Free This Location of Unknown Possibilities by Brett Josef Grubisic Page B

remained silent. She didn’t remove the mirrored aviator sunglasses when she faced Marta. And though the creased woman appeared to be a child’s throw from retirement age, Marta imagined she might be nicknamed “Sarge.”
    Marta patted the valise. “I have an appointment.”
    â€œDo you now?”
    â€œYes. With Jakob Nugent.”
    â€œLucky for you.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œWhoareyou?”
    â€œPardon me?”
    â€œYour name, girly. What. Is. It?” The woman couldn’t be bothered to mask impatience.
    â€œSpëk. Dr. Marta Spëk.”
    She scanned a computer tablet. “Right, there you are. Be a doll, will you?” She handed Marta a clipboard and tapped at a line for Marta’s signature. In exchange for the clipboard, the woman gave Marta a photocopied site map; with an incongruous bubblegum pink nail she etched the path to Building 7 .
    â€œWatch your step, honey. There’s always some jackass PA running with scissors or some damn thing. They get younger every year, I swear to you. Little cucarachas .” Insectile fingers scurried in the air. “There’s a lot of material there, but it’s not quite a dress. You know what I’m saying?”
    â€œThank you for the assistance.” Marta thought the woman should work on her interpersonal skills; sitting through a course on hospitality similar to the one waiters must pass before serving the public could polish that gravel abrasiveness. The guard hadn’t been rude, not quite, but close. Crusty. Salty. Odd. “Half a bubble off,” her father’s judgement. In any case the experience had been distressing. That schoolyard bully routine was the domain of overcompensating guards in banks and at border crossings, not grandmothers.
    Marta’s footfall echoed. Not one costumed extra wandered by; nobody carted fanciful props from one soundstage to the next. Likewise, the dangerous scurrying PAs she’d been warned about made no appearances. The locale appeared deserted, though the mild green of the day suggested a spontaneous group picnic rather than an angry work stoppage.
    Paused at the entrance Marta told herself that the sign taped to the window of the entrance of Building 7 —Desert Queen Productions sat over an image of the Great Sphinx onto which Elizabeth Taylor’s face as extravagantly eyeshadow’d Cleopatra had been superimposed—was without significance. The graphic designer’s little jest bore no relation to the ideas stored in the minds of Jakob Nugent, the director, the studio, or the screenwriter, which if nothing else would not be campy and would have commercial viability or artistic integrity as an ultimate target. Hester Stanhope, Queen of the Desert ? That would be too ridiculous. The sign signified nothing, likely makeshift and the project of an underling with an excess of free time.
    She climbed the stairs to the second floor. Cavernous and unimpressive, the space revealed only functionality and the kind of leased furniture otherwise found in used car dealership offices—dark woodgrain plastic surfaces, neutral metal cabinets sitting on tough indoor-outdoor carpeting, off-white electronic equipment. A residue of latex paint hung in the air.
    Unable to locate a washroom where she could change into contact lenses, Marta walked to a woman at the nearest desk; the blonde immediately held up an index finger. Marta waited as she completed the call.
    â€œYes, what can I do for you?” She spoke rapidly, eyes attentive to far corners of the room. Marta, admiring the delicate coral shade of the woman’s lipstick, expected the receptionist to rap the surface of her wristwatch at any instant.
    â€œHello, I have an appointment today with Jakob Nugent.”
    â€œAlrighty, my dear, that narrows things down to a small army.” She wore a grey T-shirt with scrolling white lettering: “We Must Avoid Deluded