Kirk Jones - Aetherchrist

“They have cable down at the motel, don’t they?”

“You tell me.”

“I’ve never been there. The town’s too small to sneak in for their free breakfast, if they offer one.”

“They don’t.” I keep my eyes fixed on the television screens. “I’m interested in seeing what kinds of signals I can pick up back in Rutland.”

“You’ll probably get a lot of interference from all the cell towers and such.” He walks up to the televisions and glances at the ones on the top shelf. “But I’m not one to turn away a customer. You got any preferences?”

I turn to the shelf behind me. “This all you got?”

“For now, yes.”

“I have a bit of a walk back to the motel. Do you have anything smaller?”

He steps behind the counter. “I always thought these were neat.” He holds up a small television with a four-inch screen. “You ever see one?”

I nod. “I think I have. They’re battery operated?”

“Yeah. It’s a little beat up on the back. My son rigged it so he could play video games in his room, years ago.” He sets the television down and kneels down to rummage through the junk behind the counter. “I think I have a small antenna for it and some batteries.”

“Do you have a large antenna I could hook to it? Nothing giant, just a pair of rabbit ears or something?”

He continues shuffling things around behind the counter. “Should.”

I turn back to the televisions to see if I catch anything. Some of them flicker at times, but only to black.

Finally, Bill comes up for air. He’s got a set of rabbit ears and a few batteries. “I’ll sell you all of this for twenty,” he says.

“You interested in trade?”

He holds up his hand. “I’d prefer cash. Sorry.”

“You can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“I understand. We’re two of a kind. Normally that’d be grounds enough to help you out, but I can’t afford it right now.” He rolls the batteries to the base of the TV and places the rabbit ears beside them. “Is twenty okay?”

I place a bill on the counter. “Sure.”

“If it gives you a hard time, bring it back. I have a few similar models.”

“Sure,” I say, as I head for the door. “Thanks.”

Iset up the TV as soon as I get back to my room. I try, at least. I forgot what a pain in the ass it is to screw the antenna into the back of these things. I’m talking ancient, two-prongs-under-a-Philips-head-screwdriver pain in the ass. Once I finally get everything in place, I set the antenna up and scan through UHF and VHF. There’s nothing. Of course, there are one thousand ways to position the antenna, and all of those positions will yield different results. When I was a child we got a Canadian station for two hours a day, from 4 a.m. until 6 a.m., if we positioned our antenna right. I still wonder how we slipped onto that channel. Whatever it was, I wish I could tap into it now.

Three hours later and no luck, so I take the television apart to see what’s inside. I tug at the side of the frame to see if I can open it while it is on. I try to pry it apart to no avail. I hammer it gently on its side, trying to loosen the casing, then I slam the TV down on the table harder and harder until the case breaks and the glass cracks. A small shard bounces and pirouettes off the edge of the table onto the floor. Blood pools in the palm of my hand. I run the wound under water. It’s not deep enough to warrant stitches.

I stare at the individual parts of the television laid out before me. I keep looking at the tube to see if there’s a camera inside. At this point, I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to put the television back together. I start to think I should have checked the model on Wayne’s television and switched his out for one of the same model. I wonder if his wife sleeps sitting up on that fucking bus seat all night too. I bet she does. I bet Wayne has to buckle her in overnight.

There’s nothing in the television that appears out of order. Of course, I’m relying on my own expertise here, which is incredibly lacking. And the one person who could help me, I don’t trust. I guess this is when introversion sucks; when you don’t have a Swiss Army knife of acquaintances who can help you with all of the little problems you can’t solve yourself.

After I put the set back together, I turn the television to channel 6. Wayne’s television played me on stations 2 through 6, and I’ve always heard that when you’re lost, your odds of being found are better if you hold still. I figure I’ll get the best results if I keep it on the same channel throughout the night.

I open up my laptop and check my history for the dating site Jim told me about. I dig through my wallet to find the username and password and log in. If all goes well, there’s a chance I’ll have a date this weekend. If all goes really well, it’ll be with the woman of my dreams…

…there’s nothing.

I visit Ms40-34-40’s profile. She hasn’t been on since I sent the letter, which is good. Better than knowing she’s ignoring me, anyway. Sometimes I wish they’d leave that kind of information out of social media. It seems too hurtful knowing that someone is intentionally going out of his or her way not to acknowledge you.

There are only two pictures on the page, all of them focused on Ms40-34-40’s body from the waist down. Lana’s chest is a bit small, so this again makes me think Jim may have been on to something. This could very well be her.

I feel wrong, looking at the pictures, like Lana’s watching me look at these and she’s shaking her head in disapproval. It’s like when I was young and worried that my dead high school teacher was going to catch me masturbating from heaven. Then every dead celebrity I idolized, I had to worry about the same thing until I turned eighteen. Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Puff-n-Stuff—were they all watching me rub one out?

Now I just felt guilty fantasizing about the woman I care about, fearing that she somehow knew, or would know by looking me in the eyes. I also felt to a degree like I was cheating myself. Here I was, staring at a well-groomed bush hoping it was the woman I cared about; when I had her number in my contacts on my phone and could call her at any time.

I scroll back and forth between the two pictures. The first shows muscular thighs framing her sex. The second is of a thick mound of dark hair, as black as night. I had a girlfriend, once, who would only date guys with blonde or red hair because she thought black and brown looked “dirty.” I like black and brown because they have the potential to fully conceal, to drape the sex in mystery. I keep the second picture in my mind as I log out and shut down the computer for the night.

I get up and check the parking lot for Jim one last time before I lay down. Looks like I’ll be walking again tomorrow. I wonder if he’s back in Rutland and he’s decided to ask Lana to drive me back on his behalf. I smile at the thought, and then the color in the room shifts. Something’s on the television.

I turn toward it and see myself walking down Harbor Road. It’s an overhead shot, like someone’s in the trees watching me. I walk to the window and draw the curtain closed. Every minute, I fear that someone’s watching me watch myself, gauging my reaction and waiting for the right moment to strike. All of this must be building up to something. I want to lash out, call out whoever is doing this, but I hold it in.

Then I notice that on screen I’m wearing different clothes, the clothes I haven’t ever worn down Harbor Road before. I check my suitcase while glancing back at the television. My clothes for tomorrow, the clothes on the screen, are still there, undisturbed.

Not wearing those fuckers tomorrow.