Authors: Terence Kuch
Try Try Again
Try
Try Again
by
Terence Kuch
Copyright
© 2015 Terence Kuch
All
rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or
other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of
the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
All
characters depicted in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real
persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
“We do not imitate
the mechanics of bird flight, even if we do fly ourselves. It is not imitation,
but understanding.” –
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Chapter 2:
Two Years After the Assassination
Chapter 3:
Eight Months Before the Assassination
Chapter 4:
Two and a Half Years Before the Assassination
Chapter 5:
Two and a Half Years Before the Assassination
Chapter 6:
Seven Months Before the Assassination
Chapter 7:
Four Months Before the Assassination
Chapter 8:
Two and a Half Months Before the Assassination
Chapter 9:
One Day Before the Assassination
Chapter 10:
The Day of the Assassination
Chapter 11:
The Day After the Assassination
Chapter 12:
Several Days After the Assassination
Chapter 13:
One Month After the Assassination
Chapter 14:
Three Months After the Assassination
Chapter 15:
Four Months After the Assassination
Chapter 16: Four
Months After the Assassination
Chapter 17:
Five Months After the Assassination
Chapter 18:
One Year After the Assassination
Chapter 19:
One Year and Six Months After the Assassination
Chapter 20:
One Year and Seven Months After the Assassination
Chapter 21:
Two Years After the Assassination
Chapter 22:
Two Years and One Month After the Assassination
Chapter 23:
Two Years and Two Months After the Assassination
Chapter 24:
Two Years and Two Months After the Assassination
Chapter 25:
Two Years and Three Months After the Assassination
Chapter 26:
Two Years and Four Months After the Assassination
Chapter 27:
Seven Years After the Assassination
Charley Dukes, hands in pockets, walked as casually as he
could into the gathering crowd. He declined a proffered poster (fingerprints!)
but accepted a big button reading EZRA BARNES FOR SENATE and pinned it to his
shirt. He smiled and nodded at people, but kept on the move so no one would try
to speak with him. One older woman did approach him however, saying, “We’re
going to win, aren’t we?”
Charley muttered “Yes, ma’am, we sure are,” and continued
along.
He sized up the place: A makeshift platform made from cargo
flats, a set of portable steps (four treads) leading to it. He’d have to be
near those steps he thought, unless Barnes had it in mind to leap off the
platform in a rush of enthusiasm. Go with the odds: stand by the steps.
Two men stood on the platform, scanning the crowd. One was a
paunchy middle-aged man in a police uniform. The other was younger and wore a
dark suit, with a bulge on the left side of his jacket, just below the armpit.
Mentally, Charley rehearsed the route to the place where his
getaway car would be waiting.
He and George had walked it the previous evening. Only three
blocks, but he’d never been in this town before, and he wanted to make sure
he’d find that damn car, not run the wrong way in panic with the crowd
screaming and cops with guns drawn, trying to decide who to shoot at. George
had been very clever about that car, Charley considered. George was a clever
guy, wasn’t he?
Fifteen minutes later the crowd, now grown to a couple of
hundred, began to shout and cheer as a bus pulled up. It had a big red and blue
on white “EZRA BARNES FOR SENATE” panel on its side, one of those magnetic
advertising things, must be. A door opened, a man got out waving and smiling. A
chant began in the crowd: “Ez-RA! Ez-RA! Ez-RA! Ez-RA!”
Charley was surprised at how young and vigorous Barnes
looked. Senators were supposed to be older, right? But Barnes would look older
after a couple of terms in the Senate. That is, he might have if Charley wasn’t
planning to shoot him dead that very day.
Barnes continued waving and smiling as he strode toward the
platform, and got to the side with no steps. His aides quickly steered him to
the side where the steps were, saying “Sorry, this way, sorry” and “Over here,
sorry, sir.” A slight flush appeared on Barnes’ face, he said nothing, mounting
the steps and raised both arms straight up, as if Charley had said, “Hands up!”
a command he had frequently uttered, followed immediately by, “Gimme the God damn
cash drawer. Right now!”
Barnes gave a short speech, the crowd cheering whenever he
paused for breath. “It’s an uphill fight, but I know you’re with me here in the
wonderful city of Grantwood, Pennsylvania,” cheering, “And we’re gonna retire
Tom Conning right back to his fancy estate over in Bucks County, aren’t we?”
More cheering.
Then Barnes put on a sober face and gave what seemed to be
his standard stump speech, with only a few uh’s and ah’s. An aide raised a sign,
showing a dot-com address, where campaign contributions were more than welcome.
After fifteen minutes, Barnes looked at his watch and said
he’d love to spend more time with you wonderful citizens of Grantwood, and he
sure would later; but right now he had a speech to give over at the Monroeville
Mall, so he had to get going.
Charley started shaking, trying to control it. He’d used a
gun in several crimes, but had never actually shot anyone. Never had to before.
Barnes moved toward the steps, descended, shook hands as he moved slowly toward
his bus, hugged a few (safe – older) women.
Barnes approached Charley Dukes, held out his right hand and
gave Charley a big smile. Charley pulled out his gun and fired.
Jill tried to concentrate on the webV competition on her
wallscreen, but she was thinking of Roger. It had been almost year, now, and
she still hated him. More now even, than when he’d walked out on her for That
Bitch. Jill imagined poisoning his food, running him down with her car, or
somehow infecting his brain with lost love for her, just as he had done to her.
So there and fuck you Roger, you bastard.
Her breathing slowed, and she paid more attention to the
competition she was trying to win. But soon she was again lost in bitterness.
She’d take Roger for all he was worth. Well, if he had any money that is. Jill
had money, and then Roger had it, and then it was gone, out of reach like
Roger, who’d moved to LA with That Bitch. So much for running him down or
putting rat poison in his margaritas. And that other woman! Jill thought of
her, on most days, not as Suzanne Everhart, but as That Bitch: first name
“That”; last name “Bitch.”
The doorbell rang. “Oh well,” she thought, “I’m not in a
great mood for competing tonight. I’m better in episodes three and four,
anyway. So next week and the week after, we’ll see.” She rose and opened the
door.
Ellie walked in. “Hey, Jill, I saw the glow and no lights
on,” she said, “figured you were home.”
“Hey, Ellie, I was playing here, Wednesday nights for five
weeks. I don’t need any distractions.”
“Too late.”
“Yeah.” Jill shrugged and flipped a light on.
“Well, gee,” Ellie said, “I thought maybe a real live human
being would ...”
Just then, a small light glowed on the upper right corner of
Jill’s wallscreen.
“Shit, Ellie. That was my turn, and you made me miss it. If
you’d just ...”
On the screen, a woman was saying “Objection, your honor;
argumentative.”
“OK. OK. I shouldn’t have,” said Ellie. “Wednesdays at
eight, it’s ‘Don’t Bug Jillian’ time, because of
the game
.” Ellie always
called it
the game
, with italics in her voice. “Don’t know how you do
it!” she continued.Ellie didn’t know if Jill might win once on
Try Try Again
,
or waste most of her time being obsessed with it. Maybe both.
“Right.” Jill clicked the webV to standby, turned to Ellie.
The cluster of tiny lenses stationed just above the screen darkened. “Well, as
long as you’re here, you’re here. Have a seat. I’ve got some Route-11 potato
chips you might like – a new flavor.”
Ellie shook her head, looked mournfully at the bag of chips.
“New diet,” she said. “Started this morning. Would you mind putting that bag
away, before I attack it?”
Jill put it away. “How’s your life, then,” she asked,
“except for the diet, I mean. Last time you were here you had some serious
man-problems. Want some coffee? You know I’m the last person you should ask
about dealing with men.”
“Not at all! I wanted to tell you about the really great guy
I met last Saturday, at Claire and Don’s party.”
“Man-
not yet-
problem,” Jill observed. “Man will
become problem. That’s your life.” She smiled, a little, to show she didn’t
mean it, but she meant it anyway.
Ellie shrugged. “I like the chase,” she said. “Live for the
moment. While it lasts. Be Here Now. All that wonderful crap.”
“Don’t you ever want to get married?”
“I might, but I know how it’d turn out.”
“Like mine?”
“Ah, I didn’t say that, did I? But, no way. If a guy wants
us to live together, that’s okay. But nothing more.” Ellie paused. “Look Jill,
it’s your problem I’m concerned with, not mine. That’s why I came over tonight.
That game on the webV ...”
“Just two hours a week.”
“But it’s all you talk about. And you download all those
fanmags. And you’re following about five thousand other players on Twitter.”
“Not even a hundred, Ellie; and the network calls us
‘agonists,’ not ‘competitors’ or ‘players.’”
“OK, but being an – ‘agonist,’ –that’s an obsession with you!”
Ellie was on the edge of her chair. “Just to take your mind off Roger? And how
you’ve been dressing lately, and your hair. You even talk like that ‘Livinia’
now, even when you’re not playing that stupid game!
“It’s Olivia,” Jill said, “not ‘Livinia,’ ‘Liv’ for short.
Yeah, that’s the person I always pick to play, and I guess maybe it’s affected
my real life.”
“I think Olivia
is
your real life, neighbor! You
dress like her, and you’re beginning to sound like her, and you’re getting
skinnier like her, and I’d love to be skinnier too actually, and her
head-motions and what you do with your hands…”
“But I won once!” Jill rejoined.
Ellie ignored that and continued. “And your hair? Just like
hers now. Don’t tell me you can win a million bucks for a hairdo! But it’s an
improvement, I have to say! I’ll even bet that old boss of yours perks up when
you’re around!”
“God, I hope not!” Jill said, then repeated, “I won the game
once, in season one last year. I won real money. Anyway, hairdos aren’t
monitored for the show. Neither are height or facial features, for that
matter.”
“A thousand dollars and fifteen clicks of fame? And an
interview on a local blog with a guy, who wanted to get into your pants? How
many hours can you waste on this? You could’ve made more per hour flipping
burgers at McDonald’s, if they still had real people doing that.”
Jill sighed. “All right, Ellie. I’m hooked. Along with a few
million other people. Have you ever played it?”
“No, but I watched it once, and I’ve heard about the show,
who hasn’t? It’s just a video game where you get to be an air-lawyer or…”
“It’s not
just a video game
, Ellie; it’s acting. Understanding,
not just imitation. It takes full attention and real empathy with the character;
understanding. And practice, practice. Login to the trial re-broadcast, pick a
character, and you’re “it” for the next two hours – you and a few million other
people. The show’s computer samples each of us in turn ...”
“Not likely. Do you know how many cycles that would ...”
Jill ignored her doubting friend, pressed on. “If I’m in character
when that gamelight comes on my screen, I get a chance to win. If I’m the best
in character at that very instant, or tied for the best, that’s a win. And if I
can be best for a half-minute or more, that’s real money.”
“How much?”
“Unlimited. Potentially, that is. Someone won four hundred
fifty thousand dollars last week in Episode 1, playing the judge.”
“Lottery pays a lot more.”
“But that’s just chance; ‘Try Try Again’ is skill.”
“So they tell you.”
“What?”
“I think it’s a fraud,” said Ellie. “A few new winners are
picked at random to keep you all coming back and buying whatever crap they’re
advertising. But mostly it’s the same old winners every time, isn’t it? The
pros. People like Truda Vallon and Duane Rondo.”
Jill was about to say No, more like Vegas: the “table” has
to be honest or the suckers wouldn’t play for long. But she didn’t want to get
into an argument about that. Anyway, the back of her mind was telling her Ellie
might be right.
There was a moment of silence. Tacitly they agreed to drop
the subject and go back to commiserating about men and what horny shits they
were. After half an hour, Ellie left.
Jill turned the show on, but couldn’t get back in character
and the episode was almost over until the next week. I’ll wait for the next
episode, she thought; this was only episode two.
Ellie was a good friend, Jill reflected. What’s happening to
me if my friends mean so little and one stupid webV show so much? Ellie was
comforting. And she was one of the few women in the neighborhood Roger hadn’t
tried to seduce, have to give her that. Not that she hadn’t wanted to be
seduced, Jill suspected. Roger may not have had ethics, but he did have
aesthetics; and Ellie, with her flabby figure and stringy hair and baggy
slacks, hadn’t matched up even with Roger’s laughably low standards.
Five-thirty am, too late to get back to sleep. Jill dressed,
made coffee, logged on to the local paper, read it, and half asleep, she caught
the bus to work and badged in. All through the day she could think of nothing
else than the webV trial, and Charley Dukes the murderer, and Brent Nielsen the
state’s attorney, and Liv Saunders the valiant defense attorney who saves her
client – well, she hadn’t saved him, although she kept him from getting the
death penalty. Charley Dukes was convicted and sent to prison, then he was
killed in a riot there.
But Jill imagined her own triumph, imagined herself as Liv,
winning the case this time
. Wonder what Liv was doing now?
Moved on to working
with accountants, the fanmags said: nothing romantic, nothing dangerous,
nothing as throbbingly exciting as defending a Congressman’s killer!
“Did you hear me,” Horace Dillman said, without a question
mark. He hadn’t asked, Jill thought, because he knew the answer.
“Sorry!” said Jill, “Just distracted.”
“Well, please stop being distracted, will you? And pull up
the file on that damn database contract and tell me if Dill-Tech has made any
mistakes. You’re the expert on this stuff, not me. And it’s nice to be sorry,
but it would be a lot nicer if you’d just pay attention to your work!”
“Sure. Yes. I will,” said Jill, through a fog of mental courtroom
drama.
“Sure.” Dillman winked at her and walked away. With him,
winking wasn’t a sexual come-on; it was his way of saying “Gotcha again.”
Jill went through the week with growing impatience. In episode
one this year, she hadn’t won any time-slices, and her ‘on stage’ gamelight had
glowed only once. Episode two – well, that was when Ellie had come by. But episodes
three, four, and five were coming up.
It was episode three, last year, when she’d won a miserable
dollar for winning or tying one half-second “T-slice,” and episode four, when
she’d won the thousand dollars Ellie had dismissed so easily.
Thursday evening, and again Saturday, she visited the local
TryHarder game lab to practice on downloads of Season one. Not monitored by any
computer, of course, but she could tell when she was doing pretty well and when
she wasn’t. It was exercise, she’d told Ellie. “Sure,” Ellie had said, “What,
with all that getting up and sitting down and objecting. Maybe that was an
exercise thing – bet she lost a lot of weight. No wonder she looked so skinny,
just like you.”
Jill wondered if the show’s computer noticed sweaty brows or
not.
Coaches were available at TryHarder; that’s where the lab
made its real profit. During the five-month lull between seasons one and two, she’d
used their services several times. After two months though, she believed she
was just now as good as these small-town coaches, and stopped working with them
(and paying them).
The show’s producer had given fans fair warning season two
was a little different from season one, causing some of the practice to be incomplete.
She had read the producer, Frank Dickstein, had told reporters that ‘a few
changes’ had been made to the TV trial film after season one, to delete T-slices
where too many contestants had done too poorly or too well, making scoring
meaningless. Dickstein swore however, that no actual speech had been deleted or
altered. Cynics predicted each commercial break would be extended by a few
seconds, and that was the real reason for the edits.
Finally it was Wednesday and episode three was broadcast:
two-hour highlights of the third day of the five-day real-life trial. Heart
beating (too fast! she thought – Liv was calmer than that), Jill played Liv,
saying the same words at the same time, gesturing, tilting her head the way Liv
did when she asked a question.
The lenses above her webV screen moved slightly as she
moved, caught her every gesture, the motions of her body, the movements of her
mouth as she repeated Liv Saunders’ words.
The gamelight glowed and then blinked, meaning Jill had won
that particular T-slice, or more probably had tied with a few thousand other agonists.
Jill stayed with the character, but almost immediately the gamelight blacked
out, meaning at least one other person was doing a better job of being Liv
Saunders, than Jill was.
Her gamelight came on one more time that evening, but Jill
won nothing more. After the show ended, her webV showed she had won a dollar
for tying one T-slice (about four tenths of a second this time – the actual
value depended on how many agonists were online at the moment) with some 2,645 other
competitors.
Jill spent the next week in a grim mood. If she didn’t win
something more than a kiss-off buck in episode four, she’d just drop the whole
thing. If she could. She’d stop shaping her hair like Liv did (or
had
–
the fanzines said Saunders had made slight changes in her hairstyle recently.)
She’d stop centering her life on five Wednesday evenings twice a year. If she
could.
She practiced hard, reviewed the trial transcript three more
times, watched the downloaded season-one footage again, studied Liv’s body
language (inscrutable, but imitable). Desperation powered her practice
sessions.
As Wednesday approached, Jill had been a little encouraged
by winning that dollar in episode three. Hope was again springing as she
reminded herself, it was episode four where she’d won that thousand dollars in season
one. She waited impatiently as Wednesday crept toward her.
She avoided Ellie, not needing more downer-therapy than she
was already giving herself, but she couldn’t avoid Roger’s call, because she’d
absent-mindedly touched the
answer
icon before spotting the telltale
caller-ID.
“Hi, this is Roger,” the cell voice said. Jill momentarily
caught her breath, then flinched. Jill didn’t think she could control her
voice, and said nothing. She had a momentary flash of Roger at the Charley
Dukes trial as the killer, the accused who this time would be sentenced to
being hung, drawn, and quartered the good old-fashioned way.
