sharp features, and snarling, oddly inviting lips.
The next day, I asked Mr. Pash if he had ever met Mrs. Spoon.
“The sex monster? She passed away just before he came to work for me. Has Bernard told you about the farm incident yet?” He didn’t wait for my answer. Instead, he moved to the Staff Favorites shelf. “Is Spine-Eaters in? I haven’t seen that for a while.”
Whenever Mr. Pash rented a movie, he paid the usual fee like any customer. Bernard and I were allowed to view movies at home for free. Mr. Pash was a wonderfully generous man.
Bernard popped his head around the corner of a large display. “I heard you two badmouthing my Mrs. Spoon. The woman may have had her faults, but I won’t have you slandering my dear departed wife. If I want to talk about her, that’s my business.” He came closer, scowling. “You two. I don’t know about you two. Why do I even stay here?” He shook his head. “You two. My Mrs. Spoon had a salmon casserole recipe fit for royalty. I mix a drop of Holy Water with her ashes every Sunday so she won’t have to stay in hell too long. As for you two—I just don’t know.”
Mr. Pash raised an eyebrow as Bernard shuffled off. “Spine-Eaters please, Roger. And The Green Claw. I never tire of the scenes in the temple of Uranus.”
* * * *
Business improved as the summer temperatures rose. Obviously, our gentlemen were spending more time indoors. For my birthday, Mr. Pash gave me a box of monogrammed handkerchiefs. He also brought a box of pastries to the store. Bernard ate most of them.
I had never especially favored The Green Claw, not being a fan of fantasy epics, but at Mr. Pash’s gentle insistence I watched it again with a critical eye.
The story, set in ancient Atlantis, concerned an ample-breasted, sexually active princess who needed to find a way to protect her people from a swarm of giant winged goats. The Green Claw was a rather avant garde production. The princess often spoke directly to the audience, and her breastplates were made of fluorescent plastic.
Upon my initial viewing, I had considered the film to be nothing more than a frothy morsel of soft porn. During one of his visits, Mr. Pash assured me that this work was fraught with inner meaning. “Think of the attack on the city,” he said. “Was not Aleister Crowley incessantly mocked by horned beasts?”
“I’m not entirely familiar with Crowley’s career,” I said. I knew that the man was some sort of grim mystic, but that was all, really. “No doubt the sexual aspects overshadowed the symbolism.”
“Yes and no, Roger. All activity is sexual, as are all symbols. Sex is all that is left after one dispenses with the extraneous. What were your impressions of the Atlantean temple to Uranus?”
“Wasn’t Uranus a Greek god? Still, the Atlanteans could have worshipped him, too.” I was talking like a fool, but words continued to issue from my mouth. “Needless to say, the ancient world didn’t have fluorescent plastic. It was a very confusing movie.”
“Uranus and Gaea were the first parents. Uranus was the Heaven and Gaea was the Earth; their children were Titans.” Mr. Pash’s eyes glowed with pleasure. “Think on this, Roger. The world’s first act of love spawned giants.”
When Mr. Pash left, Bernard took it upon himself to inform me of Mr. Pash’s shortcomings. “That Mr. Pash has his nasty side. I once spilled some coffee on a cassette and he threw a fit. The coffee landed on the label and I wiped it right off. The tape was perfectly fine.”
“What was the movie?” I had never seen Mr. Pash is a foul mood and I found this news most distressing.
“One of his top favorites—Spine-Eaters. New copies haven’t been available for years. It was never released on DVD. He doesn’t have his own copy—he rents the store tape along with everyone else.”
“If he likes it that much, why does he even rent it out?”
Bernard shrugged. “Who knows? Funny thing is, that tape’s still in great shape! You’d think it would be a tattered mess by now.”
In Spine-Eaters, a family of cannibals was exposed to nuclear radiation in a bizarre military operation. They became as tall as trees and all the more hungry for their favorite delicacy—human spinal cords.
The summer grew even hotter and steamier. Our air-conditioning system did little to ease the swelter. The heat reminded me of the infernal jungle dimension of Flytrap Hell, where oversized meat-eating plants reigned supreme. Bernard developed a rasping cough. Mr. Pash and I suggested that he stop smoking, but like many older people set in their ways, he refused to take advice.
Mr. Pash, ever concerned, set up a cot in the back room so that Bernard could rest if the heat made his day too taxing.
“You never met my Mrs. Spoon,” Bernard said to me one afternoon, “but that woman couldn’t pass a flat surface without looking around for a man. A devil and a half, she was. Still, she fried up chicken to die for. Did I ever show you the cocktail ring I gave her? It’s dangling on a string in my bedroom window. It catches the light.”
The gentlemen rented their movies in even greater quantities. Many asked why we stocked so few copies of some of our most in-demand selections. In turn, I asked Mr. Pash.
His reply was rather confusing. “Those movies are special, Roger. There is a concentrated energy in that specialness which should not be diluted.”
I wondered what Mr. Pash would do if someone stole one of our “special” movies, or lost it. My curiosity was satisfied by the matter of one Mr. Trisk, who would not respond to our correspondence regarding his failure to return a copy of Liquifier III.
The news shows made much of the explosion in Mr. Trisk’s home; there was even talk of spontaneous combustion. A few days after Mr. Trisk’s interment, a lean, silent gentleman bundled in an enormous overcoat entered the store and set the tape on the counter. His face was lost under the brim of his hat. His gloved hand creaked as he clutched a display to steady himself on the way out.
For the rest of the day, Bernard complained of bits of ash on the carpet. I insisted that he had probably dropped them from his cigarette. Nevertheless, I vacuumed.
The Mr. Trisk episode left me disconcerted. Mr. Pash was a wonderful employer and an exciting individual; even so, the suspicions that swam and roiled in my mind gave me constant headaches. The heat didn’t help, and Bernard’s coughing was beginning to get on my nerves. The gentlemen were always very nice, but there were so many of them now.
I decided to have a talk with Mr. Pash.
* * * *
As I have mentioned, Mr. Pash was an extraordinarily generous man. When I mentioned that I was having difficulties with my work, he immediately suggested that we have dinner that evening at his home to discuss the problems at hand. Mr. Pash asked if a late dinner would be agreeable, since he had a number of errands to attend to early in the evening. I told him that would be fine.
I arrived at his house at eight-thirty with a bottle of wine (a truly thoughtful guest never shows up empty-handed). Mr. Pash lived in an artistic sector of the city. His brick house was narrow and very old. The bricks were dark and exceptionally large; many were broken and askew. I felt sure that my hand would come away bleeding if I ran it over a wall. The yard was completely overrun with weeds. Tongue in cheek, I wondered if Mr. Pash had allowed the the yard to go wild
