“No.  Teach me.”

“All right.  I will.”

And so he follows her lead toward the house.  They share a glance.  Her brown eyes are full of curiosity and kindness.  Oscar couldn’t say what his own eyes might show.   The shock of Mina’s abandonment has already receded.  This won’t be his dream summer but he’s okay with being here. Ren’s shoulder brushes his accidentally and he’s glad she’s here.  On one of life’s more fucked up occasions it means a little something to find a friend.

CHAPTER SIX

REN

Sometimes I think about how nice it must have been in the old days.

Not the horse-drawn carriage, shitting-in-the-backyard kind of old days.

Just a few decades back, before the perpetual intrusion of modern technology.

Don’t want to hear about something?  Turn off the television.

Don’t want to read it?  Close the newspaper.

Avoid grocery stores and their tabloid-littered checkout stands.

Leave the radio off in the car.

Ignore the phone.   Allow it to ring and ring until the caller’s ears bleed from the sound of silence.

Voila.  Ignorance.  Bliss.

It’s not so easy anymore.

When I reach reflexively for my phone before I’m fully awake a vague alarm hums somewhere in my fuzzy brain.  Too late.  Along with everyone else in my generation I’m accustomed to checking on the state of the world before I brush my teeth.  My eyes have already caught the top newsfeed headline, along with the first three lines of the article.

“Savage Family Values:  In yet another naked attempt to capitalize on celebrity bad behavior, the troubled Savage family is joining the reality television circus.  Famed only for their genetic link to dead Hollywood stars, this current generation represents the worst-“

I do not click on the article.  I do not need to.  Over the last few weeks I’ve plodded through at least a dozen similar ones, summarized as follows:  The talentless remnants of a famed family have sold their pride and their privacy to Vogel Television Productions.  Premiering this September, the cast of Born Savages present themselves for your mockery and contempt every Wednesday night at 8 pm.

A flutter of dread wanders through my belly.  It’s become a familiar companion lately, along with an eerie sense that I am standing on the spot next in line to be struck by lightening.

Because I always had trouble with sidelong glances and chronic whispers I left my casino job the day after the press release broke.  For the most part I’ve been holed up in my apartment and engaged in a repetitive loop of Netflix programming.

It’s really not as sad as it sounds.

Unless the situation involves crouching before your MacBook; un-showered, withered bologna sandwich in hand while episodes of The Walking Dead swallow up time.

Yeah, I just might have become a little pathetic.

I’m all packed.  The apartment is being sublet to a seasonal Cirque du Soleil acrobat for the next two months.  I’m wondering if anyone in Gary’s circle will whine about my wardrobe.  I have jeans.  I have t-shirts.  I have two pairs of expensive shoes that were gifted by sympathetic designer ages ago, a trusty old pair of brown cowboy boots, and three pairs of everyday Converse.   I am aware that if a gene responsible for fashion sense exists, it seems to have skipped me.

The knock on the door comes just when it should.  I’ve been sitting on the edge of the futon with my legs pressed together for the last fifteen minutes awaiting the sound.

The man standing on the other side resembles a mole that has been thrust into unfamiliar sunlight.  He blinks at me.  Then he attempts a crooked grin.

“Loren Savage,” he says cheerfully as if we are old friends.

With a grunt he shifts a thick strap from his shoulder and cringes as the attached heavy camera equipment lands on the floor with a thud.  “I’m Rash.  I’m sure Gary explained everything to you already.”  He extends a thick hand.

Despite my better judgment silently warning that I ought to think twice about skin contact with anyone nicknamed ‘Rash’, I shake his hand.   He smiles, exposing a row of teeth the size and hue of corn kernels.

“Nice to meet you,” I say and withdraw my hand.  My voice is robotic.  I still haven’t budged from the doorway.

Rash’s mud colored eyes attempt to sweep beyond my door-hogging post and into the apartment.  “What do you say we set up here for a brief interview before heading out on the road?”

“An interview?”  I’m caught off guard.   The way it was explained to me, the camera man, this Rash person, will accompany me on my journey to Atlantis in order to capture my homecoming in all its glory.

However, no one said a word about a pre-departure interview.  I would have remembered.

I clear my throat.  “Actually I’m ready to head out now.  If we’re going to get there by evening we should really get moving.”

Rash glances at his watch, or pretends to.  “We’ve got time.”

“No,” I argue.  “We don’t.”

Rash steps back and surveys me.  There’s no hint on his face about what’s going on in his head, but I would guess that he’s wondering just how difficult I plan on being.  After a long moment he nods to himself and shrugs.  “All right.  You’re the boss.”

“Actually I’m not.  But thank you for the gesture.”  I retreat inside and grab a suitcase in each hand while Rash quietly observes me. “My Civic isn’t very roomy.  Hope all your equipment is more portable than it appears at first glance.”

“Loren,” he says in a fatherly voice.  “Look, I’m not your enemy.  I understand the lens can be intimidating at first and I won’t switch the camera on until you’re ready.”

I stare at him for a minute.  The man appears heartfelt but he’s on Gary Vogel’s payroll.   His job involves gathering footage that may be edited into something interesting, decadent, controversial or any combination thereof.  Gary Vogel’s shows do not tend to be placid documentaries about earnest people living ordinary lives. Not for the first time I wonder how I’m going to make it through these next few months.

“I appreciate that.   I won’t hold you to it though.  You have a job to do and so do I.  So let’s get on with it.”

I’ve already turned my back and started a last minute mental inventory of my belongings when Rash clears his throat.  When I turn around he’s holding out a small black box with a wire attached to it.  “Microphone,” he explains.

I accept his offering and turn it over in my hand a few times.  It’s not heavy.  I know it isn’t.  Yet the weight of it in my hand is oppressive.

Rash deftly illustrates how the wireless lavalier microphone works.  The end piece may be simply taped beneath my clothes for now.

“When we get to the set we’ll have Angel there,” he says.  “Angel can show you a few common tricks for keeping the piece functional and unseen.” He holds up a roll of medical adhesive.  “For the moment, just secure the transmitter beneath your blouse and keep the box in your back pocket.”

Rash works a few miracles and manages to get my luggage and his ponderous equipment packaged into my silver Civic.  It’s a surreal feeling, driving out of Las Vegas beside a stranger and heading in the direction of possible infamy.

For his part, Rash does his best to make me feel comfortable.  He chats lightly about his wife and teenage daughters back home in Los Angeles.  His nickname has stuck since childhood due to frequent bouts of psoriasis.   He does not ask me any questions, and for that I am grateful.  Soon enough I won’t be able to avoid them, the questions.  I won’t be able to dodge giving out answers.

There’s not much of a geographical distinction moving from the brown, dusty landscape of Nevada into the brown, dusty landscape of Arizona this time of year.  Rains might have been more plentiful than usual over the spring because patches of wild greenery are visible beyond the shoulder of the Interstate.