That word again. Like this was just another industry to-do, another occasion to get drunk on sponsored vodka. Nora moved on to our relationship, something about missing me and hoping we'd have more time to spend together, but I was still processing that word.
"You're just too far in, Roger, you can't see out."
A trapeze model let go with one hand to answer her cell.
"This isn't real life. It isn't about parties and gimmicks. You used to know that. Don't you remember?"
It was the monkeys' fault. If that had gone smoothly I would have had time to iron out other details. Like polishing up the Pod People, maybe ask Jerry to give a little speech re: Being Interesting. Ixnay the Trivial Pursuit, opt for something more electrifying. Operation, maybe.
"It's not too late, though, hon. If you choose us."
Then two things happened at once. First, I realized that Nora had asked me something, and though I hadn't caught the question, her face told me an answer was expected. And second, my mobile rang. I shot an apologetic look to let her know I'd return to our emotional tête-à-tête ASAP.
Over the static roar of New York traffic, a gruff voice informed me that he was out front with a truckload of monkeys, and that if I wanted them I better hurry because he was blocking the street.
It might not be too late.
"Nora, gotta motor, let me get back to you on that," and then I was charging down the hall, shoving Pod People aside, taking steps two at a time to the main floor. Half an hour to midnight, the lobby absolutely packed, but in the midst of everything sat two large crates.
"You Roger?" A tall, bearded man thrust a clipboard for me to sign. "Where do you want ‘em?"
Monkeys.
I led the delivery crew up the back stairs to the habitat. Nora was nowhere to be seen. I'd find her once the monkeys were in place, and then she'd see. Cobalt would click, she'd realize how all of the pieces she had individually dismissed comprised a larger whole. I anticipated swooning.
The delivery guys cracked the faces off the crates. The monkeys seemed to be feeling shy, a problem the driver solved by tipping the boxes until a stream of fur and tails and tiny black fingers poured out. Primates writhed and scrabbled, fighting to disentangle themselves while simultaneously attempting to hide behind one another. They were spooked, and I was afraid all was for nothing until one of them spotted the paradise we'd built. An obvious leader, a monkey of initiative and drive, he climbed to the railing, his little tail curled for balance, and with a leap, found his home. My heart soared. Everything would be fine. Better than fine.
Visionary.
And as I walked back down, taking the long way this time, I could see that things had improved already. One of the Pod People had caught another using his face razor to shave her legs, and they were hurling shaving cream and personal insults at one another, terrific viewing. The Curling team was staging a last-second comeback with an Arts & Entertainment question. Runoff from the melting bar had kissed one of the DJ booths, extinguishing the Icelandic music in a fountain of sparks.
In the utility closet, I paused to savor the moment. With closed eyes and pounding heart I flipped on the habitat floodlights, and was immediately rewarded with loud "Ooooooohs!" from the lobby.
I had done it.
Five minutes to the millennium, and everybody stared upwards. Even the wrestlers seemed touched. Jerry moved beside me, wearing a smile that offered trust, and brotherhood, and bonus stock options, and together we looked at the monkeys. The new world we'd dreamed was perfect.
"Who belongs to the truck?"
The voice was loud, with that particular aggressive officiousness of the government sector. NYPD.
"Bad enough you got Lady Godiva in the window there." The officer with the mustache spoke, the other standing behind him in that bulletproof-vest chest-cock that makes them look pudgy. "Now you got traffic backed up to City Hall."
The lobby was compact, and as people clued in, one of those eerie crowd silences descended. Escape routes were gauged. The chairman of a major V.C. group edged towards the door. The movie producer gestured for his assistant to create a diversion. Now, at the moment of triumph, Cobalt was in danger.
"Anybody got a permit to show me?"
Uh-oh.
"Certainly, officer." Jerry. "No trouble. Are we lawbreakers? We are not."
"You the driver of the truck?"
"I am not. My name is Jerry Harrison. You may have heard of me if you read the trades, follow the business page of the Times."
"Look, it's New Year's, we're willing to cut a little slack for wackjobs, but that goddamn truck of yours is blocking traffic both ways, you got a naked woman in the window—"