Under the Table by Vern Smith

Author:Vern Smith
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: RunAmok Books
Published: 2021-06-23T17:20:55+00:00

20

Friday, June 30

Nathan arrived on set about three hours after Veronica, before eight, going through his breakfast routine—nuts and twigs and stuff, blueberry yogurt, OJ, and a peanut butter granola bar—then he went out to the lot, adjusting pylons and taking his place.

In his kiosk, he noticed the brick’s indicator, another message from Larry Something saying he might have a flight. Waiting for a return number, getting none, Nathan disconnected and powered up the 6in1 Radio Lantern, pulling a face when the DJ promised spiritually conscious rhymes as if Nathan was going to be saved by Christian rap. Man, he wanted background music, instrumentals, so he turned the dial, picking up BBC News on the part-time jazz station. Didn’t CJRT have enough volunteers to run programming? No, they had to run free content like this just to stay on the air. And tabernac, Nathan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Some wonk, with the snobbiest little accent, was reporting a claim, deadpan, by China’s defense ministry, stating that no one had been killed at Tiananmen Square, not a single person.

Ever since initial reports almost four weeks ago now, Nathan had been zoning out on the details. Not that it mattered, the way BBC eggheads were droning on about intellectuals, dissidents, and democracy. In short, people were massacred for reading the wrong books, singing the wrong songs, thinking the wrong thoughts, and saying the wrong things. That was the point Nathan kept coming back to while the BBC used flowery language to describe a body count now ranging from zero, apparently, to thousands upon thousands upon thousands.

When another voice came in, Nathan turned the static off. He felt shame for figuratively looking away, thinking he should know, that everybody should. But around Cherry Beach Studios, nobody seemed interested in the front section of the papers delivered every day. So long as sports and entertainment didn’t go missing, everyone was, like, you know, awesome. China? Sudan? Those places seemed worlds away, only rating for a mention if Abel thought he could dumb down their cultures enough to turn them into the butt of a joke.

Thinking how life here seemed to go on and on and on, despite it all, Nathan decided to have a go at The Toronto Star crossword. He was chewing on his pencil, trying to come up with a five-­letter word for tropical resin when a familiar evergreen MGB needing a paint job pulled up. Dan Meckler was inside, UB40 seeping from the speakers, “Red Red Wine.”

“It’s Najam, is it?”

“Nathan, sir.”

“Sorry, I know a parking spot is like the New Jerusalem around here, so I had an idea.”

“An idea, sir?” Nathan frowned, thinking at least the guy shaved today. Smelled good, too, lemony yet antiseptic, like Pledge. “For the parking?”

“That’s right, for the parking.” Meckler was careful to talk slowly and evenly so this Najam could follow. “If you simply change the direction of all the pylons and have everyone park north-south as opposed to east-west, I bet you could add as many as a dozen spots.

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