Herculanium Page 2

  “Where are you?” she said while shaking her head from the poor signal reception. It was more than time to replace her outdated phone with a newer model. “I’ll meet you there.”

  “Who was that?” Darienne looked on with curiosity.

  “It’s Lilian, my agent. She’s here and wants to meet me in the hotel atrium. I think we passed it earlier, near the front.”

  “You have enough time? What time does the press conference start?”

  “These things are always on ‘minority’ time,” Micky said with a smile. “They’re never on schedule.”

  The hotel atrium was aglow with eerie pastel lighting. Retractable solar panels hung on cables from the ceiling, controlled by remote to reflect the most desirable lighting possible. Clear glass, ribbed with Mondrian-style paneling, formed the skeleton of the huge room, where the center piece attraction was a sprawling Greek fountain that rose nearly 20 feet high. The floors were decorated with murals made of small tiles, a faux pointillist rendition of classical still life. Exotic plants both stood and hung through its walkways, emoting an almost Zen serenity at first glance. Coupled with the bubbling sounds of the fountain, the atrium was an anachronism to the hotel that housed it, a tropical jungle of illusion within a commercial structure.

  But there were no birds or butterflies here, only people.

  Lilian Hirsch could’ve easily been mistaken for a butterfly. Her gaudy orange blouse wrapped around her body and draped to the floor, capped with what looked like a plumed pirate’s hat. Her bony frame made her look taller than she actually was, and her make-up always appeared overdone.

  “We don’t have much time, Micky,” said Lilian, walking up to her even before Micky saw her coming. “The movie stars are staying from the tenth floor on up, all the way to the penthouse. A lot of the geeks and writers opted to stay at the cheaper hotels in the area, so chances are, they’re in the hotel lounge getting drunk with the politicians. You can’t tell who’s who with the geeks, because they all dress like farmers and science teachers. “

  “Who do you think is going to win?”

  “It’s a toss-up. It might be one of the athletes, but the Nobel writers always have a chance. It’s all political, you know.”

  “Lilian, this is my best friend Darienne. We go all the way back to grade school.”

  “Charmed,” said Lilian, half-extending her arm to give Darienne a limp handshake. Darienne responded with a hesitant grin.

  “I saw your cameraman walking around the front of the main stage earlier,” continued Lilian. “I assume you two will come together just before the announcement?”

  “He always tries to pick up on a couple of girls before all the events we cover. It keeps him motivated and out of my hair.”

  “No matter who wins, I have two tickets to the post-party. We’re going to come out of this on top.” From the corner of her eye, Micky could see Darienne’s disappointed reaction. She knew Lilian meant Micky and her agent at the post-party, not Micky and best friend.

  “I’ll get you in, girl,” said Micky to Darienne with a wink. “Don’t worry.”

  “Ah yes,” observed Lilian, reasserting her control. “At any rate, I will see you after the press conference. Message me and we’ll coordinate.”

  Micky gave Lilian a deep hug. “Thank you so much, Lil.”

  “Just don’t blow this one, child. We want first dibs on the winner. Whoever gets to the winner first can negotiate exclusive rights to everything. You can do this, just have faith.”

  Micky grabbed Darienne’s hand and briskly exited the atrium. Lilian disappeared in the distance amidst the weaving pathways, blending in with the dense tropical foliage.

  The hallways of the Bay Imperial Hotel grew denser and louder by the minute. The air was thick with anticipation, and after long months of foreshadowing and hearsay, the unknown was about to reveal itself. Lights flickered on and off throughout the building, and thunder was rumbling through all the rooms. The press conference was nearly set to begin.

  Chapter Two

  “You see that?” Ice cubes shifting in bubbles hit the side of his drinking glass gently, creating a playful chime.

  “I can tell you all the dynamics that went into that one motion; the creation of gas bubbles in the liquid, the shifting of mass in that liquid, the necessary weight needed to hit the glass at that precise angle to produce that specific frequency of tone.”

  Allan Henderson raised his glass to the bartender’s face and grimaced in pain. “I can tell you things no one else in this world can possibly be thinking of at this precise moment. But you know what? I won’t!”

  Phil the bartender leaned towards him from behind the counter, occasionally shifting his gaze to other customers entering and leaving the Orchid Lounge. Normally a quiet restaurant by day, it became a low-lit meat market at night. Its stained glass windows and subdued ambient lighting often hid it from passersby, a cave surrounded by glass, chairs, swirling ceiling fans, and hanging television sets permanently fixed on soundless sports channels. Regular customers swam in its dark water and, much like the rest of the rooms of the Bay Imperial, was yet another anachronism.

  “I won’t because you won’t give a damn. What’s the use of knowing something if it doesn’t mean anything to anybody?”

  “You might want to ease up on the drinks there, buddy. I like keeping my customers happy, just as long as they can feel something.” Phil pulled out a rag and scrubbed the watermarks below Allan’s glass. “This press conference is supposed to be a happy event. What are you doing getting drunk for?”

  “I am here as the lone beacon of reason. I, you understand, am a scientist. People like me invent and discover things so people like you can have the luxury of taking our shit for granted. I’m one of the nominees, you know.”

  “You’re part of the press conference?”

  “Yup. Allan Henderson, at your service. And all my scientist friends are here because we all know we will not win this contest. It’s a rich man’s world, built on the backs of people like us.”

  Phil looked up and scanned the crowded room. “All these guys are scientists? Shouldn’t you be with your agents or something? I haven’t seen this many sharks since they all went on strike last year. You guys make the big bucks, right?”

  Allan glared intently at Phil, laughing sarcastically between burps and coughs. “We earn our pay, and we advance the human understanding.” He quickly fell silent and slumped over the bar, murmuring softly under his breath. “And we don’t get paid shit. Not like the movie stars and the athletes.”

  “You don’t say…?” mocked Phil with astonishment.

  “I was hoping one of us would win it. But by the looks of things, it’s going to a movie star or a rock singer. Worse yet, it’s probably going to go to some stupid jock.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Phil stood back and retrieved drinks for a beautiful female customer. “All these guys work hard. They earn everything they get, right?”

  “I was hoping this new future with the space station meant a new beginning for Humankind, where brains were emphasized over brawn. It was bad enough that we’re commercializing space now, but to turn it into entertainment?”

  Allan raised his glass above his head and turned around. A few nearby scientists and customers saw him and imitated his gesture. “Ladies and gentlemen, a toast! A toast to the brave new world! Full of chimpanzees playing with a nuclear accelerator, and children running around with knives. May we all die and someday be turned into a movie.”

  Phil glanced at some passing waiters and shook his head in pity. Allan took a big gulp from his glass and sat down, liquor drizzling from his mouth.

  “Mr. Scientist, sir?” inquired Phil with a British accent. “What pray tell have you invented for the queen to merit her virginity? What have you done for king and country?”

  Allan scratched his head before looking up, a plume of dandruff erupting from his scalp like a dusty halo.

  “Did you invent
a new fuel? Discover a new planet? Have you learned to clone doorknobs in space?”

  “I, sir,” said Allan proudly as he cleared his throat, “am a high school science teacher. I am the winner of last year’s National High School Teacher of the Year Award. That’s what the President of these United States told me. I did it through hard work and good attendance. But our world is going down the drain, and now we’re taking the same crap and throwing it up into space. I can’t let that happen.”

  “You’re not going to let what happen?” Phil paused, trying to discern what this drunken scientist just said. He calmly scanned the room for any security guards or bouncers walking about. “What did you say?”

  But it was too late. Allan Henderson buried his head neatly under his tucked arms, oblivious to the world. Phil stood in front of him for a few seconds, then went about serving other customers. Whatever this disgruntled scientist mumbled was now lost in an alcoholic’s dream, whatever it was.

  * * *

  “Pres, it’s your wife on the line.” Max pointed his cellphone at Preston as he was watching pre-conference coverage. “The announcement’s just a few minutes away. Maybe she should call back…”

  “It’s my wife, for Heaven’s sake. Of course I’m going to take it. I swear, Max, you over-do it sometimes.” Max quickly handed him the phone before answering another call from another phone.

  “Honey, how are you?” Preston cupped his hand around the mouthpiece and listened for his wife’s voice. “I’m sorry, baby. I turned off my phone and forgot to turn it back on. I’m in my suite with Max. Yeah, he has me on the lockdown before the announcement. You know how he is.”

  Erica Spain had the sweetest voice Preston had ever heard. Their blind date led to three years of dating, and then eventually to marriage. Through the evolution of his career, from average college player to the premier Power Forward in the NBA, she had shown unwavering support. Better still, she had liked him even before he made a name for himself. She was no gold-digger, but someone who really loved him.

  “I’m just waiting for the announcement. No, I’m not expecting anything. Actually, I hope I don’t win this. Then all the attention will die down, at least until the season begins. I just want to be home with you. Yeah, I’ll call you when things calm down. Yes, I’ll call you if I win. First chance I get, okay?”

  Preston’s grin almost grew wider than his ears. “I love you, babe.” He barely had time to shut off the phone when Max nudged him on the shoulder.

  “A camera man is outside. He wants to shoot a video of you as you’re waiting for the announcement. You have about 20,000 fans in this arena rooting for you.”

  “But what if I fucking lose, Max? I don’t think this party was such a good idea. I’d much rather be home with my family than spend it with fans in our own basketball arena.”

  “It’s good public relations, amigo. So what if you lose? These fans will just love you just the same. It will also sell more merchandise.”

  Max stood up and walked towards the side entrance of the green room. “Ready?”

  Preston glared at him, then quickly turned away. Max slowly opened the door and escorted a cameraman inside. He motioned for the security guards to make sure the entrance was still secured.

  “Mr. Jones, my name is Barclay. We’re just going to be shooting a few seconds of real-time video of you watching the press conference. You have thousands of fans in this building right now just waiting to catch a glimpse of their favorite player. Just be yourself, and please feel free to say anything to your fans watching around the world.”

  The cameraman kneeled beside Preston’s couch and held his right hand up, propping his camera on his left shoulder. “We’re on in three…two…one…” He quickly pointed to Preston. A distinct red light glared from the camera’s top.

  “We are live in Preston Jones’ private suite inside Trench Arena,” spoke a voice by remote through the camera’s microphone/speaker.

  “Like hundreds of other candidates around the world, he too is waiting for the official announcement. A special press conference will be held in just a few minutes, announcing to the world of who will officially inaugurate the first commercial space station in orbit. Preston, can you hear me?”

  The remote voice quickly changed tones, switching from robotic to colorful sportscaster. Preston looked at the camera lens and gave a hesitant wave. From the corner of his eye, he glared at Max. He wanted to spend this downtime alone, or at least with family.

  “It’s Jimmy Sals from Sports Media International. The press conference is just a few minutes away. What are your thoughts about being nominated by fans? What do you feel are your chances for being selected to be the spokesperson for the Olympus Space Station?”

  “How you doin’, Jimmy? Umm, I really don’t know what to expect. I’m just here waiting, just like everybody else. To be honest, I’m not putting too much expectations on myself. There are a lot of people who deserve to win this, and if I do, then I would feel very blessed.”

  “Preston, there’s been a lot of controversy about nominating athletes to represent a space station, something traditionally left for scientists. Do you have a response to this criticism?”

  “I haven’t won yet, so I really can’t say. I personally don’t see anything wrong with it, but people have a right to feel the way they feel. Like I said, I’m just waiting like everyone else.”

  “Pres, if you win this, how do you think it will change your life?”

  Preston smiled at the camera and gave an exaggerated wave. He motioned for Max to come over, then gently palmed the camera lens to swing around and catch a view of his agent and his bodyguards.

  “Preston? Are you still there? Did we lose him?” Jimmy Sals tried to hide his agitation.

  Max’s face quickly came into the camera’s view. “We’re sorry, but this it’s almost time. Thank you for coming and doing this interview.”

  “There you have it, ladies and gentlemen,” continued Jimmy Sals. But this time, his voice didn’t come from the camera, but from blaring speakers inside Trench Arena, where 20,000 fans were listening with bated breath. “Basketball player Preston Jones in the wait of his life. In a few minutes, we will soon know if he gets to be the man who will launch humanity into a new era of human history. Our thoughts and prayers go with you, Mr. Jones. Good luck!”

  Trench Arena broke into a raucous, cheering circus, getting louder as pictures of Preston Jones appeared repeatedly on the arena’s giant overhead monitors. Images of him in high school, college, and in the pros flashed across the screens at machinegun speed, resembling a music video set to a thunderous rock/rap music remix. The only thing missing was the man himself who, although was hidden in a room inside the same building, was soulfully miles away. Across the world, on the television, on the radio, even on the newsstands, Preston was slam-dunking a ball in front of millions.

  He was always center-stage, whether he liked it or not.

  * * *

  It wasn’t hard for Micky to find her cameraman, even in a crowded room. All she had to do was tune out all the background noise and listen for a deep, resonating laugh. Clayton Smith was a deceivingly young-looking black man, surprisingly fit for an elderly man of 53. He dyed his hair black to hide his gray temples, and only his puffy eyes came close to revealing his age. He was quick to laugh, with a wit to match. Although he hadn’t been Micky’s cameraman very long, they both found each other’s company surprisingly complementary.

  “Micky, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you all over the place.”

  “Relax, partner. I’ve just been doing the rounds with friends and contacts. You know the routine. I’m going to show up eventually.” She placed her arm around his compact shoulders. “Get any good footage, Clay?”

  “Oh yeah, lots of great footage of construction workers and technicians. You haven’t missed much of anything.”

  “Get lucky?” Micky smiled as Clay smiled back in response. “You know what I mean. I know y
ou know what I mean!” He couldn’t help but keep smiling.

  “I just got a few numbers, okay? It’s been a slow night. This big camera doesn’t attract the ladies like they used to.

  “They’re not really letting the press get too close to the stage. Most of the news media here have stationary cameras already planted in the best spots. We’re one of a handful that have mobile units. How do you want to handle this?” Clayton looked into his camera viewer and panned it from left to right repeatedly, testing the unit’s focus and lighting measure.

  “Get a shot of me with the stage as a backdrop. The networks are going to handle the blow-by-blow cam, we just have to worry about getting a spot interview. Hopefully, we can get lucky and come out of this with a decent angle.”

  “Security’s getting tighter and tighter the closer we get to show time. If we didn’t have these press badges, I don’t think we could’ve gotten as close as we have so far.”

  Micky’s ruby-red lips stretched into a smile. “Oh, I think we still could’ve. At least I could.”

  “Sweetie, if I had your long legs, I’d be backstage humping everyone right now.” Clay learned never to misconstrue the heavy sexual innuendo between their dialogue as anything else beyond work banter. Too bad, he reflected; he’d tear her in half if given the chance.

  “I’ll stay close from here on in, Clay,” she said. “This is about to go down.”

  * * *

  Allan Henderson raised his head from his froth-stained arms. He used them as makeshift pillows to support his head up from the liquid he had been vomiting most of the evening. He squinted in the darkness, barely seeing Phil the bartender pointing the remote control towards one of the hanging television sets, pressing the volume to make it louder.

  “Here we go, people! Here comes the big news!” Phil raised his arms and motioned the customers to come closer to the bar. “Alright, you nerds, pay attention. One of you just might win.”