Past Clives
S3;E1
Sheriff Clyde Windum’s dome shines like a waxed cue ball under late-night fluorescence as he sits there, alone in the corner, his back to the wall, right shoulder pressed against the glass, mirrored in his every action by a strangely rotated brother on the other side, whose juvenile mimicry the Sheriff would admonish if not for the barrier; and between chomps of debunned hamburger patty and slurps of recycled engine grease, he bores two holes through his twisted twin, tunnels through that glass divide, finding on the other side not some separate, discrete Clyde but a continuation of a formless cloud of Clydeness; while, down the aisle, dodging the jutting legs of precariously balanced stools and wet floor warning signs, Jackson Numan’s scuffed Strathconae announce to all but the hardest of hearing his flatfooted approach.
“Evening, deputy,” Clyde says, eyes closed now, cup pressed to his top lip so as the fumes rise they’re funnelled straight into his nostrils, attacking the mucosal lining of his sinuses which absorb from the bitter fog every available nanogram of the stimulation for which but a single Loonie has been exchanged; and Jackson, slumping into the seat opposite, an orange- and white-striped leather banquette, forms a half circle with the fingers of his left hand and tilts the digital signal mouthward, and then bellows the word coffee anyway, so loudly that it draws not only the other diners’ attention but also their silent scorn.
“Heard you caught a wild one, Sheriff?”
“Nothing, really. Burning station wagon. Couple kids toasting smores when I got there.”
“Bulls?”
“Right.”
A glass globe slides before the lawmen, beads of sweat forming on the inside and then, just as quickly as they can materialise, plop!: rained back down into the black ocean from whence they had so briefly escaped. Responsible for the sliding is one Daisy Windum, or one arm of one such Windum, not so much the apple of her father’s eye but the blossom, skin more pale than any flower that could grow from the bituminous sands and soils of Kiweyatew. Even before Prendreco had opened its exploratory site on the tar fields, the ground supported only the hardiest weeds. Now, with the pipes and the machines encroaching all the way to the tree line, the terrain looks sterile and extraterrestrial, like the surface of Mars or Venus, not so much in its hue but in the sheer saturation of just one color, that ubiquitous extinction-gray.
“We’re outta decaf, Jack,” Daisy says. “Regular OK?”
“I don’t know. I only got like two more hours on my shift. Maybe I’ll just have--”
“Got it. Pops?”
Concentration still smeared across the window, the Sheriff finally clocks his only daughter waving back at him.
“Hello?” she says. “You want more?” Clyde expends the least amount of energy possible in reply: a wide-eyed glance and a tented eyebrow, a gesture so subtle it pulls Daisy further into the moment, a note of genuine concern in her next line. “You OK, Sheriff?”
“Stay still, Clive, Jesus. You’re worse than the Iced Capp Kids.” Lorraine Adagio patted Clive Unwin’s tonsured crown with one of her heavier puffs, blotting the shiniest patches with a special sweat-absorbent powder.
“Leave it,” he replied, gagging on the wispy white cloud that had enveloped his head. “They’ll fix it in post.”
“No, we’ll fix it now. You used to pay so much attention to the little things, Clive.”
Lorraine was telling the truth. Clive’s attitude had changed since the break. A month-long adventure in Europe was exactly what he needed, she agreed when the topic came up at the season two wrap party. And even though he hadn’t invited her to join him, still Lorraine insisted he get away, to recuperate or whatever it is dramatic types do in between jobs. But the man who had come back did so with even less energy and passion for his craft than the one who had left. The makeup artist noticed it that first day back on set. Getting up close and personal is the name of the game, after all: smoothing those little creases, painting a different person onto what ought to be a blank canvas. A great character actor, Clive believed—and often repeated to anyone who would listen: understudies, interviewers, his urologist one time—must purge his own soul before he can truly inhabit a role. Acting, he philosophised, more than any other calling requires, nay demands, that level of sacrifice.
“Smells like dog shit in here,” Clive said, his eyes closed. Flashing through his mind were images of golden teeth. Two vertical strips of glistening chompers, like a disembodied mouth turned 90°, floating there on a black ocean.
“Husky M.D.,” Lorraine said. “They film the surgery scenes on this lot.”
All around them, an army of overworked drones hovered busily, dashing back and forth across the set, delivering pages and Hortons and anything and everything else the actors demanded. Television shows, even those as low-budget and -quality as Vagrant Sands, employed tens, sometimes dozens of these runners. Without them, production simply could not continue.
“Listen,” Lorraine began cautiously, “we need to talk about last night. I--”
“Can’t this wait, Lorr? They’ll call me any second.”
“Fine, later then? But I just want you to know, whatever’s going on, it’s OK. Lots of men have trouble when they get to your age.”
A good-looking blonde runner tiptoed gingerly to where Clive and Lorraine were standing, by the fire escape, away from the lighting rigs and the dolly tracks.
“Ah, you found one?” Clive said.
“One of the Husky M.D. techs had the right kind. He says these things are ancient.”
“What things?” said Lorraine. She looked down at the assistant’s hands and saw a length of cable wrapped around one of her clenched fists.
“It’s nothing, Lorr. My phone died and I don’t have my charger. Isn’t that right, Holly?”
“It’s Jessica.” The runner bit her top lip. Then, pushing a stray flick of unwashed hair behind her ear, said, “I think they’re ready for you now, Sheriff,” her eyes never once meeting his.
“You can’t do this to us, white man. My dad runs this town,” the younger Bull brother wails, fingers locked around the black iron bars. As jail cells go, this one’s pretty cozy. Sure, it’s cold and the blankets appear not to have been washed since the last guy occupied the reappropriated stationery cupboard—one of those stinking bums, no doubt, who sleep behind the bodyshop, just going off the smell: a distinct nose of renal despair, the kind that, if not for the context, one’s olfactory bulb might understandably misidentify as vapours of that nasty Saskatchewan skunk the twins so enjoyed and for which, bimonthly, they would blithely drive the seven hours there and back to collect; Moose Knuckle, the strain, so potent that not even its creator, the anorexic and menacing in a sexual way, half-Waterhen/half-something-else-entirely, Lenny Fiddler, would smoke, save for those infrequent visits from the Albertan Bull boys, in whose presence the grower wouldn’t so much smoke the chronic abomination as outright burn it in his living room’s dedicated chronic abomination burning pit, so that the room, the whole dilapidated building, with its windows and pellet-pointilated wooden walls duct-taped airtight, would flood with a funky Londonian fog, an anaerobic gloom, inside of which the trio would huff until they passed out, regaining consciousness, some hours later, at the behest of Lenny’s portable carbon monoxide detector—but no rats, at least.
“Quiet,” Clyde barks, his voice preceding him along the station’s darkened corridor, bouncing off the cracked Athabasca alabaster, reaching the boys in the holding cell a good two seconds before his slow striding shadow appears on the ground before them. “Look here,” he says, whooping stick chiming against the bars, “you boys done this to your own damned selves. Torching that stolen vehicle. Not such a smart decision, eh? And we’ll be keeping you boys here until you come to appreciate that fact.”
“Fuck you, pig,” shouts Dakota Bull from the back of the cell. His brother, Denver, hands still clasping the bars, smirks and spits at the lawman’s feet, Clyde’s boots catching a stray as the loogie ricochets off the stone.
Three of Denver’s fingers shatter from the impact of Sheriff Windum’s ceremonial tipstaff, its misshapen golden butt now polished to a red-black finish. “You were saying?”
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Clive “Sheriff” Unwin poured himself a large measure of tequila, the cheap kind that acquires a gasoline note once the air gets to it. With the shot glass, he steamrollered beads of sweat that had bled through the layers of product and collected in his wrinkles, leaving behind a caky white residue that set in the cold Canadian air and cracked off in little flecks now. He zipped the door behind him and collapsed onto the foisty futon mattress he’d left unrolled that morning. Strewn across the makeshift bed was a bundle of letters. Running a finger along the inside of the first envelope, he slid out the folded sheet. Inconclusive.
At the entrance, a hand-shaped protrusion pressed on his tent’s tarpaulin from the other side, its long, acrylic fingernails scratching up and down the canvas.
“Yes?”
“Psst. It’s me,” the hand’s owner whispered. Clive heaved himself up off the futon and unzipped the door.
“What is it, Lorr? I’m working.”
Licensed MUA Lorraine Adagio barged in, spying the half-empty bottle of Dieselmeister on the beige plastic bureau in the corner. “Working on what exactly,” she said, “a relapse?”
“Oh, stop fussing, will you? Just a little something to get me through these god-awful scenes.”
“Listen, you need to see a doctor,” Lorraine said. Clive extended the letter with one hand, downing his shot with the other “Inconclusive? Meaning what?”
“You tell me, dear. Doctor Clowacre’s the best...in Canada...’s central provinces. If he doesn’t know what’s going on, how should I?”
“Well, have things gotten any worse?”
“Here,” Clive said, releasing his belt. Down came his denims. “See for yourself.”
“Oh my God. What is that?”
“The lens, I think.”
Scooting down for a closer inspection, prodding at Clive’s apparatus, Lorraine said, “Does it hurt?”
“Only when I close my eyes.”
“Why aren’t you wearing underwear?”
“With this thing?” The slacks sailed across the tent, launched by Clive’s right foot. “Clowacre says I might need a travel case.”
“Fuck.”
Clive poured himself another slammer. “You want?”
“No.” Lorraine stood back and gawked at the actor’s transmogrification, sizing it up against the rest of his frame. “Yes.” Then she reached into her bag and withdrew a novelty-sized prophylactic.
“The hell is that for?”
“You don’t wanna?”
“How?”
“Well, it still kinda looks like one. I thought maybe we could try again? You almost got it in last time.”
The display panel twitched and, with a little coaxing, Clive had it partially extended, a bundle of veiny wires pumping blood through the entire unit. When he focused back on Lorraine, she had already removed her clothes and crawled under the futon’s yellowed sheets.
Despite his ex-wife’s predictions and hexes, Lorraine and the Sheriff’s sordid affair had blossomed into a mutually fulfilling partnership during their time together on the set of Vagrant Sands. And even given the age gap, their passion remained both vigorous and tender almost five years into their coupling.
“Does that feel alright?” Lorraine asked, her fingers clasping the eyecup.
“Careful.”
“Sorry. Here, let me try something else.” She began the journey south then, kissing softly at predetermined stops along the way: the nipples, the bellybutton, the appendectomy scar. Then, reaching her final destination, her mouth began to explore his model’s upgraded features. She could make out the contours of the main button panel, with its hairy playback controls and cartilage mode selection dial, which she rotated both ways with the tip of her tongue. The Sheriff’s moans confirmed the presence of nerve endings in the fleshy mechanisms.
“Wow,” he groaned.
As her lips latched on to the autofocus motor, a runner, Jessica, burst into the tent. “I got your Hortons, Sheriff. Sorry, but they’d run out of Timmych—” The assistant, clocking the full extent of the actor’s transformation, screamed as she ran away.
“You should put a hanger on the door handle or something, Clive,” Lorraine said.
“What handle? It’s a fucking wigwam.”