Time and Chance (35 page)

Authors: G L Rockey

Obstinate, this Monday
I feared had decided to grab anticipation around the neck and squeeze him out
quickly, to the end. Was Tuesday ready?

“I have no desire
but to go, now and quickly
,
”
Monday said.

I tried to reason
around about things like enjoying the now and hope.

But this Monday
wouldn't listen, said,
“you people types are different with that hope and
eternity thing.”

I said, “Some wonder
about that,”

Around half way
through the good conversation, I heard a tapping at the window beside my front
door. I went over and peeked out.

Peggy smiled through
the glass.

I let her in. She was
drunk. So was I.

* * *

Up at sunlight through
the window and “Ohmygod” shouting next door, Peggy's ginger marmalade perfume
invaded my nose. To be sure I wasn’t dreaming I thought I better check
Blancpain and did—Tuesday, May 8, 6:30 A.M.

Rousing Peggy, she was
a little angry at being awakened so rudely, I got her up and out the door around
7:00.

Before going into
work, I drove out to Gillian's farm. Checked the mailbox, my card with notes
was still in there. I left it, went to the house. Nobody home, empty, doors
locked; I knew the past weekend had happened. There sat the house. The grass
driveway, the front lawn where I had parked. I peeked in the windows, nobody
around. I sat on the porch swing, smoked a Salem. The late rooster crowed, the
train whistle blew, the sun rising through the green, a very linear feeling
came over me—the illusion of great depth that I knew was a flat surface.

* * *

Driving to TV12, not
believing what was happening, last night with Peggy … stupid, I arrived around
late. Joy looking concerned, glanced at her watch.

I said, “Traffic,” got
a cup of coffee and at my desk, contemplating late, Sago came in, looked at me,
said, “What's a matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t look like
nothing,” then he related an interesting piece of news. Greta Turner, a rogue
TV12 control room engineer, had equipped Berry's office for video and sound.
Sago had an interesting recording from last night.

“Wanta’ see it?” Sago
held up a flash drive.

“Why would I?”

“He's balling the
blonde 'occluded front' in his office!”

The other option was
to listen to Sago tell me about it. Watching would be easier. “Okay.”

He closed the door, pulled the drape over the
window to the newsroom, stuck the drive into my TV, said, “Hold onto your seat,
Kemosabe,” and pushed play.

Waiting for the video,
I said, “You find anything more on Gillian Phoenix, that house out in the
sticks I told you about?”

“Rental, owned by some
Guy Pickle.”

That name rang a bell
from somewhere but I wasn’t sure which one.

We watched Greta’s
wide angle video of Berry’s office come up.

Berry dressed in only
shorts, Sago said, “Sally might catch cold, dressed like that.”

As we watched, Sago
and I exchanging glances.

Many things run
through your mind when you see a video like this—Berry in his shorts, snapping
pictures of Peggy, her in various stages of getting herself naked, posing her
essentials on his desk—you wonder about reality and think things not worth
thinking.

I remembered Peggy
coming by my place sometime after midnight and figured she had been busy last
night.

With Berry on the sofa
and Peggy kneeling between his legs, I picked up my remote, press off and
looked at Sago. “Anybody else seen this?”

“Greta, you, and me, I
think.”

“Have that video have
an accident.”

“Probably a copy.”

* * *

Peggy called me around
noon, invited me to lunch. I said okay.

She drove and, at
Arthur’s, seated, I said, “Saw an interesting video this morning, you and Berry
in his office last night playing house.”

“You’re batty.”

“Don’t think so … you
were sitting on Berry’s desk, sans everything … want me to give you a play by
play….”

The look on her face
not nice, I said, “But look, my lips are sealed, and last night at my place was
a mistake.”

She spit “I hate you,”
poured a cup of onion soup in my lap, slapped my face, and left.

I took a cab.

PART FOUR

CHAPTER 1

Real Time

Three weeks later, May 29

The Tennessean

Nashville Scene, by Shelby Bee

It seems the whole of Music City USA has turned
into flaming tongues of gaseous gossip over the current state of WBFN-TV (TV12).
The advertising community, the everybody, the anybody who knows anything about
the broadcasting business, are talking about the growing problems at Channel
12. Witness recent newspaper headlines:

Luther Mays Move To Channel 3 Disaster for
Channel 12

TV12's C&Weather Bombs

Prime Time Peggy Moore Show Preempts Award
Winning CBS Reports!

Who’s at the TV12 Switch?

Who's at the switch, indeed. TV12's new prime
time Peggy Moore Jubilee Show starring who else, is a disaster waiting to
happen. Why the once dominate Nashville station would preempt a prime time CBS
news program for this return to an Edsel version of ‘Hee Haw’ is beyond belief.
One wonders if Peggy Moore has bought stock in the once powerful family-owned
station. The new Moore program is only surpassed in poor taste by Moore's
C&Weather show. TV12 employees are mincing and dicing rumors into reality
as they wonder what has happened to their once mighty broadcast station.

One TV12 staffer who wished to remain anonymous
said TV12's Broadcast House had acquired a new name: Planter House, as in the
famous nuts. The staffer added, regarding the pending sale of the television
station to S&W Broadcasting, “It's a blessing in disguise.”

CHAPTER 2

Jack’s
Time

I don't know, twenty
some days, time passing like ice melting on the South Pole, swilling in the
memories of the past waning, stewed heat, and liquored moments of a hot and
humid Tennessee, and up shows Saturday May 31.

My eyes open at
brighter than usual morning sun, no sound from next door, I figure the
honeymoon is over, whatever. I made a pot of coffee and was thinking, no wonder
people get messed up. All this turning and twisting, running around on a
screwed up orb, moving through blankness, collecting things, trying to hide
from nothing and every day is like the day before. I had started building an
ark to cross over but somebody had sunk the goddamn boat.

I had driven out in
the country several times just to look at the scenery and happened to go by
Gillian's place. I drove out on weekend mornings too. I didn't care about the
house or even Gillian. I liked to drive out in the country, smell the fresh
air. One time, while driving out I spotted, in Winston's side mirror, back
about five cars, a purple PT Cruiser that seemed to be following me. I thought
Stella, but whoever it was exited at Church Pike. Anyway, same old stuff,
nothing. The note I had left in the mailbox was still there. But mostly I
didn't miss Gillian. I had forgotten about her entirely. She was out of my
mind. Didn't even enter my thoughts. Her scent not being all over everything
was a relief, didn't even notice. I didn't need her. Don't even think of her
anymore. What did I care about her with the rum eyes, her with the smile, her
with the hello, her with the heart that hurt, her with the glow of time steeped
with centuries of living. Her, the Tall One. No more. When I closed my eyes she
was no more there, filling me. It takes a thousand years to find that place …
but I was through, I could live without her. Nothing about her interested me. Not
even her smile. Least of all her dark rum eyes.

Anyway, I figured the
past, the past; the future, chance’s fickle stab at a feeble joke; the now
thing had Peggy and me simmering hot and cold. Taping her new prime time Peggy
Moore Jubilee, amid her new show jitters, we had called a truce, she allowed
that that video of her in Berry’s office was “a little ol’ thing Berry did, he
got me stoned.”

Given real time
fickleness and chance a pimp, good enough for me and we were back to
reciprocating body heat in otherwise marathons, at Tara, usually once a week.

I think she really
hated when I said that reciprocating body heat thing, the reason I knew, when I
mention it, she bit me pretty hard.

When I told her, only
kidding, she said, “Suga, ya know, don’t fool around like that.” Back singing
at Felix The Cat Saturday nights, she explained the only reason was Snakebite
knew she was good for his bar business, and more important, Buddy One Take said
it was good to promote her record sales.

She also relayed that
Snakebite had extended Berry's credit but was pressing hard for Berry to fire
me. Snakebite would rather simply kill me but, Peggy thought that was a messy
idea just right now. Maybe later, she (we assume) joked.

So, Peggy screwing
around with Berry, back in Snakebite’s graces, figure it out, when I was at
Tara, more than one night I had the strange feeling, like that first night in
the rain at Peggy's place, eyes were watching from the bushes and, also more
than once, Stella popped up in the strangest places. It amazed me that no
exotic disease had shown up.

In any case, Peggy got a new office on the
second floor in Joe's area. She also got a new candy apple Jaguar convertible.
Joe made a deal with a local modeling agency for some local models to pose in
Dillards clothing during Peggy’s split screen presentation of the national
weather.

Also, Peggy reported
to Joe now. I told her that was fine with me and we went from there. Like I
said, cordial, she took me for rides in her new Jaguar.

* * *

Around a little before
noon, I drove to the office to catch up on some paperwork. TV12 offices closed,
skeleton crew at the station, Sago was in, doing some editing. He wanted to do
lunch later, talk S-Stuff. I said okay and went to my office. I made a pot of
coffee, reread a Broadcasting & Cable article. The story reported that the
sale of TV12 to S&W Broadcasting Company was on the fast track.

Contemplating the
story, figuring a fork is a fork, I reasoned these are the things that keep
life interesting, hickory dickory dock, the mouse ran up the clock etcetera
etcetera etcetera, kept my mind occupied and I figured, you gotta do what you
gotta do. Peggy Moore sure did. Covering all her bases on the way to stardom—new
prime time program, in addition to her weather casts, her single, Dogwood
Blossoms, being rereleased on a CD album: TV Weather Hits. She was on the rise.

I glanced at the
latest A.C. Nielsen overnight rating. Unfortunately, the ratings were not on
the rise. Our news numbers were now six points behind Channel 3—Luther's new TV
home.

I thought to myself,
and
Berry blames the rating's decline on Jay, lack of promotion, yakking that Jay
does nothing but whine, make excuses
. As far as I could determine, we were
doing everything but painting Peggy Moore’s name on the side of Nashville's
Batman Building. We just finished with a Joe and Berry promotion idea: a
thousand little yellow plastic ducks, with Peggy's name on just one of them, were
floated down the Cumberland River. The finder of the duck with Peggy's name on
it got a free dinner at the Pheasant & Grouse, with Peggy no less. The
winning duck never showed up.

I shot some Binaca in
my mouth and went to get Sago.

Driving to Krystal,
Sago told me about a duopoly in his S-Stuff investigation.

After about a minute I
said, “Okay, Chief, I flunked duopoly.”

“Snakebite and Chuck
from Houston, seems he's connected to a slew of missing kids.”

A chill. That T-bone
guy from Felix The Cat. I felt crawly.

“That was a red light
you just went through.”

“So what's the
connection?”

“Still working on it.”

After a long time, I
said, “Keep digging.”

“Still nothing on
Gillian, either.”

“Forget about that.”

Sago’s silence could
cut down an oak tree, then he said, “I’m not hungry, how about a drink.”