The Everborn - Nicholas Grabowsky [6]
Imprisoning Rothchild Cannery was a tall chain-linked fence garnished with barbed wire. Behind this fence and no more than a few yards from it sat a secluded Volkswagon Bug, the rainwashed orange paint of its back end reflecting pale sunlight. Inside, facing sideways with an arm propped lazily against the steering wheel, Max Polito struggled against the remaining hours of uneventful guard duty. From his AM radio, the shrill monotone of a newsman babbled methodically about the Mexico City Olympics and the Apollo 7 spacecraft. Then, a bit more than dazed, Max upped the volume with the stroke of his thumb: A.J. Erlandson, a less-than-famous B-horror director, was once again a newsworthy notable. And, if only lightly, a concern to Max.
A.J. had directed several rather cool midnight movies before he disappeared without a trace in ‘66, a handful of months to spare before he was father to a set of twins. Both of Max’s parents had been employed by the studio which financed most of A.J.’s features, Max’s father having served as a camera operator on three of those, his mother production coordinator on the director’s last. That was two years ago, and the missing director was just as missing beneath even further mystery, for it seemed as though one of his twins had vanished now as well.
No one had a clue as to how or why, but Max supposed his folks would bombard him with theories upon his return to their Santa Monica home. Regardless of what anyone thought, Max carried his own concerns. And they had nothing to do with his parents or with Tinsel Town.
Max flexed his wrists suddenly and gazed at his watch. Webs of smoke rose softly from a cigarette crushed minutes before, and he reached into his ashtray to stifle the resurrected butt. He failed to notice the three kids wandering along outside the fence until their friendly waves met his sight at the rearview mirror. Without turning, he forced a wave in kind. He then returned his arm to the steering wheel and resumed to nod off, his ruminations of the missing director lulled by Simon & Garfunkle’s Mrs. Robinson from the dashboard speakers.
Yes, A.J., wherever you are, Jesus probably loves you more than you will know, too. We all do, but you better have a damn good tale to tell if ever your ass ever pops up somewhere alive.
To suffer through an otherwise promising Friday night for the sake of crude earnings was indeed a bitch, a sinister shrew of a bitch. This was particularly true for a fair-haired and attractive nineteen-year—old with an itch to socialize. But Max’s parents were among the ass-kissers of Hollywood, struggling for stability in a competitive cosmos where, in their eyes, the sole explanation to any livable income attained was because superior others simply weren’t available. They brewed over a low fire in the whopping caldron of the industry’s second best.
Unlike others, they were content with their son’s choosing to stray from the field. He mirrored their combined flair for science with a passion, and his potential was never hindered by the usual worrisome pleas for a more reliable trade choice. But the encouraging allegiance under A.J.’s direction had collapsed into a setback; regrettably, they could scarcely afford anything beyond textbook or gas moneys for Max’s education.
But Max was a diehard visionary, and sometimes this meant sacrificing the celestial curves of an astronomy major for an intimacy with the crampy universe of his V.W.’s front seat. His hard—earned dues were just beginning compared to the dues paid by his idols, the many notable professors and madcap mythology nuts he’d so often envied and now studied under. He would soon join their ranks, surpassing them and pocketing their wildest pursuits like a set of keys that could, and would, open an endless boulevard of doors.
He would better them in ways they had dared to dream, even if it took the donning of a dopey uniform and staring half-alert down a desolate demolition sight on a double shift.
It was five past eleven, and at noon another dopey-uniformed watcher-for-hire would arrive with the anticipated