Movieland

Chapter 23

I woke up to an exhaust fan and the 20th Century Fox opening logo.

Frankie's goofy colleague Chaz tinkered with a computer next to a projector.

"I should've had your ass tossed in jail," he said.

I clapped him on the shoulder on my way out. "Thanks, Chaz. I'll remember that later."

The Lyric marquee blocked the morning sun. The library was just a few blocks away. I set off with a pep to my step. The dream memory was foggy. I had felt Carolina and JP. They were okay enough to be sassy. That's all it took. The rest of the image was a blur like a faulty projector.

My luck at the library proved things hadn't turned entirely in my favor.

"You're telling me no one knows where he lives? What about the house on the hill?"

"That's classified information, sir."

"The location? Or that he lives in a mansion on the hill?"

"Both."

"That means it's a house on a hill. Which hill?"

"I'm sorry, sir. We can't help you."

I slammed my phone on the desk. Mrs. Peacock shushed me. I stormed to the bathroom. I had never splashed cold water on my face until I saw it in a movie. It never seemed to work the way it did on screen. And yet, I kept doing it. I'd been at the library long enough to find everywhere Standard Lane did not live.

When I came out, Mrs. Peacock had prepared a cup of tea. Just like the old days.

"It's not broccoli cheddar cilantro, is it?" I joked.

She handed me an intricately decorated teacup that looked like the genie's lamp in Aladdin. "That's to ward off bad dreams. You're not having any of those, are you?"

"No," I said, unsure if I was lying or not.

"This is yerba mate, for energy, focus, and if you believe the indigenous tribes in South America, dream interpretation. As the years have passed, I have a deep appreciation for the understanding of what my subconscious is trying to tell me when I rest. I wish I would've started sooner. This is my gift to you."

I took a sip. It tasted closer to coffee than tea. "Mrs. Peacock, I'm sorry about my outburst. Maybe you can help me."

"I've listened to you argue with information and the yellow pages and the white pages and even the Indian grocery store, why I will never know. For goodness's sake, Standard Lane does not want to be found. Leave the man be."

"What do you know about Standard Lane?"

She was in her 70s and often looked the part behind the library counter. At the mention of Standard, she perked up the way a statue does when it comes to life. "I know his gramomma helped establish this town. I know they didn't like what the movie folks were up to, so they sent a message. First with fire. Then with Ms. Lane. The town wept. You've read the headline. Marjorie was as much a part of this town as lumber, and film. That gosh darn lab acts like it belongs with them. I wouldn't wash my soiled underwear in the same load as that lab."

"Who didn't want the movie made?"

"I work at the library. That's a question for a different person at a different time."

She began to organize a stack of returned books. My time was up.

The dry mud and blood clothes were buried in the hamper at home. I couldn't say the same for the rest of my appearance. I was an abstract painting titled youth in despair. My cast arm hadn't stopped twitching since I left the lab. Every time I flexed my hand it sent a shock from my wrist to my elbow. My face could serve as inspiration for special effects on a horror set. Rick Baker would've eaten me up. Dark bags ringed my bloodshot eyes. My lips were dried and cracked. Everything was swollen, like a great pressure waiting to release.