The Last Days of Video (8 page)

“Christ.”

“Alaura!” Waring yelled from
The African Queen.

Alaura sighed—already she was exhausted by Waring. “Time to face the music,” she said, and she dragged herself up the loft's spiral staircase.

Through the blue-gray fog produced by Waring's fuming cigarette, Alaura could see that he was drinking a beer and reading a fat hardback book, while
High Fidelity
played on
The African Queen
's flat-screen. Waring looked up from the book, which Alaura knew would be some film-history text or celebrity biography, and his face slackened into shock and awe.

“Hello, nurse!” he said as his eyes scanned her up and down.

“Oh Jesus, shut up.”

Then Waring's expression twisted quickly into an and-where-have-you-been-young-lady grimace.

“Sorry,” she said as she plopped onto the couch beside him.

“Sorry for what? For being late? Yes, I'd say
late
.” He coughed into his fist, then turned his book face down onto the loft's cluttered
coffee table. “In the meantime,” Waring went on, “I've been stuck with Blad, aka Captain Annoying. Have you seen his employee picks? He actually picked
Bring It On
.”

Alaura shrugged but did not remove her gaze from the movie, enduring her midscene entry.

“Blad is Jeff's new nickname,” Waring informed her. “You look amazing, by the way.”

“I asked you to be nice to him, Waring. And
Bring It On
is a good movie.”

“It's literally impossible that
Bring It On
is a good movie. And I am being nice to him. He still has a job, doesn't he? Which reminds me, I might have to fire Farley.”

Alaura's face tightened, but she quickly released the expression, hoping to leave her makeup undisturbed. “What's the problem now?”

“Listen,” Waring said with sudden theatrical Waxian urgency. “Farley was just up here filming with some little digital camera thingy. First of all, him being in
The African Queen
with his, well, girth and everything, is not exactly safe. Which he knows. Which I've told him. And when I asked him what he was doing, he said, in that wheezy voice of his, ‘Uh, I'm getting footage for some stupid documentary about modern technology and the state of the video store industry and some other crap.' He's out there now. Filming, not working. So clearly I should fire him.”

“Not like you care, Waring, but Farley's in school for documentary filmmaking.”

Waring reached for the remote and paused
High Fidelity.

“You're over three hours late,” he said. “And you didn't call.”

She took the remote from him, pressed “Menu.”

“Is something wrong?” he said.

“No.”

“Why are you so late?”

“No reason. I watched
Chop Shop
.”

“And?”

“And it's fucking incredible. I think it'll be a good renter, so I'm ordering ten copies.”

“But something's wrong.”

“Why is Jeff's nickname Blad?” she asked with a curl of annoyance. “That's not even a word.”

“Blad is fun to say, that's all.” He squinted at her. “Are you going to tell me what's wrong with you?”

“No, I'm not.”

Alaura felt him staring at her for a long time.

Then he smashed out his cigarette in the overfilled ashtray.

“Whatever,” he said. “Sorry you overslept or your life hasn't turned out the way you wanted or yadda yadda yadda. Stay up here if you want. I was watching this
High Fidelity
thing again. Something about it is just . . . not . . . good. I mean, the book was good, I read it back when the movie came out, but I don't know. Maybe it's because John Cusack looks so stocky. He's sort of built like Edward G. Robinson—”

“I don't care.”

“Fine, jerk face. And FYI, Blad is short for bladder infection. I don't remember why.” He grabbed his book off the coffee table, climbed over the edge of
The African Queen
, and began to descend the staircase. “Stay up here if you want,” he called back. “It's not like we have any customers anyway.”

Alaura spotted a bottle
of Sierra Nevada, picked it up, popped it open against a corner of the coffee table. She lit a cigarette. Finally good and ready, she restarted
High Fidelity
, which she had seen years before and which she would soon reevaluate as a flawed but endearing portrait of music store snobs, who were in many ways similar to video store snobs, and that Waring had probably been offended not only by Cusack's fading charm (he
was
too beefy to be that neurotic), but also by the basis of the movie's humor (that
the characters' snobbishness was fundamentally ridiculous). Nonetheless, she found herself drifting easily into the mesh of the film, into the interdependent professional and romantic plot threads, because being engaged with a film was her favorite craving, the relief of images, the dependable escape, the conflicting empathies, the forming of plot hypotheses, the subverting of expectations, the satisfactions of suspense, all of it, all the tricks of narrative, all the lies they use to tell the truth. This was her truest religion, her most reliable form of meditation, and she knew it.

“Are you okay, ma'am?”

Alaura's attention jolted from the movie onto Jeff's face floating above the wall of
The African Queen.
She was crying again. Eye shadow probably ran down her cheeks. So she turned away from him. On screen, John Cusack and some no-name actress were reuniting after the sudden death of her father. They sat in a car, kissing, their hair wet from rain. The scene was nothing special, not visually original in the slightest, but the expression on Cusack's familiar face, his amazement that the girl of his dreams wanted him back . . . Alaura had not been able to restrain the tears. Normally she preferred indie and foreign films. But even Hollywood movies (especially Hollywood movies, she had to admit) could make her cry.

She paused the DVD.

“Jeff?”

“Yes, ma'am?”

“If you call me ma'am again, I'll rip out your eyeballs.”

No response.

“Oh, you know what I mean,” she said weakly.

“Are you okay . . . Alaura?”

“Peachy keen.”

She massaged her temples, tried to straighten the neckline of her tee shirt. Still facing away from him, she said, “Did you need something, Jeff?”

“It's, well . . . Waring's on the phone. I think it's Clarissa Wheat from that Guiding Glow Distribution place again. It sounds like bad news.”

Alaura: sarcastic puff of laughter.

Clarissa Wheat is calling, and it sounds like bad news, she thought. Waring's on an epic bender. Pierce just broke up with me. Pierce fucked me before breaking up with me. Jeff just saw me crying. My makeup is running. Blockbuster just opened. I live in a dinky town thirty minutes from the dinky town where I grew up. I've never lived anywhere else. Waring is a ridiculous human being, and he might be running out of money. I might lose my job. No one will ever hire a girl with these tattoos. There's a marijuana charge on my criminal record. I'm half-drunk in the afternoon. I haven't talked to Daddy in a month. I haven't visited Sprinks in six. I'm old. I'm gaining weight. My only marketable skill is . . . my only marketable skill is . . .

“Thanks for the update, Jeff,” she said.

“Can I do anything?”

“You can leave me the fuck alone.”

Silence.

Then she listened to Jeff descend the steps.

And now I've been rude to Jeff, aka the Nicest Kid in the World.

She'd apologize later. But not now. Now all she could manage was—resetting
High Fidelity
to the beginning of the scene with Cusack and the girl in the car and taking a huge gulp of beer.

Your life hasn't turned out how you wanted
, Waring had said.

No shit, Sherlock.

THE DISCREET CHARM OF CLARISSA WHEAT

A few moments earlier,
the store phone had rung, prompting Waring to stare at it in disgust. He didn't want to answer, but Jeff was nowhere in sight. So after four rings, Waring slammed down his book, snatched up the phone, and offered the caller an annoyed “Mm?”

“Waring Wax, please?” asked a sober female voice.

“He's retired. Or asleep.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don't know where he is.”

“Pardon?”

“Message,” he barked. “This is where you leave a message.”

“I must say, sir, you're being a little—”

“So sorry,
ma'am.
I've got a line of ten customers.”

“Oh?” said the woman, her voice rising in what sounded like pleasant surprise. “That's nice to hear. Please tell Waring that Clarissa Wheat from Guiding Glow Distribution called—”

Waring stood from his director's chair. His entire body cringed. With his free hand, he punched the air as if battling a shadow, or perhaps Clarissa Wheat herself.

“Wait!” he cried into the phone. “I see Waring! Just a sec!”

Waring had put off talking to Clarissa Wheat long enough. After a brief pause, he spoke into the phone using a ridiculously deep voice and, for some reason, a pinch of a British accent:

“Clarissa! How are you?”

“Waring, my darling.”

“Darling?” he said, instantly confused.

“Waring, dear, I've been trying to reach you. I don't think we've spoken personally in over a year, since my last visit. Did a Blockbuster recently open near your store?”

“Oh, is that all?” He tutted a fake laugh. “It's a long way down the street. Miles, really.”

“Still,” she continued, “the board of Guiding Glow is concerned. There's a not inconsiderable balance on your account, and it's been growing as of late. And, to be frank, we're surprised that you didn't inform us earlier about Blockbuster, as it's quite likely to impact your earnings.”

“I see, I see. Oversight on my part.” His voice trailed off, and he punched the air again.

“Of course, we should have kept you informed ourselves,” Clarissa Wheat said. “For that, I apologize.”

“Um, apology accepted.”

“We're concerned, as I can tell you are. We had a group prayer for you this afternoon.”

“Why, thank you. I recently did some . . . some praying myself.”

“How is business, Waring?”

“Fine!” he belted out assuredly. “A slight drop, perhaps, but that's to be expected at the end of summer.”

“Really? I assumed with students returning—”

“Business should be ticking upward,” he interrupted. “It's fine. I'm fine. We're all fine and dandy. I'll catch up on my account shortly, and there should be no drop-off in our ordering, none whatsoever, not any time soon, not at all.”

Waring scoured his pockets for cigarettes but found none.

“We've planned a visit to West Appleton,” Clarissa Wheat said. “It's been too long. There are some things I'd like to discuss with you personally.”

“Discuss?” Waring said, then he laughed as if her suggestion were pleasantly offensive. “Not needed. Like I say, business should be ticking upward in the very near future.”

“My dear Waring, I'm sure you're aware that many of the stores we contract with are posting losses. All across the country. Significant losses. And obviously Blockbuster isn't the only issue . . . the Internet and Redbox have hit us all harder than we calculated. As one of Guiding Glow's most, well,
unique
clients, we'd like to come take a lay of the land, see if we can offer any help. Things are changing, Waring. We need to prepare for the future.”

“But I just don't think—”

“We've already purchased our plane tickets.”

Waring's head wilted forward.

“That's fantastic,” he muttered.

“And Waring?” Clarissa said. “I've missed you. I think about my last visit all the time.”

A twinge of recognition. A murky memory. Waring visualized Clarissa Wheat, the middle-aged heron of a woman in a starched gray business suit—she was bony and bloodless and offensively makeup-caked. Something strange had indeed happened between Waring and this specimen during her first and only visit to West Appleton, one year ago, soon after Guiding Glow—the Christian corporation she worshipped and served—had purchased Star Video's original distributor for fiscal and propagandic reasons completely inconceivable to Waring. Clarissa Wheat had arrived without warning one evening when Waring was whiskey-hammered and working alone, and among her many un-Christianly shrill complaints, she had particularly harped on his new contractual obligation to provide a more family- and faith-friendly movie selection.
He remembered cracking up in laughter—at her deadpan suggestion that he now operated at the pleasure of the Almighty—then realizing she wasn't joking at all.