Scars and Other Distinguishing Marks Read online

  Harry turned from the window.

  "Harry. Harry Addley."

  "Right. I remember something like that," said Eddie. "Well, look Harry, I can't remember how I wrote you. Are you a religious man?"

  "Fairly," said Harry, sniffing to himself, "I respond spiritually to organ music."

  "Right," said Eddie. "Well, what I'm getting at here is that, if you are, you might not want to know how this all works. It might shake you up. Things aren't always as they seem."

  "For instance," said Harry, "most people don't think of the Lord as a Jewish writer, who works out of a kosher deli."

  "Well, I'm only one of the many that Script Sure employs but you're getting the idea. See, I didn't do such a bad job. You're pretty quick."

  Harry sighed and sitting down pointed the fan at his face, slightly faint.

  "Hey! I'm burning up in here, as is," squawked Eddie.

  "Why don't you make it snow?" asked Harry.

  "You see. There you go again," said Eddie. "That's all just a stereotype. That stuff has all been updated. No more lofty images. Things are more efficient these days. We even advertise to cover office expenses. We run a little in the red. You know, paper clips, coffee cups it adds up."

  "Sure," said Harry, morosely, his mind elsewhere. "And to think I bothered going to Sunday School. I should have prayed for better dialogue and characterization. For that matter, the Bible should have been written by Eugene O'Neill. He probably would have picked up the pace a little."

  "Hell of a writer," agreed Eddie.

  Harry reflected on his situation and decided to make the best of it.

  "Well look, Eddie, when can you get to my script?"

  "You got the two Gs?" asked Eddie.

  "Yeah, I can get it," said Harry. "It's worth it. I mean it's my damn life."

  Eddie got a hurt expression on his face.

  "Sure it's easy for you to talk about my writing like that. You try writing one of these babies some time. Give you migraines," said Eddie.

  "Sorry," said Harry, "you know what I meant."

  "It's okay," said Eddie, "I'll live."

  "Well, when do you think I could have it?" asked Harry.

  "Week and a half. I'll change everything. Believe me, you'll love it."

  "I want to be happy. Eddie. I want my wife back. I want a better job with a raise, I want my kid straightened out and I want new feet."

  "Same size?" asked Eddie, making some brief notes.

  "Maybe a little smaller," offered Harry.

  "How about a nine-D?"

  "I like it," said Harry.

  "Okay," said Eddie, "I'll take it from here. I know exactly what you're after. Listen, Harry, I have a terrific idea. Why don't you take a vacation until I have the script ready. You ski?"

  "No," said Harry, "I guess you didn't have time to put that in. Your wife must have come home."

  "Aw, come on Harry, don't be nasty. We'll fix everything up for you. I'll throw something together this afternoon for you to go skiing in Aspen, Colorado. How does that sound? Is Eddie looking out for you or isn't he?" Eddie smiled.

  Harry looked at him with a critical sigh.

  "We'll see."

  Four days after his conversation with Eddie, Harry was on the slopes at Aspen. He had never put skis on in his entire life yet he was doing expertly on even the most complicated of maneuvers. He traversed moguls with ease and was even able to slalom down the most difficult slope on a single ski. His ingrown toenail had even miraculously disappeared.

  He realized it was all Eddie's doing and no longer questioned his competence as a writer. He wasn't such a bad guy, thought Harry.

  He just worked for Script Sure because he needed the work. Christ, somebody had to do the job.

  That afternoon, after a warm soup and hot chocolate at the chalet, Harry decided to go for a cross-country ski. He would take some food and head out for the unspoiled flats of Aspen's most spectacular country. There, beneath the towering mountains, he could celebrate the prospect of his new life. He finished his lunch and went to get his equipment.

  Hunched over his typewriter, far from the magnificence of the Aspen peaks, sat Eddie, re-working Harry's script. As he worked on the section about the cross-country ski, he decided to really do a special job for Harry to make up for the trouble Script Sure had caused him. He decided to really give Harry an exciting run for his two thousand dollars. Florid descriptions began to roll off Eddie's fingertips as he furiously typed scene after scene for Harry's stimulating new revision.

  He included a breakneck escape from an avalanche which Harry was to barely avert at the last second. He also included, with much chuckling to himself, an encounter with a beautiful ski bunny for Harry, culminating with Harry and the young lovely making wild love through the night before a large fireplace.

  As if this weren't enough, Eddie described Harry's next day as being even more action-filled and death-defying. He was to make a three-hundred-foot ski jump, through midair and land perfectly on one ski, then immediately afterward participate in a tequila drinking contest in the chalet which he would win after successfully downing four bottles of the hot liquor.

  The evening of that same day, he would arm-wrestle a Norwegian ski instructor for the instructor's woman and overwhelm the massive Nordic giant after a two-hour sweat-drenched struggle.

  Later that evening, having ditched his original ski bunny, he would be made love to by his prize. She would be an indefatigable, sensual Amazon who would take Harry to her private chalet and show him bizarre anatomical innovations that he would theretofore have thought were certainly federal offenses and only have dreamed of. It would be a deeply gratifying evening.

  For the following day, Eddie was putting in descriptions of Harry's Porsche race through the ice-covered Aspen roads against the then-reigning champion race driver in all the world. Harry would win by a nerve-wracking hair and come near to death when his turbo-powered racecar would almost skid off a cliff. The former champion would later weep before a gathered crowd and present Harry his trophy, congratulating him for being a brilliant competitor and a gentleman. Before bringing him back to give him his new job, Eddie included a few more thrills for Harry. Included among these, were the eventual killing of the Norwegian ski instructor, in self-defense, by snipping the cable to his chair lift. He also threw in a new sexy moustache for Harry on a face which had formerly been capable of only sparse peach fuzz.

  What a script this was!

  Eddie was exultant. This was the best one he had ever done. As he was typing in a description of Harry coolly winning big at the tables in Vegas on his way back from Aspen, his phone rang.

  "Hello," said Eddie, still typing, putting the phone in the crook of his shoulder.

  "Hello Eddie, this is Jerry,"

  "Jerry! Great to hear from you. What's up?"

  "How about lunch?"

  "Have to take a rain check, Jer. Caught up with a rewrite and it's coming out great."

  "Oh, come on Eddie. If I can put down my scripts for awhile, you can. Me and some of the guys are going for sandwiches. Larry's coming, so's Sid."

  "Jeez, Jer, I'd love to but I really can't."

  "They're busy with rewrites, too, Eddie."

  "I know. But this script is the best one I've ever done. It might win me the annual Soul award from Script Sure."

  "That good, huh?"

  "Better," said Eddie, confidently. "It's brilliant and I'd really rather stay in 'til I'm done with it."

  "What's it about?" asked Jerry, a little envious.

  "This guy came in a few days ago with a bad script. Same story; we've all heard it a million times; wanted a rewrite. Seems his wife left him, his kid was on pills, got laid off his job. Even had an ingrown toenail."

  "Eddie, you're gonna hate me for this, but did the guy's wife leave him for a trumpet player?"

  "Yeah, that's right. How'd you know?"

  Jerry laughed.

  "I worked on that script. Did the first d
raft, way back. It's a good thing that guy came in to see you. Things were only going to get worse on that script, as I recall."

  "What do you mean?" asked Eddie, wondering if something like this would disqualify him from the Soul award competition.

  "Well, of course with that condition of his . . ."

  Eddie interrupted, suddenly.

  "Condition! What condition?"

  "Oh, you must have missed it. Yeah, as I remember, I gave him a very weak heart. But don't worry. Just don't give him anything too strenuous in your rewrites," said Jerry, cheerily. "Now how about that lunch?"

  Eddie didn't answer. He just leaned back in his chair, face expressionless, and downed another bromo.

  UNKNOWN DRIVES

  Ahead, the truck pulled onto the road and cut off Don's Mustang.

  "Damn!" said Don. The truck was going no more than twenty-five miles an hour. Don's wife, Kerry, shook her head in disbelief.

  "These local farmers must think they own the road," she began. "The speed limit is fifty-five."

  Don looked at the rear of the truck. In faded letters on the wooden cage that surrounded the bed was written something.

  "Field's Produce," Don read aloud, ". . . great, he's probably delivering to the next county."

  Kerry smiled.

  "Well, there goes the vacation," she said lightly.

  "Let's just see," replied Don under his breath.

  He leaned his body to the left and gradually pulled the Mustang out into the opposing lane. As he accelerated, he quickly snapped the steering wheel to the right, and the Mustang swerved sharply back into the right lane.

  "What's the matter?" asked Kerry, startled. Don sighed.

  "Road work," he explained, pointing to the left side of the road.

  At that moment, the Mustang passed a row of hinged yellow barricades, all crowned with blinking orange lights. The barricades completely blocked off the opposing lane.

  Ahead, the truck was still going twenty-five. There was no way for Don to get around it and it went no faster. Just a slow, never-changing, aggravating twenty-five.

  Don looked at the other lane. It was still blocked. He edged the Mustang slightly to the left and looked down the road as far as he could see, then pulled back into his lane.

  "Those barricades look like they go on for a couple of miles," he said, with controlled frustration. "They're repaving the other lane."

  Kerry nodded understanding and patted her husband's leg calmingly. She reached to a Styrofoam picnic container on the floor and removed a Coke.

  "Sip?" she asked.

  "No," said Don, his eyes glued to the truck. "Not now. I want to pass this guy. He's beginning to bug the shit out of me."

  Don could see the back of the farmer's head. The man seemed completely at ease. His right hand brought a thinly smoking pipe to his mouth.

  Don made an impatient face and honked several times, holding the horn down.

  "Pull over, you sonofabitch!" he hissed.

  The farmer ignored the honking. He puffed easily on his pipe and the smoke furled in the truck cab.

  "That smug bastard," said Don, looking at the Mustang's speedometer incredulously, "I think he's going slower."

  Kerry could see Don getting angrier.

  "He's just an old man, Don. I'm sure his slow driving is just habit. I didn't notice him slowing down."

  "Like hell he didn't," insisted Don. "I could see it on the speedometer."

  Kerry tried to take Don's right hand and he pulled away from her nervously. He glanced at her, mood brittle.

  "He's hogging the road," said Don, "I've got to get around him. This could go on all day."

  He quickly looked to his left.

  The yellow barricades had ended. The other lane was open again.

  "Finally," said Don.

  Without hesitating, he pulled the Mustang out and tried to pass the truck. He was just about ready to floor the engine when his pulse doubled. Both he and Kerry screamed at what was coming as they swayed fully into the opposing lane.

  A one-lane bridge was a few yards ahead.

  As the truck lethargically rolled across the bridge, Don slammed on his brakes, putting all his weight on the pedal, eyes widening.

  The Mustang skidded loudly and almost slid over a muddy embankment into the marsh water beneath the bridge.

  There was a last cloud of exhaust as the engine stalled. All was still for a moment.

  "Are you all right?" Don asked Kerry in a throaty whisper. He leaned over the steering wheel, breathing heavily.

  Kerry looked over at him, shock still on her face. "I wasn't expecting that," she said, mouth dry. Don reached over, hugged her.

  "I'm beginning to hate this route," said Kerry, reaching to the glove compartment and pulling out a box of Kleenex. "I'm in no rush, Don," she said, wiping his face, then her own. "Can't we just drive slower . . ."

  "No," said Don, tensely, "this is the only route through the county and I'll be damned if I'm going to let some old man make me late."

  "Your brother won't mind if we're a few minutes late," she said. "Please, Don."

  He ignored her and put the Mustang in reverse. He pulled free from the muddy embankment and pushed the transmission into DRIVE. He floored the pedal and the Mustang bolted back onto the road.

  "I'm going to pass him," said Don. "All I need is a clear stretch."

  He looked over at Kerry as they sped along the highway. She was sipping Coke.

  "Just let me try a couple more times," he said, reassuringly. "I'll quit if it's no good. I promise." Kerry looked at him, smiled weakly.

  "Good," said Don, coming up behind the truck. "Then let's leave this fucker in the dust and get on with it. We'll show him."

  The truck was rocking slightly in front of them. It still didn't waver from twenty-five.

  Don watched the truck in fascination.

  "He must have something in that rig to keep it going one speed," he said, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

  In the truck, the farmer was still smoking his pipe. He adjusted his hat as he drove, shrugged his shoulders a bit.

  Sensing the time was right to pass, Don pulled the Mustang into the other lane.

  It was no good.

  A truck was coming from the other direction. Don pulled back into the lane; waited again.

  "Almost," he said to Kerry. "Next one."

  He edged every few seconds to the left so he could see the oncoming traffic.

  "Goddamn this," muttered Don, as several enormous trucks passed on his left.

  "Look!" interrupted Kerry.

  The truck was braking and signaling for a right-hand turn. It began to curve slowly to the right.

  "Patience," said Don with an ironic smile, "that's all it took."

  Not missing his chance, he shoved the pedal to the floor with his right foot and the Mustang roared around to the side of the truck. It streaked along the opposing lane and Don gripped the wheel firmly. He began to roll down his window.

  "Take that Coke, now," he was smiling at Kerry.

  But it was too late.

  From the right side of the farmer's truck, off a side road, in Don's blind spot, came another enormous foundry truck. He and Kerry ran directly into it and were thrust bloodily through the Mustang windshield. Their bodies landed on the road and pools of deep-red blood formed hideous perimeters around them.

  The Mustang suddenly caught fire, and explosions of hot metal ransacked the silence of the countryside. Flaming colors of orange, red, and blue were everywhere.

  Several pasture animals looked on, chewing and kicking their hooves. The fire began to go out and the Mustang sizzled and groaned on the highway.

  The truck pulled up in front of the farmhouse and the farmer got out and knocked his pipe against the muddy running board. Chunks of burned tobacco tumbled out and he walked to the kitchen door.

  He entered, and his wife was standing at the stove, stirring a boiling stew. He filled his pipe with new
tobacco.

  "How was your day?" she asked.

  He held a match to his pipe bowl.

  "Good day," he said. "I got me one."

  TIMED EXPOSURE

  They met at this very strange party in Malibu.

  The house was Moorish design and a heavy industry crowd sat on tubby Road To Morocco pillows, danced, snorted and lied to each other, as perfect surf supplied a metronome.

  She was an actress, studying at one of the local academies and getting in for Equity-waiver auditions. He was . . . she wasn't sure. She asked him and he dropped two new cubes into her vodka tonic and said:

  "I work when I feel inspired."

  They stood by the bar's open glass door, watching the ocean foam, and his white scarf was suddenly stolen by night wind, flying into the blackness; a ghostly serpent. She stared into his dark eyes, and he touched her cheek, asking if she were alone.

  An hour later, they walked on the beach, laughing, celebrating having found each other at such a dull party. He was a world traveler named Gregory and she liked his sense of humor, though he preferred not to talk about himself. Still, as they crunched through moist sand, she managed to learn he'd been married, loved dogs, and knew the address of every great restaurant in Paris. She told him she'd never been to Paris.

  At nine-thirty sharp, a screening of The African Queen began in the plush living room which rose over a mirror tide and she sat beside him, nibbling crackers and sharing funny secrets.

  Now and then, during the film, she would peek over at him and he'd smile, making her feel pleasingly like a child; like he watched her as a father might, taking his little girl to her first movie. As Humphrey Bogart's stomach grumbled and Katherine Hepburn glared politely, the two new friends held hands and she looked over, aching to touch him, to feel him.

  At midnight, guests began to yawn and sleepy, stoned-out couples hugged the host, saying it was the best party they'd ever been to. He was a tanned studio sultan who kissed their cheeks and smiled, though it was impossible to tell if he believed every word or memorized which faces deceived him.

  That was when Gregory asked to drive her home.