“I’ll tell you, then.” Gogo didn’t miss a beat. His tone was flat and his eyes were still blank, as if he were conserving all his energy for the interview. “I watched your video, okay? Very technically well done. Who shot it for you?”
“Some film students at UT,” George answered.
“The actors were students?”
“Yeah, but we hired local actors too.” It was amazing how quickly a video project could eat up two thousand dollars, if you really wanted it to look pro: the costumes, the props, the smoke pots and blank ammo, the special effects and the editing work. In the end, as they were running out of cash, George sold an old reel-to-reel tapedeck he had in a closet, Nomad tapped the account that held the money he earned as a house-painter, Mike ditched an axe on eBay, Berke gave an afternoon of drum lessons to teenage wannabees at the Oakclaire Drive YMCA for twenty bucks, Ariel played for change several days running on the UT campus, and Terry donated from his gig giving piano lessons at the Episcopal Student Center on 27th Street.
“And it was shot where?” Gogo asked, still staring at Nomad. “Looked like some kind of abandoned building, about as fucked up as this one.”
“An apartment complex,” Nomad said, getting the point. “Turned into a crackhouse. A few days away from the wrecking-ball.”
“There you go, huh? I wanted the interviews to have the same kind of backdrop as the video. Wanted it to be edgy. See, I even found you some bullet holes, so you should be grateful. They’ll look good in the shot, won’t they, Hector?”
“Yeah, muy bueno,” said Hector.
“Okay, then. Christ, I’m melting. Introductions, Georgie. Who does what?”
George did a quick job of the intros, because it was obvious Gogo wanted to get to business. That was fine for everyone else, because they were all sweating and miserable in this mean little room. Then Gogo said, “Ready,” the two techs got their camcorders, switched on the cam lights and checked the volume settings on the microphones. The generator’s low drone in the other room wasn’t loud enough to kill anything in here, and Nomad figured it helped the vibe.
“Okay, everybody move against this wall. Watch the paint…what’s your name again?”
“Ariel.”
“Wet paint, Ariel. Scruffy, move to your left about a foot. We want the poster to show.” Mike obeyed without comment. “How’s it look?” This question was aimed at the techs, who were peering through their rubber-rimmed eyepieces.
“Tall dude needs to shift to the right,” Hector said, and Nomad moved. “That’s got it. I think we’re set.”
“Count it down,” Gogo directed. He turned off his personal fan.
“In five…four…three…two…one.”
“I’m here,” said Gogo with a dazzling smile and forceful emphasis, speaking into Benjy’s camcorder, “with the Austin-based band, The Five. These guys have just started their new tour, and they’re bringing us a look at their fresh redhot video. The song’s called ‘When The Storm Breaks’. We’ll get to that video in just a minute, but first…you know…heh heh… I’ve got to ask a question.” He turned his attention to the band. Benjy’s camcorder stayed on his face, while Hector’s was pointed at The Five. Nomad was aware of being at the center of bright light and black shadows. “Take a look at that poster,” Gogo said. “Give us a tight closeup on that, Hector.” Obviously, the techs were not only the crew but also part of the cast. “Okay, this is my question: which one of you is the thumb?”
There followed a few seconds of deafening silence. Nomad thought it was probably the most asinine question he’d ever heard. Their first minute was ticking away. He said, “I don’t know who the thumb is, but I can be the middle finger.”
“Cut it,” Gogo told the techs. The lights on their camcorders went dark. Gogo scratched his chin and smiled without warmth. “Listen,” he said, “let’s understand that I’m the host, huh? I’m going for some humor. I’m not challenging anybody to a big dick contest. Now, to be honest with you, I’m doing this for Roger because he’s a decent guy and he’s sent me a lot of business. So save your attitude for the stage, and we’ll all go home happy. Count it down,” he told Hector.
The camcorders lit up again. “In five…four…three…two…one.”
“I’m here—right here, wherever we are—with the Austin-based band, The Five. These guys have just started their new tour and we’re going to get a look at their video, ‘When The Storm Breaks’, in just a minute, but first I want to remind you to check out our Weekend Special Deals coming up, see what Felix Gogo can do for you, doesn’t have to be just the weekend, we’ve got deals every day of the week, walk in, drive out, and remember, my friends, sometimes good guys don’t wear white.” He’d been speaking directly into Benjy’s lens, and now he looked at the band and gave an expression of exaggerated astonishment as if the light-washed figures had suddenly materialized before him like floating spirits. “There are five of you!” he said, clownishly. “I don’ know what I wass es-pectin’!” He gave a big grin into the lens, put an index finger against the side of his head, lolled his tongue out and staggered like the village idiot, and Nomad just clenched his teeth and looked down at the trashy floor.
Ariel laughed, but it was all nerves. Beside her, Terry wore a frozen smile. His eyes were hot and sweat glistened on his scalp.
“Take you a long time to come up with that name?” was the next question. “Ariel?”
“No,” she answered. “Not really.” She felt herself trying to recoil from the lights, but there was wet red paint on the wall at her back.
“We thought about The Four, or The Six,” Berke suddenly said, her voice calm and controlled, “but for some reason it didn’t seem right.”
“Duh!” said Gogo, with another fanatical grin into the camcorder. “See folks, you think my job iss heeesey? We got some great minds in here tonight! Okay, somebody set up the video. You went to Iraq to shoot this, right?”
“It’s about the war,” Nomad managed to say.
“Song’s called ‘When The Storm Breaks’, by The—” Gogo held up his own hand, palm out and fingers spread, for Hector’s camcorder to focus on.
“And cut,” Gogo said. He walked a couple of steps to turn the fan back on, and he took the black handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket and mopped his face and did not give a glance at George, who stood about three feet away.
Gogo lifted his double chins to catch the breeze. “Have you people ever done a fucking television interview before? Pardon the truth, but you are slow. Benjy, get me some water.”
“I don’t think we got our full minute,” Nomad said.
“What?”
“I said,” Nomad repeated, “that we didn’t get our full minute.” He came forward, brushing between Ariel and Terry. George was shaking his head, warning him: no…no…no. Nomad stopped, but he had no intention of backing down. “You used our time for a commercial. That’s not right.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Gogo said, as he took the bottled water that Benjy had brought him from one of the bags. He uncapped it, drank but did not offer any liquid relief to anyone else. “This whole show is a commercial. What’d you say you called yourself? Nomad? Okay, when you get the Nomad Show on cable, you can do what you please. Until then, the Felix Gogo Show is the name of this one, and I do what I please. Somebody fucks up, or acts like a moron, or doesn’t appreciate the humor…” He shrugged. “There’s the door. We can shut this down right now.” He turned to George. “You want to shut this down right now, George? I can go sell some cars, huh?”