The Last Days of Video (9 page)

But somehow, on that occasion, everything had worked out fine. Waring had awoken in
The African Queen
the next morning, deathly hungover, memory obliterated, but with the vague sense that his distribution deal was secure.

“Barney and I arrive in three days,” she said. “Tuesday, two o'clock.”

“Barney?”

“My husband, Barney Wheat. Vice president of distribution? Your employee, Ms. Eden, places her monthly orders with him. I'd rather come alone, of course. But you know how Barney is.”

The call ended, and at once, Waring resolved to make peace with Alaura, who today had been distant and crabby and later than normal to her shift, and who for some reason was in a particularly anti-Waring mood. But whatever the issue, whatever it took to win her back, Waring would do it, because Clarissa Wheat was a problem, and now he really needed Alaura's help.

Jeff stepped down from
The African Queen.
Waring turned and considered the preposterously tall, preposterously well-proportioned youngster.

Had Jeff been talking to Alaura? Smiling at her? Existing for even a second within her field of vision? Unacceptable.

Then Waring remembered that night last week: those bicycle deadbeats. How Jeff had swooped in like a zitty Errol Flynn. But you're not getting a thank you, Waring thought. I didn't ask for your help. And if I find out you've told Alaura, then you're fired, Opie Taylor. That whole incident is better left forgotten.

Jeff scurried onto the floor without looking at Waring—probably to organize DVDs or to dust or to do something else in a preposterously productive way—and Waring's gaze scrolled across his expansive store and came across Farley, who was standing near the Criterion section.

Farley held his video camera. The camera was trained on Waring.

Had Farley captured his entire conversation with Clarissa Wheat?

Waring sneered at the camera and its rotund operator. “Farley?” he said. “Alaura might not let me fire you. But that doesn't mean maiming is out of the question.”

Farley smiled and gave Waring an enthusiastic, directorial thumbs-up.

THE ONE WHERE THEY PERPETRATE A COMPLETELY RIDICULOUS SCHEME THAT COMES TO BE KNOWN SIMPLY AS “THE CORPORATE VISIT”

On Tuesday, three days
after the bad-news phone call, Clarissa and Barney Wheat arrived at precisely two p.m., driving a rented minivan, and as Jeff watched Alaura welcome them outside the shop, he decided that he had never witnessed a couple dressed so identically who also looked so different. The Wheats wore matching three-button navy suits, crisp white shirts, red ties, and shiny gray shoes, and around their necks hung thick silver chains upon which dangled thick silver crosses, resting over their ties. But Clarissa Wheat was a head taller than her husband. And twenty years younger. She was rail thin where he was pudgy and folded. Her coal black hair was pulled into a tight bun, while Barney Wheat's hair was sporadic and disheveled and gray. A dopey, perpetual smile swung on his sagging face, while her lips seemed to disappear into a haughty point an inch below her nose.

As if the Wheats' arrival had initiated a dimensional shift, Alaura looked like a different person. She wore no makeup besides a swipe of dull red lipstick. Her hair lay flat and parted like a brunette Mia Farrow. And though the temperature was well over eighty degrees, she wore a white turtleneck sweater and a pale blue, ankle-length
skirt—an outfit designed to cover her tattoos, Jeff decided, just like that morning at Tanglewood Baptist.

Jeff watched Alaura banter and smile with the strange couple. He watched her ask questions and nod thoughtfully at their answers. But her skin was pale. Her face looked thin. Shadowy circles hung under her eyes. Jeff had caught her crying in the loft the other day, and she'd been mean to him, but he'd probably deserved it, though he didn't know why. Since then she'd been hours late to every shift, and she no longer emitted that same bright energy with customers or employees or him.

“Look alive, freshman.”

Waring stood at the counter.

Jeff could not believe what he saw.

“What?” Waring said. “This is a thousand-dollar suit.”

But Waring's charcoal suit was wrinkled and crooked, too tight over the stomach, too loose in the shoulders. One button dangled like a dislodged tooth, and around the suit's neckline looped a weird ring of dark wet spots. His hair was combed back and glistening. Jeff smelled the heavy tang of Vitalis.

Waring looked like a member of the Brat Pack after too many calzones and a rough night in a country jail.

“Stop staring,” Waring said.

“Sorry.”

“Listen, Blad, I know you're not thrilled about this corporate visit thing. But you have to play along.”

Jeff sighed. Waring had employed the phrase “You have to play along” at least five times that day. Which apparently meant lying to Clarissa and Barney Wheat. But lie about what? Jeff had no idea.

“None of that,” Waring said. “No discontented exhales. No shrugs. Understand?”

“Not really.”

Waring placed both palms on the counter, as if to stabilize it. “Alaura thought you should work today,” he said, mostly to himself,
“which was clearly a mistake. At least Rose would have stayed quiet. Meaning less likely than you to say anything, well, wrong. Listen, Blad. I mean Jeff. It's very simple. I buy movies at a cheaper rate because I'm part of a distribution group. Even a rinky-dink distributor like Guiding Glow affords us a minimum of a 25 percent discount. The concept is called wholesale pricing—”

“I understand wholesale pricing.”

“Good for you. Now, listen. My original distributor was purchased last year by a Christian cartel called Guiding Glow. Those twits outside . . . they're Guiding Glow minions. They manage my account. In order to get them off my back, we have to convince them, first of all, that we're making money hand over fist, which we're not, and second of all, that we stock a, quote, faith-friendly selection, unquote, which I'm delighted to say we don't.”

Jeff glanced at what had once constituted the front panel of the Foreign Film section—Kurosawa and Fellini and Godard front and center for every customer to see, as well as Bergman and Antonioni, who had both apparently died, tragically, astonishingly, on the exact same day earlier that year. Now this section was labeled “Spiritual Spotlight,” and its shelves were filled with Christian DVDs, many of which Jeff recognized from his old Baptist youth group and as the horrible movies Momma watched when Bill O'Reilly or her favorite televangelists called it quits for the night. Predictable storylines, laughable production value, shameful acting, Kirk Cameron. And the documentaries . . . the unforgivably biased documentaries. Jeff had given up on this entire subgenre years ago and never looked back.

The sole reason the Spiritual Spotlight movies were kept boxed in Waring's office, Jeff had surmised, was for these rare Guiding Glow visits.

“Familiarize yourself with those titles,” Waring said. “There'll be a quiz.”

“Fine.”

“And remember, the Porn Room is locked. For today, it doesn't exist. Obviously we buy our porn from a different distributor. To your knowledge, we haven't rented a single title with visible genitalia since
The Piano
was boycotted by all those anti–Harvey Keitel Jesus freaks.”

Jeff nodded weakly.

Waring nodded mockingly in response. “Honestly, Blad, I don't understand your problem.”

Then he exited to greet the Wheats.

“I don't understand
your
problem,” Jeff muttered to himself, walking the length of the counter. “Ungrateful jerk.”

No
, Jeff decided at once. He would not lie. The way Waring had been treating him—the yelling and the insults even though Jeff had kept his stupid secret about the bicycle gang, without so much as a “thanks”—Jeff had had enough. If asked a direct question by the Wheats, he would tell the truth. That he'd made compromises to work here, that he'd withheld from Momma that Star Video rented pornography, that he'd be missing church this weekend because he was scheduled for a Sunday-morning shift with Alaura . . . Jeff was sickened by the scope of his own failings.

So today—though he doubted it would have much effect on his immortal soul—today, at least,
he would not lie.

“It's so nice to
see you again!” Clarissa Wheat fluted as Waring approached her.

Waring cringed. He forced his WASPiest smile.

Clarissa Wheat stepped forward, kissed Waring's cheek, and pressed her hip into his. His back stiffened. He noticed that her ropey neck was as veined as a heroin addict's forearm. She smelled like a freshly mown lawn—not a bad smell, necessarily, but not how a human being should smell at all.

She stood leaning against him for a few beats longer than made any rational sense.

“Hell-ooooh!” Waring said, Seinfeld-esque, and he gingerly tapped her back.

“We're excited to be here,” she said.

“I'm excited that you're excited.”

“
Very
excited,” she whispered, and she finally backed away.

Waring glanced at Barney Wheat—an oblivious smile dangled on the old man's face.

Alaura laughed awkwardly. “Mr. Wheat was just telling me about his extensive research on Coney Island carousels,” she said.

Waring attempted an expression that wasn't outright horror.

“Fascinating!” Barney Wheat suddenly exclaimed, and the crumpled old geezer began bouncing on his heels like an automaton nudged to life. “Hand-carved and painted, those old carousels. Amazing mechanical invention. And a truly intriguing history, dating back to the Byzantine Empire—”

“Come now, Barney,” Clarissa Wheat said. “We're not here about carousels.”

“Yes, dear,” he said, and the automaton stopped bouncing.

“I think carousels are interesting,” Alaura said politely. “And it's just nice to meet Mr. Wheat. I speak with him every month when I order movies.”

“I am aware of my husband's job description.”

Waring watched the two women smile tightly.

Oh goodie, he thought. Now Alaura and Clarissa Wheat hated each other, for no reason whatsoever.

“That gives me an idea,” Clarissa Wheat said, still eyeballing the younger woman. “Miss Eden, why don't you show Barney your sales floor. That way you can continue to be entertained by his wonderful carousels. And Waring and I can catch up.”

“Catch up?” Waring said.

“Yes, that will give you and me time to . . .” and Clarissa Wheat pulled at the crisp white collar of her shirt with a knobby finger, “to go over the books. Don't you think, Waring? Isn't now a good time to, you know,
pore
over the numbers?”

Waring whimpered but found himself nodding.

A few minutes later,
Clarissa Wheat sat primly upon the director's chair at Star Video's long counter, in the same place where Waring usually posted up when forced to wait on customers. Now Waring stood behind the director's chair, behind Clarissa Wheat, gnawing on his thumbnail while she studied a series of reports on the dusty host computer. She had been working silently for ten minutes, navigating the ancient computer system Waring had never forked over the money to modernize. This outdated system enabled him, however, to reset the shop's operating date very easily, effectively presenting Clarissa Wheat with financials from two years ago, when business had still been declining but was at least more impressive than this year.

“Interesting,” she said, still focused on the computer screen.

“Interesting?”

“Very interesting.”

“By interesting, you mean?”

“But Waring, these computers are simply prehistoric! A decade old at least. You're being left behind. They're not even hooked up to the Internet, are they? And are these dot matrix printers? My heavens!”

She stood up from the director's chair and faced him.

“Waring,” she said with a thin smile, “you know I love the kitsch value of your store. And you were sweet to wear your Sunday finest, just for little old me.”

“Sorry about the hair tonic—”

“But you'll have to work
very
hard for me to ignore the obvious.”

“I see,” he said, nodding assuredly. “Meaning?”

“I think you know.”

“I do?”

“Oh, Waring,” she said, and she sighed as if overcome by exhaustion. “Barney is a nice, sweet man. Very nice and sweet. He's been a good father. And a leader in our church. And he knows more about carousels than you could possibly imagine.”

Waring nodded thoughtfully. “And what's with the carousels?”

“Exactly,” she said. “What's with the carousels?”

“Huh?”

“Oh, Waring, I should have known. When I married Barney five years ago, I thought he had a quirky sense of humor. The way his mind jumped around, it always made me laugh. But then I realized, rather quickly, that he isn't quirky. He isn't funny.”