Free The Last Days of Video by Jeremy Hawkins Page B

really.”
    Waring placed both palms on the counter, as if to stabilize it. “Alaura thought you should work today,” he said, mostly to himself,“which was clearly a mistake. At least Rose would have stayed quiet. Meaning less likely than you to say anything, well, wrong. Listen, Blad. I mean Jeff. It’s very simple. I buy movies at a cheaper rate because I’m part of a distribution group. Even a rinky-dink distributor like Guiding Glow affords us a minimum of a 25 percent discount. The concept is called wholesale pricing—”
    â€œI understand wholesale pricing.”
    â€œGood for you. Now, listen. My original distributor was purchased last year by a Christian cartel called Guiding Glow. Those twits outside . . . they’re Guiding Glow minions. They manage my account. In order to get them off my back, we have to convince them, first of all, that we’re making money hand over fist, which we’re not, and second of all, that we stock a, quote, faith-friendly selection, unquote, which I’m delighted to say we don’t.”
    Jeff glanced at what had once constituted the front panel of the Foreign Film section—Kurosawa and Fellini and Godard front and center for every customer to see, as well as Bergman and Antonioni, who had both apparently died, tragically, astonishingly, on the exact same day earlier that year. Now this section was labeled “Spiritual Spotlight,” and its shelves were filled with Christian DVDs, many of which Jeff recognized from his old Baptist youth group and as the horrible movies Momma watched when Bill O’Reilly or her favorite televangelists called it quits for the night. Predictable storylines, laughable production value, shameful acting, Kirk Cameron. And the documentaries . . . the unforgivably biased documentaries. Jeff had given up on this entire subgenre years ago and never looked back.
    The sole reason the Spiritual Spotlight movies were kept boxed in Waring’s office, Jeff had surmised, was for these rare Guiding Glow visits.
    â€œFamiliarize yourself with those titles,” Waring said. “There’ll be a quiz.”
    â€œFine.”
    â€œAnd remember, the Porn Room is locked. For today, it doesn’t exist. Obviously we buy our porn from a different distributor. To your knowledge, we haven’t rented a single title with visible genitalia since The Piano was boycotted by all those anti–Harvey Keitel Jesus freaks.”
    Jeff nodded weakly.
    Waring nodded mockingly in response. “Honestly, Blad, I don’t understand your problem.”
    Then he exited to greet the Wheats.
    â€œI don’t understand your problem,” Jeff muttered to himself, walking the length of the counter. “Ungrateful jerk.”
    No , Jeff decided at once. He would not lie. The way Waring had been treating him—the yelling and the insults even though Jeff had kept his stupid secret about the bicycle gang, without so much as a “thanks”—Jeff had had enough. If asked a direct question by the Wheats, he would tell the truth. That he’d made compromises to work here, that he’d withheld from Momma that Star Video rented pornography, that he’d be missing church this weekend because he was scheduled for a Sunday-morning shift with Alaura . . . Jeff was sickened by the scope of his own failings.
    So today—though he doubted it would have much effect on his immortal soul—today, at least, he would not lie.
    â€œIt’s so nice to see you again!” Clarissa Wheat fluted as Waring approached her.
    Waring cringed. He forced his WASPiest smile.
    Clarissa Wheat stepped forward, kissed Waring’s cheek, and pressed her hip into his. His back stiffened. He noticed that her ropey neck was as veined as a heroin addict’s forearm. She smelled like a freshly mown lawn—not a bad smell, necessarily, but not how a human being should smell at all.
    She stood leaning against him