Playtime (5 page)

Another great night: stars and moon out and
glowing. He thinks about the death thing as he rolls along down his street,
beginning to sweat. He is not really very aware of his surroundings because he
is probing deep inside, trying to find a trace of that memory of the seconds and
minutes after his head hit that pole. He has this feeling that if he could just
remember that time all else will suddenly be clear. He searches inwardly, going
deep for that memory. 

 But nothing. 

 A few minutes of that and he realizes there is
not going to be anything right now. His head comes back up and he refocuses on
the things around him. Death is such a funny subject, he thinks, because it is
the unknown. Funny, odd, and scary too. We all go about our business trying to
ignore the reaper. Don't ask who he is coming for, because he might be coming
for you. 

 He remembers a movie,
Meet Joe Black,
that
had made a lasting impression on him. Brad Pitt had played dual roles, one of
them being death embodied somehow, come for Anthony Hopkins. Love interest
Claire Forlani.   

 But apparently Death had never had occasion to
actually exist in a live body, and he becomes slightly enamored of life
himself, which is an ironic twist. Since he is having so much fun he gives
Anthony Hopkins some extra time to get himself together for the big leap, while
Death explores a very human romance with Hopkins' daughter, including some very
real joys of the flesh.  

 Some of the reviewers had panned the movie as
being slow-moving without enough action, but Blaine thought it was one of the
greatest of all time. Love and death, he thinks. What greater themes are there? 

 And that thought brings him back to Renee, of
course, and he runs the silent, dark street wondering if the great loves only exist
in the movies, on the screen. Untouched by petty feelings.   

 He thinks about that ability we have to make
things up, to bring forth that which doesn't exist. Imagination is a great gift
that makes so much possible. It was the faculty that had propelled us down from
tree branches and into skyscrapers. It was the ability that let writers, or
anyone else: film-makers, poets, whoever, create. He remembers reading
somewhere that if you can imagine something, and it is not against the laws of nature,
and thus impossible, sooner or later you can make it happen. David Deutsch, the
physicist, had said it. 

 The thing he loves about writing is that he can
make something nobody else ever has, something unique to him, even though the
language he uses and the ideas he has have their basis in the common pool. He
gets to put them together in ways that have never been, and never will be
exactly again. Sure he is standing on the shoulders of those who came before.
How could it be any other way? But that is the glory of it: he
can
stand
on those shoulders. That is what makes humanity great, he thinks. We talk about
being individuals, but all the time inside we know that we are more than that.
We are linked to each by blood and history, and we form really a type of super
organism, a great being, continually shifting and changing form, with parts
falling off and others being added, coming and going, but the larger organism
going on. 

 So he is running along thinking all this, sweating
and warmed up inside and out now, ground flowing beneath his feet and ideas
running through his mind. And he realizes in some sense his wish for insight
into the death thing has been answered. He has never been very religious, but
he has always been spiritual, and as he runs he suddenly is more aware of the
ground pushing against him as he pushes against it, and the breath flowing in
and out, and the stars and the moon shining above.   

He finishes up in front of the house and walks
around to cool off some, stretching as he goes, trying to keep the old muscles
from seizing up. Of course it is the middle of the night again, and he is wide
awake.   

 Porch lights shine up and down the street,
including the one at Mandy's house, and he wonders if he will ever really get
any money from her. The hospital bills are probably going to mount up to
considerable, though he hasn't turned in a claim to his insurance company yet.
He had thought her company would be paying. He kicks that around in his mind as
he walks by her house. Her lack of coverage made his insurance company pay.
They, in turn, in response to higher claim costs, would raise rates at some
point. At which time, he and the other policyholders would in effect be picking
up the slack for those like Mandy, who messed up and had no coverage. 

 And ain't that the way it always goes, Blaine
thinks. Got to pick up the slack for those that can't handle the freight, for
whatever reason. That is what our society has become. He really doesn't know if
it is good that we do that or not. It is wonderful in one way that there is a
safety net in place for those who are unable to get medical service or are
disabled, or need welfare help or whatever. It seems to him like it is a good
thing for people to have. On the other hand, he thinks that when people give
you stuff you don't work as hard for what you need. It is the nature of the
beast. Of course if the country fails financially, nobody is going to get their
needs taken care of. And right now, the country is closer to failing than it
has ever been. Debt up the kazoo. Debt that will saddle their children for
generations. Sustainability, he thinks,
that
is what it is all about.
We've got to start doing things that work. We can't keep borrowing from the
future.   

 He has walked all the way down the block away
from his house as he pondered all this, and he turns around now and goes past
Mandy's house toward his own. He thinks about his train of thought on the run,
and he realizes he had gone from a great insight about the wonder and glory of
human ability, to a soliloquy on how screwed up everything is. Schizophrenia in
bloom, he thinks and goes inside. 

A couple of reporters make the effort to contact
him, one or two coming to the door at the house, but for the most part they had
quit after the "press conference" at the hospital and gone elsewhere
looking for stories. His brother and his mother, out in California but in
different towns, call to check on him, his mother getting a bit choked-up on
the phone. His sister calls from down in Dallas. He reassures everybody he is
fine. And for the most part he is. The neck is still stiff sometimes, but it
seems to be getting less so, and all else is good. 

 He starts sinking into his normal routine,
getting up in the middle of the dark nights occasionally: writing, researching,
running. No shutdowns coming that he knows of anytime soon. Middle of the
summer wasn't a good time for the plants to schedule those deals. It was like
Christmas; everybody had something going on. Schools were out, and the guys
with kids had vacations scheduled. And it was hot. So hot you
could
literally fry an egg on the sidewalk. Blaine doesn't remember the exact
numbers, but the accident rate is always higher in heat like this. Heat stroke
and exhaustion. Plain old fatigue. Sometimes the plants don't have any choice but
to go down in the heat of summer because some piece of equipment had failed, or
just because it is good for them financially. That's what it boiled down to
with those big companies, the bottom line. They talked a good game about
employee health and safety, but when it came right down to it, the dollar ruled.  

 He fires his old Dodge Ram up and runs it a bit,
going to the Chevron on 61
^st
Street, watching the tourists and
fishermen roll in and out of town, floats and tubes and fishing gear standing
up dancing in the wind, stuff strapped on top or back, the beach deal going on
in all its glory and variety. He gets his gas and rolls inside with his sheath
of preselected numbers for the lottery and the power ball and the mega
millions, hands it to a hard-looking brunette at the register to risk a few
bucks for the chance to dream of riches and the good life. Seems like a fair
trade. Though he knows the math doesn't hold up, he likes the feeling of
possibility it gives him.   

 Apparently his brother Todd doesn't believe him,
or thinks he needs checking up on, because he calls and tells him he's coming into
Hobby the next afternoon, and can he get a lift to his house, and stay there by
the way? 

 All of that is good with Blaine. He will be happy
to see his sorry ass. He straightens up the guest bedroom and throws a fresh
set of sheets on the bed, tidies the rest of the house and heads up I-45 the
next day, Dodge gassed up and rumbling, sounding mighty fine. 

 The sky is cloudy, and he runs in and out of
showers on the way up to the airport. I-45 has become a river of the modern
age, with all sorts of malls and restaurants and other entrepreneurial
emporiums to sell you stuff, on the banks. Plenty of pawn shops. The traffic is
always heavy these days, people going to and from work, families on vacation
headed to the beach. The road is full of billboards, the conventional and the
newer electric that change constantly: brighter, with more bang for the buck,
he guesses. The dog track juts up on the left, a huge, modern stadium, but his
understanding is that it had never really made the money they thought it would.
Whataburgers, with those distinctive orange and white triangle shapes, seem
like they are every few miles, along with Schlotzsky's and McDonald's. The
medical branch of the University of Texas had diversified its properties after
Hurricane Ike had shut down Galveston for so long, and here and there are derm
clinics, cardiac, various and sundry others. Fitness clubs and oriental
restaurants. Some television show had made a big deal about all the girls that
had been killed on this stretch of road throughout the years, or disappeared.
The show had given this sinister aura to the area, like killers lurked behind
every bush, but Blaine had been driving up and down it his entire life, almost,
and it doesn't seem particularly sinister to him. 

 It
was
an ungodly number of girls killed
in the past 30 years or so, but he didn't think that some serial killer was
running loose. It was just a major thoroughfare with a ton of traffic, and a
growing number of towns tucked into the sides of it.   

 Texas City, La Marque, Webster, Clear Lake. And
more. Growing constantly. Back in the day, when it was mostly overgrown fields
full of trees in a lot of places, it probably made a convenient place to dump a
body. I-45 mystery solved. 

 Todd is standing waiting with one rolling piece
of luggage in the pickup area when Blaine drives up, and he collapses the handle
and throws it into the rear seat, hops in and they are off. Like an Indy race
car, they used to say. 

 "You look pretty good for a dead man,"
Todd says, smiling at him from behind an expensive pair of shades, reaching
over to grab his shoulder. He is a younger, slightly better-looking version of Blaine;
he's got the same thick brown hair, lighter blue eyes, and a bigger smile.
People tend to like him right off the bat.   

 "Never heard that before," says Blaine.
"You look pretty good yourself. Single life must agree with you." Todd
had gone through a divorce about four years ago. It had been rough on him,
mainly because of the two kids. He has a boy, Donnie, and a girl Tara. Blaine
had always thought his wife April was a bit of a bitch. Though he'd never said
anything. You didn't rain on a guy's parade like that. Until it was over, of
course. Then it was fair game. Then they asked you why you never had said
anything before. 

 "Stackin' 'em up," Todd says.
"Cutting a patch through the hayfield, if you know what I mean." He
grins. 

 The thing with Todd is he probably
really
is cutting a path through the ladies. He's always been good with women. Stole
one off Blaine one time, though he said that she and Blaine had already been
broken up. Blaine has his timeline wrong, is confused, he says. Blaine is not
exactly sure of that. 

 "How's business going?" Blaine asks. 

 "All good, my man, all good. Little of this,
little of that. Surviving."   

 Todd had gotten a degree in marketing, taken a
high-priced job with one of those public relations firms where you had to
produce to stay on, had done real well long enough to put some money into real
estate and now owned a number of properties, though Blaine was unsure how many
or what they were worth. Todd told him what he wanted him to know, and he
didn't push the rest. He had a real estate license, and always seemed like he
had some species of deal working. Lucky for him his divorce had occurred during
the '08 downturn, and he had been able to keep more than he would have in a
good economy, though Blaine knows he shells out a bunch for his kids. He loves
those kids.   

 Todd had never liked working for anybody, and
Blaine understands that too; he never has either. That's what usually goes
unsaid when he and Renee argue, mostly because it sounds weak in his own ears.
Who
does
like working for somebody else? Sometimes you just need to man
up and bite the bullet. But he's like that guy in the movie
Gladiator
,
the black guy who says something about knowing his time is coming, but
"not yet." 

 Todd grunts, looking at the businesses they are
passing on 45, all the traffic and activity. "Man, this place is
hopping," he says, buildings and sunlight reflecting off his glasses.
"Opportunity knocking here, bro." 

 What Blaine admires about Todd is that he had
gone out to the cold, hard state of California all by himself, with nothing but
his degree and his brains, guts and drive, and had built something up out of that.
And it shows in him; he has that air of confidence that would be considered
cocky if he didn't back it up. But he usually does. 

 They pass Dandylions on the left, a well-known
strip club on the highway, and Todd hoots. 

 "Let's go see some women," he says. 

 "Later, if you want," says Blaine.
"Let's get into town first, get you settled, run get some grub. Then if
you want to come up here, it's on." 

 "Yeah, you're right," Todd says.
"The hot ones aren't out until later, anyway." 

 The club had been the center of some controversy,
he remembers, about being too close to a school or serving minors. Something.
The sign is large. You can't miss it from the highway. They had gone a few
times before in their younger days. Back then they had some women in there that
would knock your lights out. Always some hot babe willing to put out after her
shift, or give you a full-contact lap dance in one of the private rooms for a
small fee. Or, more likely, a large fee. Blaine knows that objectification of
women is on the list of the politically incorrect these days, but it's one
cause he just can't get behind. Hell, the objectification of women is what had
driven the species forward, though it seemed like these days, they had turned
things around and given men a taste of their own. Put the shoe on the other
foot. If we didn't watch it, we'd all be wearing bags attached to our asses so
we didn't pollute the air. It all has to end someplace, doesn't it? He
remembers a friend who dropped thousands of dollars in that place in one night,
ran through all his cash and then maxed out his cards. Woke up the next day not
remembering what he'd done. The power of love.