A Record Year for Rainfall: New Scene
Originally, this scene was Bret shopping for an apartment, and Album trying to convince him to leave. But I've been retooling the motivations of the characters, and one thing I've been modifying is how much Bret wants to leave Las Vegas. Now, he's thinking about it from page one until the end, so it would make no sense for Bret to be getting a new place there after being kicked out of his last one. Album, on the other hand, is looking to put down roots, and has an influx of cash. Therefore, I placed them at the Veer.
[image error]Bret had called Album immediately after leaving the Bellagio. Album told him to meet him at the Veer. He was there looking at apartments, because Album was apparently the sort that wanted to own a condo on a street full of hotel rooms.
They stood in the centre of an empty living room. Devoid of furniture and well-lit, the realtor conveyed, in his surprisingly pubetic voice, “This is where you can put, like, a couch, or entertainment unit. Or, I suppose, an ottoman. Anything, really. It’s a living room!”
The Veer Towers were a new pair of condo buildings at the front of Vegas’ new City Center, a behemoth project meant to either push Vegas into the 21st century, or revert it back to the 60s. Nobody was really sure. The Veer Towers were one part the residential plan, along with the Mandarin Oriental building, just south of Veer. Placed behind them from the strip was Aria, a ludicrously expensive hotel to build. Below the Veer Towers was a shopping mall filled with the most expensive brands on the planet.
The joke of it all was just how empty the place was. The mall barely had any customers, though half the stores were still under construction. And the condos were barely sold. It was a conflux of sorry intentions and short term thinking. The people who made these buildings thought there would always be money, but they also thought that people who would want to live in Vegas would also want to be this close to it.
Up on the 23rd floor, Bret circled around the kitchen's island again. He kicked the cupboards as if they were wheels on a used car. He opened the fridge. He wondered if he was the first person to ever open it. He walked around. He looked out the windows. Beyond the speckle of neighbourhoods, Bret mostly saw desert.
“It's quiet,” Bret said. “You can't put a price on quiet.”
“The question, of course,” Album said, mostly to the realtor. “Is whether it can be loud in here and quiet elsewhere.”
The realtor smiled, doing his best to not scare us off. He had a little sweat on his forehead, and his game face was lame. He was too short to be authoritative, and too young to know better. Bret felt old even looking around this place, even though no one over 40 would ever consider it.
“Can we talk?” Bret asked. “Something really weird just happened to me.”
“No, you can’t move in here with me,” Album said. “I know you’d want to. It’s nice, right?”
“Sure, it’s fine,” Bret said. “Wait, no, that’s not what I’m asking. I quit, remember? I'm quitting. I quit yesterday. It feels nice to keep saying that. Anyways, there was another photographer at the Bellagio.”
Album put his hand on the floor-to-ceiling glass windows looking out. He pushed. The realtor took a step forward. Album was testing him.
Album said, “Really? Another paparazzi where a celebrity was spotted? Come on, man. That's not news." He touched the blinds near the windows and scoffed. "Seriously though, these blinds? Are they removable?”
The realtor shook his head, and told us about the remote control that shuttered them, turning the entire apartment into home theatre-quality darkness.
“I don’t think he was there for Rosario,” Bret continued. “I think he was taking pictures of me.”
Album hadn’t looked straight at Bret since they started touring the place. He disappeared into the bedroom.
“Hey,” Bret said, following. “This is a problem.”
“The problem,” Album responded, fingering the closet door open. “Is that there is not nearly enough room in here for a double king.”
Bret said, “Seriously? Double King?" He shook his head. "You know what? Your frame size isn’t important right now.”
“Frame size says so much about a person, Bret. You should know that. You sleep on a couch.”
“That's not my fault. That's your fault. All of this is your fault.” Bret spat. “I’m worried about this guy, and you're picking a nice place to wreck.”
“It’s likely Fane’s man.”
Bret closed the door of the bedroom, just as the realtor was trying to come in. He leaned against it. He heard the faint knocking and “um”-ing of an insecure man.
“Do you think Fane’s having me followed?”
“Probably,” Album said. “You ruined his career and he has a lot of money. That’s pretty easy math, mate.”
Bret could hear the handle, jiggling. The voice of the realtor was muffled. Album quipped, “I am impressed with how little sound comes through that door.”
Bret opened it, and the agent nearly fell in. Bret caught him, and stood him up straight. He patted down his jacked, as if it was dusty. He walked out. Album followed him through the apartment, out to the hallway. It was even quieter, there.
Bret stammered. “I don’t know how you can be calm about this. First off, if someone is tailing me, then someone is probably tailing you. Secondly, how am I supposed to be calm about someone tailing me? It's tailing. I know. I've done it. I've tailed.”
“I don’t know,” Album said. “I highly suggest getting stoned and playing some video games tonight. It will show the guy who's tailing you how harmless you are.”
Bret chewed on a fingernail.
“What do you think of the apartment?” Album asked.
“I don’t think you should take it,” Bret replied. “It’s not you. It’s not anybody. I have no idea what kind of human being this place was designed to make feel at home. Like, you remember those old point and click adventure games from the 80s?”
Album replied, “Like, those ones that were just flat pictures you had to maddeningly click on a thousand times before anything happened?”
"Yeah, as I kid I wasted hours trying to figure that stuff out. I gave up. I took up lacrosse instead."
"You did not take up lacrosse. Lacrosse is not a thing that exists."
"I did. I played lacrosse all through high school."
"No, this is serious now," Album said. "If you do not admit that you, along with every other Canadian, has entirely made up lacrosse, then I am calling Fane myself and turning you in."
Bret, with his hands in his grey hoodie pockets, his feet shuffling like an eight year old who has to pee, he shrugged his shoulders. “My point, was, if that apartment was one of those games, you’d click on the window, and you’d click on the walls, and the floor, and, you know what the game would tell you? There is nothing here. Let's go."
