Christopher Sorrentino - Trance

In a hundred years, when vending machine sex-robots fuck us for quarters, they’ll probably play disco.

The girls don’t know quite how to respond to this tune. One humps the pole, sliding up and down its length, her tongue hanging out in a caricature of rapture; another walks up and down the narrow stage, looking oddly reminiscent of a stewardess patrolling the aisle of a 707. The patrons, too, seem confused, confused and riled; these scoured westerners didn’t come here to listen to Scott Joplin tell them how damned sad everything is. It makes Guy nervous. He probably should have just taken a six-pack into one of the vacant cabins at his parents’ place, but he half expects to be arrested any day now, and that’s the first place they’re likely to look.

Even the mindless serenity of the strip club is adulterated by the clanging and flashing of the slots parked in every corner. He is sick, sick, sick of Vegas. Sick of the heat, sick of the sun, sick of the recycled air, sick of the dry, rasping cough he rises with each morning, sick of tourists, sick of natives, sick of loud, dumb radio ads for the shows at the casinos, sick of getting the thermonuclear shakes from underground testing.

“You Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet” comes on, and everyone seems relieved.

The phone rang one fine morning up in Oregon, and it was his mother on the line. Just wanted to let him know that Ernest had called to say that he would be visiting Europe for a while and that he’d informed on the whole family to the FBI. Agents would probably be paying them a visit once they’d confirmed the details of Ernest’s story. She spoke with a sort of polar calm.

“What do you think I should tell them, Guy?”

“Mom, don’t tell them anything.”

“Well, if they are going to take the trouble of coming all the way out here, I feel bad just turning them away.”

“They’re probably just coming from the Federal Building downtown, Mom.”

“Still and all, they have a right to the truth.”

“No,” said Guy, “they don’t. You need to call a lawyer. And in the meantime keep your mouth shut. Do you understand me?”

“Guy, do you really think an attorney is going to be necessary?”

“Yes, I do, Mom. This is serious business as your beloved son Ernest well knows. No wonder he’s—”

“Maybe Dick Taranutz can recommend a good attorney.”

“Taranutz? That guy across the street?”

“He’s very well set up in business. I’m sure he’d know of a good one.”

“Don’t you say word one to Taranutz about any of this.”

“But he and Minnie are such good friends.”

“Don’t say a word.”

But three days later, after Guy and a more or less totally disgruntled Randi had decamped from Portland — Randi traveling to visit friends in San Diego while Guy flew to Las Vegas to head off an unsupervised encounter between federal agents and his parents — Guy arrived to find his mother riven and dispirited, gazing sadly at the huge stucco eyesore across the road with the Cadillac gleaming in its driveway. Apparently the Taranutzes had taken a dim view of the Mocks’ unlawful activities. The wonderful friendship was at an end. No lawyer had been retained.

For two days Guy sat in his parents’ apartment watching his mother slice fruit — for fruit salad, for pies, for banana bread, for breakfast cereal. The woman handled a paring knife as if she were the skilled practitioner of some ancient and vaguely theatrical craft, like weaving or crocheting. On the whole it was pretty useless, Guy thought, because you couldn’t send the grandkids bowls of sliced fruit the way you could a sweater or a scarf. In fact, you couldn’t even eat it all, not in the quantities that she was cutting up. His father, sitting on the couch watching television as she desperately sliced apples and grapes and mandarin oranges, put forth the proposition that Dick Taranutz was a jerk and that he always had been. Neither of them would hear of Guy’s calling a lawyer.

“I am ready to come clean,” his mother declared.

“Bunch of thieves,” his father said.

On the morning of the third day Guy was in the living room executing a headstand and watching The Electric Company when there came a knock at the front door. His father groaned experimentally, rising from his seat, but Mrs. Mock failed to appear, so he went to the door and answered it himself. Two men stood outside in the fierce sun. They didn’t want a cabin.

“Guy Mock, Senior?” said one.

“Yes” said the old man.

The man handed him a folded document. “You’re served.”

“What is it?”

“That is a subpoena directing you to appear before the Grand Jury of the U.S. District Court for the Middle District of Pennsylvania for questioning.”

“Questioning?”

“The subpoena provides details,” said the other man.

In the living room Guy remained very still. In his shoulder he began to feel a piercing pain.

“And who are you? Police?”

“Federal Bureau of Investigation. Special Agents Vanaken and Oakes.” Out with the stupid badges.

“Have you spoken with your son, Mr. Mock?”

“Ernest’s in Europe. But I guess you knew that.”

“Never mind what we know,” said Oakes.

“I meant Guy, Junior.”

“Guy? Sure, I’ve talked to him. He’s up in Oregon.”

“Actually he isn’t,” said Vanaken crisply. “We were wondering if you could tell us where he might be.”

“Oh, a lot of places. Guy has lots of friends.”

“Friends,” said Oakes, raising his chin.

“Oh, sure. What do you want with Guy?”

“We’d just like to talk with him about a few things.”

“What sorts of things?”

“The subpoena will tell you everything you need to know.”

Mr. Mock slapped one open palm with the subpoena held in the other hand.“I guess I have to read that subpoena”

“May we come in and ask you some questions?”

“I’m afraid I’m awful busy right now.”

“Busy,” said Oakes.

“All right. Is Mrs. Mock at home now?”

“Oh, she’s not feeling well.”

“Would Mrs. Mock be able to tell us where we might find Guy?”

In the living room, Guy could bear it no longer and dropped out of his headstand, silent upon the thick carpet. He crunched into a little ball and rolled toward the nearest corner. “And what about Naomi?” the TV said.

“Someone learning to read?” asked Vanaken, craning his neck. “My little girl watches that show.”

“Oh, well. I like to keep it on. You know. Makes it feel like someone’s here.”

“Isn’t Mrs. Mock at home?”

“I couldn’t possibly disturb her.”

“Her son could be in a lot of trouble.”

Mr. Mock shrugged. “He’s big.”

“We’ll be back, Mr. Mock.”

“Goodbye, then.” He shut the door.

Guy said, “Thanks, Dad.”

“Oh, shut the hell up,” said Mr. Mock.

Now Guy’s stuffing dollar bills into the G-string of a young lady with dyed red hair cut short. He’s called PSA to find out about flights to Los Angeles. At the last possible minute he’ll call Randi and ask her to meet him at LAX. He can just imagine: Sick unto death. Had it up to here. Et cetera. He would love to be able to assert to her that he can explain all of this. The explanation thing is at least mildly entertaining for him. But they’ve moved beyond his rationalizations and into the realm of necessity. Until now, today, this moment, it’s never seemed as if actual trouble for him and Randi were anywhere in the vicinity. They are still justifiable sort of people, only peripherally involved with all this craziness; he is first and foremost an academic, an activist, an advocate, an apostate, an author, not necessarily in that order but still, a person to be taken seriously and accorded respect, not one of the insane citizens with whom life is constantly bringing him into alignment. Savor it, he’s being hunted by the FBI because of something Ernest has told them. OK, maybe what Ernest spilled concerned things he, Guy, could be said to have done, but you have to consider the source, don’t you? This is what he’ll tell the FBI if it turns out he has to tell them anything at all: Consider the source.