Chicano frankenstein, p.3
Chicano Frankenstein, page 3
TOMA:
You mean Frankenstein’s monsters.
POTUS:
What?
TOMA:
You said Frankensteins running amok, but Dr. Victor Frankenstein was—in the novel—the creator of the monster. Or maybe we should say “creature” rather than “monster”—it’s a less loaded term.
ESKANDARI:
Dude, stop it…
TOMA:
Anyway, as Professor Eileen M. Hunt explains in her seminal book, Artificial Life After Frankenstein, the doctor and his creation were quickly conflated under the sole moniker of “Frankenstein” in the many stage adaptations that immediately followed the novel’s publication in England and France, and that conflation has continued through today.
POTUS:
What the fuck?
TOMA:
It’s a common mistake, you know, erroneously using the term “Frankenstein” to refer to the creature rather than his creator. So to be correct, you really meant Frankenstein’s creatures running amok destroying America—since you were using the plural—but not Frankensteins running amok.
POTUS:
What the fuck do I care? I mean, really. I don’t give a flying fuck. It’s a motherfucking monster named Frankenstein, okay? That’s what normal people think.
TOMA:
But…
ESKANDARI:
Toma, shut it.
LUNDGREN:
Really, Toma, let it go.
TOMA:
But…
POTUS:
What was your goddamn major in college? English?
TOMA:
Well, actually, yes.
POTUS:
And look how far that got you.
TOMA:
[UNINTELLIGIBLE]
POTUS:
Someone tell me about the havoc being caused by these violent marauding Frankensteins! There has to be something!
LUNDGREN:
Yes, right…
ESKANDARI:
There have been some stories…
LUNDGREN:
Police reports, here and there…
POTUS:
Like what? What stories?
TOMA:
Nothing totally solid, no arrests, yet…
POTUS:
I don’t give a shit. What kind of stories?
LUNDGREN:
A few shovings…
POTUS:
Shovings?
ESKANDARI:
You, know, stitchers getting a little rough with people…
POTUS:
Rough? How rough? This could be good shit!
LUNDGREN:
Like I said, a few shovings, you know, pushing… physical stuff… reacting to people who recognize them as stitchers…
POTUS:
Physical stuff?
TOMA:
Short fuse, quick to anger, that kind of stuff.
POTUS:
Broken bones? Cracked skulls?
TOMA:
No, just roughed-up folks, harsh words exchanged, pretty unpleasant.
POTUS:
Shit. Can you imagine if someone died?
LUNDGREN:
That would be bad…
POTUS:
Our fucking numbers would go through the fucking roof!
TOMA:
But no deaths yet.
LUNDGREN:
No deaths, just shovings.
POTUS:
Okay, okay, we can work with this. This is good shit. Make America safe again, am I right? It worked for my reelection, and it can work again for the midterms. I can’t continue my fight without keeping my majorities. That’s the message!
VAN GELDEREN:
We can track down stories, maybe tape some interviews.
TOMA:
Maybe get some cell phone video.
POTUS:
Now we’re talking…
LUNDGREN:
I have leads on a couple of law firms thinking about suing some of the larger reanimation companies.
POTUS:
But I put them out of business with the law…
ESKANDARI:
Most of them are just repurposing to other businesses. They still have piles of cash, not to mention insurance, and new patents that spun off of the reanimation technology. So if there’s still a chance of liability from some stitcher going ballistic and hurting someone, you know these plaintiff firms will file suit and get a boatload of television and influence any potential jury pool. Our party could be on the right side of this.
POTUS:
Yes…
TOMA:
There’s a three-year statute of limitations for damages caused by any of these stitchers. There haven’t been any lawsuits up until now—which is pretty shocking, really, considering how some people feel about stitchers. There really haven’t been any real problems, until recently, with those shovings. But maybe your signing the bill has the stitchers nervous.
POTUS:
So now I’m to fucking blame? I was the one who offered the only goddamn fix! Everyone else started to love these motherfucking stitchers. Community meetings, handouts, unionization, college scholarships. And those college courses! Oh my fucking God! Reanimation studies popping up in California and New Mexico and motherfucking Arizona of all places. Everyone was falling for their sob story. Except me. I never liked them. I never trusted them. My son started dating one, but I put an end to that. It’s amazing how threatening to cut someone out of your will can bring about a little common sense, even to my loser son. So don’t lay this at my feet. I’m not to fucking blame because these stitchers are beginning to go off the rails. That’s not on me! I was the one who told the Senate and House to pass that anti-stitcher bill. And I was the one who signed it. I am not the problem. I am the solution!
ESKANDARI:
No, no. Of course. We can spin it a different way. We can spin it as something that was bound to happen. And you could say I told you so.
TOMA:
You know, if you play God, see what you get…
ESKANDARI:
Law of unintended consequences…
POTUS:
Okay, then we [UNINTELLIGIBLE]
VAN GELDEREN:
Right, we can ride the law-and-order theme on the cable shows, maybe cut some commercials, and maybe we can write an op-ed for you about how you’ve made the country a safer place, and all that…
POTUS:
Fucking right…
TOMA:
This could really turbocharge the midterm polls…
POTUS:
Fucking right…
ESKANDARI:
We can start now…
TOMA:
We can stop work on those other spots and focus on this.
POTUS:
Go now. End of fucking meeting. Turbocharge our fucking numbers. And remember…
ESKANDARI:
Remember?
POTUS:
Keep our stuttering vice president shithead away from this.
ESKANDARI:
Got it.
—END OF TRANSCRIPT—
Chapter Four
THE MAN ENTERED THE Walgreens and strode to the back of the store where the pharmacy counter was situated near the vitamins, supplements, and various low-sugar diet aids for diabetics. He saw the line and was surprised at how many people had already queued up. Usually if he came here in the morning before work—as he had that day—he could beat the late-morning rush. Luckily, the line moved relatively fast. After fifteen minutes of waiting, only one person remained ahead of him.
The man looked up at the fluorescent lights that buzzed softly but relentlessly. He counted the number of tiles that surrounded the rectangular light fixture. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. An even ten. Three on the long sides of the rectangle, two each on the short sides. The man blinked and looked down again at the young woman who chatted with the pharmacist, a bit too friendly, as she held a bagged prescription. She already had her order. Why chat up the pharmacist and delay everyone else behind her in line? The man considered clearing his throat to let the young woman know that others were waiting, patiently, to pick up their prescriptions with no intention of chatting up the pharmacist. But would she find such a signal of impatience to be nothing short of rude or entitled? Perhaps the man should wait quietly and not say anything. Or he could speak up politely in a soft, non-entitled voice, because the young woman had her bagged prescription ready to go. Just as the man considered his options, he felt a little hand grab his right hand. The man looked down.
“Hi,” said a little boy.
“Hi,” said the man.
“Timothy!” said the woman who stood near the boy. “Stop bothering the man!”
The boy clung tighter to the man’s hand.
“I am so sorry,” said the woman. “He doesn’t normally warm to strangers.”
“That’s okay,” said the man. “He’s not really bothering me.”
“Timothy, one more time: let go of the man’s hand,” said the woman.
“But Mom,” said the boy. “His hands are different.”
“Of course they’re different,” said the woman. “Your hands are small, and his are big.”
“No,” said the boy. “That’s not what I meant.”
The man suddenly pulled his hand away from the boy. The boy started to cry.
“Timothy,” said the woman, “please apologize to the man.”
The boy sniffled and covered his eyes.
“I am so sorry,” said the woman.
The man did not respond. He turned to face the pharmacist, who was still chatting with the young woman.
“His hands are different from each other,” the boy finally explained.
The woman stiffened and looked down at the man’s hands. The man shifted from one foot to the other and quickly slid his hands into his pants pockets, but it was too late: the woman let out a small, strange noise that was a cross between a gasp and a cough. The man could feel the woman staring at him, so he didn’t move and kept his eyes focused straight ahead on the pharmacist.
“Let’s come back a different time,” said the woman. “Come on, Timothy.”
The man listened to the woman’s hurried footsteps as she scurried away with her son.
The young woman and the pharmacist finally finished their conversation.
“Next,” said the pharmacist.
The man came up to the counter and gave his name. The pharmacist nodded and went back to the bins of prepared prescriptions. The man counted the bins: six across, five from floor to ceiling. Thirty bins total. The pharmacist found the correct prescription and brought it back to the counter. The man smiled. Finally, something was going to plan. But then the pharmacist studied the plastic bottle.
“I am so sorry,” said the pharmacist.
“Why?” said the man.
“We can only partially fill your prescription—about half of this medication for you—not the usual three-month supply.”
“Why?”
“There’s been a run on this medication ever since, you know…”
“Ever since what?”
The pharmacist looked down at the counter. The man waited for an answer.
“Ever since the president signed that law, you know?”
The man understood which law the pharmacist meant. But he was still confused about why that would endanger his prescription’s supply.
“And how does that affect my medication’s availability?” said the man.
“Well, there’s been a run on it, a hoarding, and some supply chain issues,” said the pharmacist. “There’s a fear that the manufacturers will stop making the drug. You know, rumors and stuff.”
“But I still need it—we still need it—even though the president signed that law,” said the man as he attempted to remain calm. He grew hot and perspiration formed on his upper lip. He knew this feeling. Panic.
“It will sort itself out,” said the pharmacist in a gentle voice, as if calming a newborn. “I’m sure all of this will blow over in a week or two, and the supply will loosen up again. Plus, there will likely be a generic soon. Anyway, you don’t have to pay until you pick up the rest of your supply.”
“Yes,” said the man. “Okay. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome,” said the pharmacist as he dropped the plastic bottle into a small white paper bag and stapled it closed.
The man grabbed the medication and turned to leave the pharmacy. As he approached the exit, he saw the woman and her child waiting by the magazine rack. The woman thumbed through a magazine. The little boy looked up at the man, smiled, and held up his hands—fingers splayed—perhaps to encourage the man to do the same so that the boy could see the anomaly again. The man averted his eyes and quickened his stride. He felt his throat closing, and he gulped at the cool air as he left the pharmacy.
The man found his car and got in. He put his prescription bag on the passenger seat, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples. The man thought about what the pharmacist had said, that it all would work itself out, everything would be fine, maybe even a generic was on its way to being developed. But what if the pharmacist was wrong or simply lied to get the man to leave and not cause a scene? What would he do if he ran out of pills? The man could feel his heart beating in his chest. None of it seemed right or fair. Things were going well. And he had met Faustina. But none of it would matter if he ran out of pills. The man would have to tell Faustina that without his pills—well, you know—there wasn’t much of a future. She’d likely feel sorry for the man but not enough to stay with him out of pity, just enough to offer him supportive words; then she’d probably ghost him, disappear.
The man opened his eyes and blinked. Okay, he told himself. I have enough pills for now. I have to keep going. Stop thinking about the worst-case scenario. Faustina is in the here and now. And at this moment, I need to get to work. I have a job. I have people who rely on me. And I have a new person in my life, and I will not jump to conclusions about anything. With this last thought, the man started his car, slowly backed out of his spot, and eased himself toward the parking lot’s exit. I have to keep going, he thought again. I have no choice.
Chapter Five
BARNEY’S BEANERY WAS CROWDED for a Tuesday. Faustina had been here before for karaoke night on a Friday several months ago, and it was packed then, but that was to be expected for the beginning of the weekend. Old Town Pasadena continued to thrive, if this bar was any indication. The crowd energized Faustina and was yet another confirmation that her decision to move the law firm out of Century City to Pasadena two years ago was a prescient choice. Besides, her house in South Pasadena was but three miles away, so she no longer suffered that ungodly commute to the west side each morning.
“One sour apple martini for you,” said the waiter as he gingerly placed a coaster in front of Faustina before setting down her drink.
“Thank you,” said Faustina as her mouth watered in anticipation.
“And a vodka stinger for the young lady,” said the waiter as he repeated the process.
“Merci beaucoup,” said Grace. “And thank you for noticing my relative youth.”
The waiter smiled, nodded, and went to another table to take an order.
“Vodka stinger?” said Faustina. “Are we in a Sondheim musical?”
“We are the furthest thing from those ‘ladies who lunch.’”
“True.”
“But you’re right about the Sondheim reference.”
They lifted their glasses, both approving their respective choice of libation.
“I am?”
“Yes,” said Grace. “I’ve always wondered what they tasted like after seeing that revival of Company last year at the Pasadena Playhouse. So tonight I will decide for myself if it bears repeating.”
“So adventurous.”
“Here’s to new adventures!” said Grace. She clinked her glass with Faustina’s.
“New adventures!”
They each took a sip. Faustina smiled and closed her eyes in appreciation of her beverage. Grace shivered and grimaced with hers.
“Oh God,” said Grace. “This might not be a great idea.”
“Your new adventure is not so tasty?”
“It might take some getting used to.”
“Sometimes you have to work harder to truly enjoy good things.”
“I will try my best,” said Grace. She took another sip and coughed as she swallowed.
“That’s my girl.”
“Okay, enough chitchat,” said Grace after she recovered from her drink. “Spill the beans.”
“Don’t be racist.”
“Touché,” said Grace as she took another sip which produced another grimace. “But unlike your racist feng shui reference earlier today, I am completely innocent. We’re at Barney’s Beanery. Get it? Beans? Spill them. Tell me about this cute paralegal of yours.”
“He is more handsome than cute,” said Faustina. “A puppy dog is cute. A lamb is cute. Even my suit is cute. This guy is handsome.”
“Tall, dark, and handsome.”
“True that.”
They sipped their drinks.
“I’m getting used to this,” said Grace.
“Good girl,” said Faustina. “I knew you could do it. You have true grit!”
“Okay, enough avoidance. I will be 30 percent happier if you spill some juicy details. Let’s get real.”
