re totally right – there’s nothing wrong with being a maid, and there’s also nothing wrong with writing scripts. Each world deserves respect.”

“Fruits and nuts,” he repeated.

“Forget it, Tracy,” James whispered.

He mumbled something about species, and I realized that I was thoroughly annoyed with every person in the room – including myself.

“If I go up with you, how long am I gonna be gone?” my father asked.

“At least a month,” Bud said. “And there’s new seasons. Hell – the days up there are all jumbled up and backwards. I used to build cars at two in the morning in the summer.”

“I’ll bet the yard’s covered in them,” James whispered.

I frowned at him.

“What was that?” Bud asked.

“Nothing,” James said.

“Pardon me for not havin’ yer snotty tastes,” Bud said. “I think this gentleman here thinks he’s better than us. You and me, Herb – we’re just a couple of guys. That’s what we are – just regular guys. Not opera lovers, or expensive people. Just meat-eating guys.”

“Not everything’s so simple,” I said.

“Yes it is, little girl.”

“My father loves vegetables. He loves them more than you could ever imagine. So I guess you don’t really know him so well.”

I looked over at my father; he gave me a thumbs up.

Bud burped and I scanned the floor, quickly counting ten beer cans. I wondered how many more were under the bed and out on the deck.

“Yeah, I’m not sure I can be away from my vegetables that long.”

“Your wife’s gonna rip ‘em all down anyway,” Bud said. “When she puts up that new shed.”

“Actually!” I said. “Good news. Mom took that new shed back to the store.”

I watched my father’s droopy posture straighten, “What?”

“So you’re now the proud owner of some new veggie seeds and a big credit – in case you need a hoe, or something.”

“That’s incredible.”

My father sat on the edge of the bed, with his arms stretched out like airplane wings.

“Thought you needed some space from that old bat,” Bud said. “You can plant a garden up there, for Cripe’s sake. Edible flowers for all I care. I already said so.”

“She’s not an old bat,” my father said. “Watch yourself there, Bud.”

“Hell she ain’t. And a nutter too. You told me she irons her pillowcases.”

My father shrugged, “They smell better ironed.”

I wondered if he’d ever seen her iron
towels
. I’d only seen it happen once, but I’d still seen it.

“Our housekeeper used to iron the pillowcases,” James said. I could tell he regretted saying it, but it was too late.

“Housekeeper, heh?” Bud asked. “See, this pretty little guy doesn’t just think he’s better than us – he
knows
it.”

“He does not,” I said.

“Look,” James said, “you created a great place here. You built it, you run it. Tracy tells me you can even fish here. And I think it’s terrific that you’re both going to Alaska.”

“Don’t
condense
me,” Bud slurred.

I winced and looked to my father.

“I think you mean condescend,” my father said. “Which means to patronize.”

“Ah, fuck it,” Bud said. “What difference does it make what word I use? It’s just a word. The world was built with hands, not words. It was built by men, not Hollywood fruits.”

James gave him a dismissive glance, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen him look so smug.

“You haven’t built a thing in your life,” Bud said. “You got hands like a girl. And yet you’d turn up your nose at the men who built the very roads that your pansy ass trots along. You got some grand notions of yerself.”

I looked around at these three men and couldn’t believe that it only took a handful of minutes to unearth such deep-seated and mutual resentments.

“Dad, I’m sorry. I think James and I should leave.”

“Yup. Good idea,” Bud said.

James walked out to the parking lot, and my father walked me to the door.

“I’m sorry, Tracy. We’ve been drinking.”

“It’s okay.”

“James seems like a nice boy.”

“He’s a man.”

“Okay. I’m glad you brought him by.”

I peered back into the room – Bud was baiting a hook with a lure made out of dead insects.

“You can come home now,” I said. “It’s really okay.”

He squeezed me so tightly that I had to imagine rabid dogs gnawing through my gory remains to keep myself from crying.

“Dad?”

He burped and wiped his nose with the back of his hand, “But now I want to go to Alaska.”

“For that last license plate?”

He nodded at me like I was the coolest person ever, and I left him to his friend and their tall tales and future plans.

chapter
48