[click. a noticeable amount of static. the low hum of central heating. the low hum of electricity. the low hum of distant television.] So I’m in some shitty motel in west Texas but Hey! the 80s! And Christmas eve! Who wouldn’t want to be here? Most people must be with their families by now, all across North America, ready with anticipation for a morning of goodwill and presents and breakfast casseroles, right? Can’t forget though, oblivious to the fossil-fueled transportation that shuttled them around into their family’s arms, and not thinking how what they do every day is going to kill their planet. But that’s old news, eh? No reason to beat a dead horse. [a pause. the clicking of a remote control.] Remember television? Man, as a kid I remember it in our house, you know, before it was deemed an “inappropriate means of information.” Not direct enough, I guess, this T.V. Not when an eight year old can just download the cartoons into his head while chomping on his cereal. But hey, those cartoons, the ones from the 20th century? The Golden Age? Classic stuff. Don’t worry, I’m actually reading a book right now, too. I’m not poisoning my brain with the “commodification of the arts,” Cass. I’m reading what Faulkner thought it was like to be a southern black man in the 1930s. And listen to this—[a pause. a ruffling of papers. a scratching of cardboard and cloth.]—a hardback! What a hot little item. It’s good stuff, too. I’m really into his rendering of dialogue and Mississippi colloquialisms. I see why people like you dig it. The academia. The intellects. The informationals. Go Down, Moses would be sorely missed from our great Tapesfile, wouldn’t it? I’m not being facetious. I really think it would be. [a pause. the turning of pages. a sigh. the repositioning of an arm on a bed. the rustling of sheets and a pillow.] So you probably want to hear about my job, eh babe? I was truly a one-man assassin this time. An Exxon up-and-comer who makes a deal in the late 1990s, exploding global oil trades. He was the job, this oil man—catching a corporate jet home yesterday to Dallas from Philly and they wanted me to be on board with him and follow him from the airport and all this really unnecessary bullshit. I don’t know if it’s Peter still making these decisions or what, but lately I feel like we’re all jumping hoops we don’t have to. And after what you did, Cass, I don’t even know what people are thinking. How much longer will they let all of this go on? [a pause. the low drums of the 80s stifle the little motel room.] Well, I did one of your signature moves. This was a Cass-inspired stint alright. A tribute. I got to chatting with the Exxon guy on the plane and—get this—I was compelled to tell him I was a newly promoted exec of a fast food chain his company was making underhanded deals with. Oh, you would have loved it. Too simplistic, really. But the potential of bureaucratic back-scratching gets these guys hard every time. I managed to orchestrate sharing a cab with the dude when we landed in Dallas. I sat there in my fake suit, my fake shoes, my fake smile and my fake luggage snug in the trunk right next to Mr. Exxon’s real luggage and the real Mr. Exxon himself next to the real fake me right in the cab. And who would have thought? Mr. McDonalds and Mr. Exxon lived in the same high rise in the middle of the city. And on the same floor. By now, as you may assume, the oil man was getting a little skeptical. That’s when you go all out, right? When your perceived congeniality is starting to lose its sheen? It was a bit easier for you, Cass, I imagine, being a fox and all that. [a pause. the exploration of a shirt pocket. the click-flip of a silver Zippo lighter. an intake of breath. an exhale of breath.] Guess what? I started smoking again. I’d like to say it wasn’t your fault, Cass. [an intake of smoke. an exhale of smoke.] But it totally was.
