Jack O'Connell - Wireless

They enter the house and start to turn on lights. Olga knows she won’t feel the full brunt of Wallace’s disappointment until tomorrow. Overnight, the excuses and bitterness will breed, multiply like cancer cells, colonize the whole of his brain and larynx. And in a way, she’s grateful for the short reprieve. She’s just too tired tonight to comfort him, to agree with his assessment of the poor drumming and song selection.

Wallace undoes his tie and says, “Let’s just check on the taping and then get some sleep.”

Olga follows him down into the basement. They both cry out at the same time when they see the pile of demolished trophies at the foot of the stairs.

A voice comes back at them, a broken echo, “Somehow I don’t think I’m in Kansas anymore.”

They stare at each other. Olga waits for directions — should she run, call the police, find a weapon of some kind?

“Fred, Ginger, get your tiny little asses down here.”

Wallace closes his eyes for a long second and when he opens them it looks as if he’ll cry. Instead, he starts down the rest of the stairs and his wife follows, stepping over a mound of broken male and female dancers, silver and gold arms, legs, heads strewn into a mismatched grave, a figurine pyre waiting for a temperature that can melt metal.

Speer is lounging on the couch, half-drunk, reclining down its length, head on an embroidered pillow, shoes kicked off and legs inclined upward resting on the back. His Smith & Wesson is on the coffee table as natural as a bowl of hard candies, as if he were daring someone to make a grab for it. Olga and Wallace come around the corner and stand in front of him.

“Hey, hey,” he yells, “circus is in town.”

Wallace hopes Olga will stay quiet, but like she reads his mind and willfully opposes it, she blurts out, “Who are you?”

Speer comes upright on the couch and says, “You know exactly who I am. You’ve been waiting for me since day one. Jesus, you are adorable, aren’t you? Kind of like a puppy. In the mall, you know. Just want to take it home.”

“Some identification?” Wallace says, trying to pull the attention onto himself.

Speer smiles, picks up his gun, holds it in the air like a badge. “Here’s my identification, shithead.”

He stands up, partly to show them his height, and motions toward the bar. “Sorry about the mess there. Little accident. Small tremor. You guys must be on a fault line.”

They stay silent, stare at him, expressionless.

“I’ve got to guess that you were out dancing up a storm. Huh? Am I right? I just want to ask you, you know, before we get the party started here, what’s the story with the dancing anyway? I mean, size-wise and all, is it harder or easier? I’ve got no idea. Being so low to the ground and all. Is it easier? Is that how you score all the gold? Or do you pull a lot of sympathy votes? Pity the dwarfs, you know?”

“Are you from the police department?” Wallace asks, desperate to sound calm. “Do you have a name?”

“Son,” Speer says, even though Wallace has two decades on him, “we haven’t started the question-and-answer part of the evening yet. And when we do, you’ll be in the answer section. Right now, we’re still getting acquainted. So, could you do me a favor and turn on that beauty over there. The Philco G25-P. Nineteen forty-one, right? Gorgeous machine, there. Hope you’ve got that baby insured.”

Wallace hesitates, then moves to the radio and turns it on. “April in Paris” begins to play. Speer closes his eyes, lets a big boyish grin break on his face, and starts to sway a bit, hands out in front of him like he was ready to climb an invisible ladder.

“What a song. What a wonderful piece of music. Melodious, you know. Not like the crap today. And I’m speaking as a relatively young man. I see a common denominator in today’s music. Not the preprogrammed electronics. Not the Satanic lyrics. Nope. Lack of melody. Bottom line is a pervasive lack of melody. Drives me crazy.”

He opens his eyes, stops swaying. “Getting back to dancing. I’m genuinely curious. You’ve got such small extremities. Is this a hindrance or a help?”

He pauses, staring at them, smile gone.

“I suppose,” he says, nodding to himself, “it really depends on who your partner is. By that I mean — fellow dwarf or not. Do you two dance exclusively with one another? You ever tried it with a normal-sized person?”

He moves away from the couch and next to Olga. Wallace remains next to the radio.

He puts an arm around Olga’s shoulder, gestures toward her with his head, says to Wallace, in this mock whisper, “Hey, little guy, you mind if I give her a whirl here? Just take a second.”

Wallace’s heart starts to pump. He looks around the room, says, “Look, we both know why you’re here—”

Speer cuts him off. “Thanks, pal. Return the favor someday.”

He scoops Olga up with one arm, turns her until she’s facing him, maneuvers her into an awkward waltz stance, an arm around her waist, hand in hand, out to the side a bit. Her shoes dangle two feet above the floor.

“Ooh, you’re heftier than you look, dear. Now relax and I’ll lead.”

He starts a strange semiwaltz toward the center of the room, turns it into a sloppy tango, humming music that doesn’t match what the radio plays.

“Please put her down,” Wallace says, helpless, fading toward a whine, frantic for a plan, a course of action.

Speer ignores him and says, “This is really wonderful. Really different. I like this. You tell me if I’m squeezing too tight. Wouldn’t want to snap the spine. You know, I’m not sure I could go back to a full-sized partner now. You’ve spoiled me, Olga.”

Her eyes are closed. She’s fighting both tears and a rage that tells her from where she’s hanging she could get off a perfect pointed-toe into his groin, bring him right to the ground. She hopes that Wallace would be ready to act, to grab a golf club and cave in his skull, shatter the bridge of his nose, break a kneecap. But she can’t help knowing the guy’s a cop. And everything she’s feared since the day she married Wallace has suddenly come true. Finally, tonight, in the safety of their rec room, every bad daydream has been made flesh.

He brings his mouth close to her ear like they were at some eternal high school prom. She anticipates the moistness before it actually comes. And then it comes. His tongue dips in toward her eustachian tube, a quick lick and then a whisper, “What do you say you and I ditch this guy and head out to my car?”

The tears win out and start to stream.

“You want money?” Wallace yells. “I got money. You want to bring me in, then let’s go.”

Speer stops dancing, releases Olga, and she falls to the floor like a heavy, lifeless doll. A look grows on Speer’s face, an annoyed, rigid-lipped squint.

“Change partners,” he says, steps over to Wallace and picks him up in a rougher grip. They start to do something resembling a samba and Speer asks, “This a rented tux?”

Wallace can’t answer. Olga stays on the ground, pulls herself into a corner, and weeps.

“Now, Mr. Browning,” Speer says, dipping, “there are a lot of ways we can do this. And not all of them have to involve losing the deposit on this tux. Not all of them have to involve me taking pretty Olga away with me. Now, I don’t want to bust you. I’d be a goddamn laughingstock bringing in munchkins-gone-bad, you know? And I don’t want your fucking money. I’ll tell you, that was insulting. That was not a wise thing to say. I always picture you people as being more polite or something. I don’t know why.”

He does a sudden, off-balance spin, then lifts Wallace and places him on the fireplace mantel.