Chapter 8 - Rocco
Chapter 8
Rocco
Tuesday, December 28, 1999
“Bea? Wake up. You just fainted. Hello? You with me?” I shift on my knees closer to where she dropped, reaching my hand out to gently tap her cheek. When that doesn’t elicit any reaction, I turn it up: “If you’d done more of this expert acting sooner in life, I bet you would have gotten more work over the years.”
Her eyes flip open, and she promptly gives me a good right hook to the upper arm.
“Very funny. I was never here to be an actor. And I don’t think I would have been able to conjure so much feeling in my past life. Her life.” She glances toward where we—they?—had been so intimately present just a few minutes ago, the space empty now. That kiss—holy shit, that kiss—finally over, the two of them jetting off in my old black Tahoe. “Replaying personal history wasn’t a thing for me. Still isn’t, I suppose. Only for the movie.”
Bea reaches for my hand, and I push myself up to stand, slowly pulling her up with me. Her hands are clammy, cold. She seems truly shaken. Should I be, too? Am I? I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m feeling right now. While it was certainly wild to see myself like that, I’ve watched enough old screen reruns in my day that perhaps I’m desensitized?
Except . . . the affection toward each other, wow.
That was tough to watch. Was I like that with every fling? Playing the Rocco Riziero card, knowing all the right words to say, spots to kiss, to elicit that kind of happiness? Because I’d said it all, done it all, so many times before, with so many girls just like her?
How could I have kissed like that and forgotten?
Or . . . not forgotten necessarily, because I do remember Trixie, of course. Our time together wasn’t a total blip. It just . . . wasn’t long enough, serious enough for me to connect the dots from Trixie Teller to Beatrix Noel. At least not without a little nudge in the form of Bea’s—justified—rage.
But no. Can’t dwell. Not now, at least.
We need to get inside, quickly, because I’m realizing that now is the ideal opportunity to grab some of my secret cash stash, while no one’s home. That way we can move around more freely in this world. No more playing at petty theft.
“You remember those ads for the rock that hides keys?” I ask, dropping her hand. Or she pulls it away first. It’s hard to say, we’re both so eager to detach.
“ ‘The rock to get you unlocked,’ ” she says, her voice going all high and chipper.
“Yep, the cheesy hook. And it worked. Hooked me good. That rock was always moving around, because I had—still have, really—a penchant for losing my keys. Thank god for keypads in our futuristic Jetsons world.” I start toward the front steps, and Bea follows in what I can only describe as the Pink Panther slow walk. Conspicuous would be an understatement. We both squat down to scour through the front bushes, eyes scanning for a rock that looks out of place amongst the thousands of gray pebbles.
“Got it!” Bea whisper-screams, like she’s won the lottery while also in a library.
“Nice work, super sleuth! Now let’s get in there and commit some more offenses. This time breaking and entering!”
Bea winces at the words, shutting her eyes as she’s clearly running through the possible implications of cops finding us here.
Which, admittedly, aren’t great. Two amateur criminals . . . from seventeen years in the future, based on our IDs. Genetic clones of two other preexisting people. We’d all be carted off to a government lab. The glossies would have a field day.
There’s no real choice, though, is there? If we don’t break in now, we’ll have to keep stealing for however long we’re trapped here. My old place feels like the best bet, the most reward for the least amount of risk.
Decision made, I crack open the door—and am instantly blown back in time to my late ’90s life. All the way this time, propelled deep beneath the surface.
It’s the little things, it turns out.
The little things that make clear exactly how goddamn real this is.
The coat rack, for example, which is actually just a life-sized cutout of Kevin Smith and Jason Mewes, as Jay and Silent Bob, standing in the hallway. The hallway itself, too, canvassed on one side with Jay and Silent Bob movie posters, including for the “newest” one, Dogma, a poster I could only take home after sleeping with the manager of the ten plex. Not my finest moment. But hey, I was from New Jersey, so of course a local filmmaker who made good would be my idol. There’s very little I wouldn’t have done for that poster as my reward. And come to think of it, must have been right before the Trixie era. Not during; I really was mostly monogamous, even with flings. Piper . . . she was the one exception. She was always the exception. For better and certainly for worse.
Regardless, nope—won’t mention that poster anecdote to Bea.
She laughs now, stepping closer to my shrine. “I remember this sweet obsession of yours. You were so into Kevin Smith. My god, I remember you quoting Mallrats from start to finish over the course of one of our dates. Some wildly overpriced French bistro, if I recall correctly. The Kevin Smith and coq au vin pairing stands out.”
I squint at the posters in an inquisitive way, as if I’m not so sure. I am sure, though. It was a party trick of mine. Anyone could ask me to recite any scene from the first three movies, and I would oblige. Very happily. A lifetime in the biz, and I’m still waiting on a cameo request. They wouldn’t even have to pay me. Hell, I would pay them.
I’ll have to talk to my manager if we get back.
When.
When we get back.
As we continue down the hall and into the living room, we come upon my extensive video game collection. Complete with all the consoles a pro gamer could ever want. Far too many consoles, in hindsight. It looks like the den of some Final Fantasy recluse. Just one of the many ridiculous perks of being an overpaid young actor.
“Right, yes, the video games, too. ALL the video games.” Her voice cracks as she tries—and fails—to hold in more laughter. Another perk of being a working actor: You can be a total nerd and get away with it. My setup didn’t scare off any of the ladies over the years. Probably would have been better if it had; I could have benefited from a filter.
“You made me play Resident Evil once, and I had nightmares for weeks. Weeks, Rocco.” Bea punches me in the arm. She’s been holding on to that one, I suppose. Another item on the long list of crimes I’ve committed against her.
“Sounds accurate. That was my favorite game for a long time.” I do a slow spin, trying to take it all in. “It’s wild, being here. Every little detail is spot-on. I forgot what a college dorm vibe I had going on. And I never even went to college!” I shrug, giving her some kind of goofy grimace. I’m not sure what to do, besides make light of the situation. I don’t feel capable of processing on any deeper level.
“I know. Neither did I. We bonded over it.” She turns away and starts off down the hall, and I follow her, as if it’s her place. “Let’s head to your bedroom so I can continue to shame you, Mr. One Pillow Only.”
“What the hell?”
“You don’t remember? You only had one pillow on your bed, and I had to sleep with my head on a crusty throw pillow from your couch the first time I stayed over. And it was covered in old nacho cheese from one of your Madden parties. Not quite the glam experience a lady would have expected from a night with Rocco the Great.”
“First, no one’s ever called me that. And second, that’s so not true! Maybe the second pillow was in the wash. Because I assure you, I didn’t only have . . .”
We enter my old bedroom and, sure enough—one bed pillow and one throw pillow on my bed.
Damn.
“Well,” I say, clearing my throat, “at least I still had an ounce of chivalry, because that couch pillow is on my side of the bed. So it was my head cushioned by the crusty cheese.”
“Mm, what a gentleman you were. Except this wasn’t our first night. You’d think you would have splurged on a new one by now. But I guess you didn’t want to give me any rations here. Didn’t want it to feel too permanent. How utterly terrifying that would have been for you,” she says, deadpan, as she leans over the side of the bed ’99 Trixie had been sleeping on.
Before I can make any further pathetic excuses—because she’s one-hundred-percent accurate, buying a pillow for her would have absolutely felt terrifying—she takes a long whiff of the pillow. Sighs.
“I forgot about this Bath and Body Works scent! White Tea and Ginger, my staple. I doused myself in it multiple times a day.” She leans in again, even closer, really savoring the smell. While she gets all heady on that Bath and Body Works nostalgia, I use the time to start rummaging under the bed, searching out my Nike box of cash. The old-school Italian in me had to keep savings under the bed, just in case. I still do it to this day. Passed down from my pop, may he rest in peace, who learned it from his pop back in Calabria.
“Well,” I call out from under the bed, snorting some dust—my pre-housekeeper days—“once I find this box we can head to the mall, and you can spend the rest of your time in this dimension smelling like Trixie of the turn of the millennium.” I pop my head out to glance up at Bea and am met with another funny face scrunch. A potent mix of distaste and amusement, her signature style, at least when it comes to me. As always, it’s unnervingly endearing, I have to say—in my head, never aloud.
I prop myself up on the side of the bed and catch a whiff of that White Tea and Ginger, clean and spicy, and I’m reminded of how much I loved the scent, too. And Trixie. Well, maybe not love, per say, but a very genuine like. What we had wasn’t nothing, and very few, if any, relationships beyond Piper were ever an actual something for me. And now, the smell of her perfume, this bedroom with its one pillow and freshly crumpled sheets, the real Bea, this flesh-and-blood version from our future, it’s bringing back . . . everything. All kinds of memories. Many of them X-rated, given our proximity to the bed. But there were plenty of sweet ones, too. Nice and PG.
We were so young, though. So incapable of grasping the true emotions at stake. There was no long term, only that moment. The kind of reckless abandon we lose—hopefully—as we begin to understand that there are some basic rules to life and love.
Or maybe I was the only one who was incapable, reckless.
Though I hadn’t been either of those things when it came to Piper. But she was Piper Bell. I’d loved her since the first day we met.
She just happened to love my brother first.
“Hello? Rocco?” Bea says, cutting through the buzz of static in my mind. At some point I must have moved from the floor to the bed, where I’m sitting now. “Are you going to just lounge there contemplating the myriad naughty things you did in this room with the countless number of women who also secretly judged your Jay and Silent Bob décor and your lack of bed-ware? Or could you perhaps snap out of it long enough to find that honeypot so we can move along? I don’t want to overstay our welcome. Knowing how things were between us back then, I’m sure we’ll be back to your bedroom soon enough.”
“Er, yes, sorry.” I cough, let go of the throw pillow that somehow ended up squeezed against my chest. “Though for the record, I’m not just contemplating previous conquests, more life in general. Like, if I’d only held onto my collection of Air Jordans, I would have been able to buy five Delilahs.”
“Don’t you dare talk about her that way! There is, and will always be, only one Delilah. Get that straight.” She glares at me and then points her finger to my closet, its door half open.
There are at least fifteen Nike boxes stacked haphazardly on the top shelf.
“Ahh, right. I’d moved it from below the bed to the closet. I thought I was very smart at the time, hiding a shoebox full of money in between shoeboxes full of actual sneakers. Genius, really.” I stand up and walk to the closet, run my fingers down the labeled boxes until I get to the “Last Shot” box.
It had been purposeful, picking that box. This money was my emergency stash, a last shot if everything went to shit. It was still early days then, careerwise; the phase where it could all go away overnight. Fame was fickle. Hell, it still is. I’ve just stashed enough away at this point to get me through a hundred emergencies. Maybe a thousand.
I pull the box out and, not surprisingly, there’s a decent load of cash. Time-appropriate money, not our Monopoly bills of the future. I remember buying a few used four-wheelers with this stash in the early aughts, so hopefully it won’t mess up the space-time continuum too much. I left them out in the Mojave Desert after a boys’ trip not long after I bought them, but . . . that’s a different story. Not my best use of “emergency” cash.
This, however, is. For now, I take ten crisp hundreds, put the box back on the stack, and fan the bills out. Wave them across Bea’s face.
“Excuse me!” She goes to slap my hand away, but her fingers land on my wrist. Warm and soft. They stay there, pressing lightly into me. “Who knows where those dirty old bills have been?”
“Sorry, just got excited.” I lower the money, and her hand lifts from my wrist. I reach out for it before it drops, press the bills against her palm.
“Hold on to this for safekeeping. I’m going to grab a bag and toss some old clothes in—only clothes I don’t remember wearing much, ones the other me hopefully won’t miss. Luckily I always had a lot of unworn swag.”
She nods and pulls her hand away, and I turn to my task. As I’m sorting through the options, picking out a few shirts and some pants I don’t recognize, I come across a doodled-over note on my nightstand:
Your ticket for Notting Hill . . . our own private viewing party. I promise you’ll love it, superstar! xoxo TT
Dated for January 3, 2000, at my address.But of course . . . we never made it that far, did we?I still have never seen the movie, funnily enough.
I reread the note a few times, take in the heart swirls around her letters, then slip it into my pocket. I don’t know why. A memento, maybe. Something to take with me.
If Bea notices, she doesn’t ask. She’s too busy rustling around in my collection of VHS tapes, most notably recordings of my favorite TGIF shows, making occasional jabs at me as she goes.
I take my time leaving my old room, even after Bea goes to monitor the front windows, watching for us. Them.
It’s hard to describe, but being able to actually see and smell and feel your past . . . it does something wild to you. Like your brain, your body, your heart, automatically want to revert back to that place. That time. Those feelings. It’s in total conflict with any more solid rationale. The need to get home. To go back to normal. That’s what needs to matter. Because that’s what’s real—not this. And because my life now is much better. Isn’t it? More maturity. More fame. A hell of a lot more money.
More happiness, though?
Focus, Rocco.
Bea isn’t wrong—we should get out of here fast, because meeting our old selves would be bad no matter how you shake it. Swiping an old note is one thing. But if we are indeed time traveling, then there must be ripple effects, and who the hell knows what will happen if we come face-to-face with ourselves? I don’t want to learn the hard way.
Bag of supplies secured, I head out. Leave the bedroom door open, everything reasonably close to how we found it. I hope.
We shut and lock the front door, and as I go to put the rock key box back in its place, a delivery man approaches the porch. Tall, light brown skin, dark locs tucked under his blue cap. He looks familiar. Too familiar.
“Rocco! What’s happening, my man? Looks like you got a whole new stack of games coming in! Any old ones you’d want to share?”
Damn. I totally forgot about this guy. I’d let him borrow games sometimes after I was finished. Super nice, a solid gamer. He’d sometimes come in and play NCAA Football with me if he was hitting my house at the end of his day.
But seeing him now, here, am I screwing with the space-time continuum?
I glance over at Bea, who looks nervous—supremely so, like she’s been caught red-handed stealing much more than puka shells from the mall. There’s not a worse poker player around, guaranteed.
I rearrange my face, hopefully a smoother mask than hers. “Hey dude, thanks for thinking I’m the great Rocco Riziero, but alas, I’m just a lowly relative. His cousin, uh, Vinny. Rocco’s out of town for the holidays, so I’ve been watching his place.” I take the package from him, drop it in front of the door. Delivery guy looks at me a little funny, nodding his head slowly. Matt? Max? Martin? He’s noticing the wrinkles, presumably.
“Gotcha. Aren’t you going to bring those in, though?” He points to the package. “Don’t want your cousin’s games getting nabbed.”
“Yeah, I’m just . . .” I tilt my head toward Bea, flash a devilish little smile, like the two of us have some . . . business to attend to first. “Seeing my lady off.”
He grins and flashes a thumbs up, then turns to walk merrily back down the path.
Dammit. An unplanned interaction with someone I knew. Someone I spoke to countless times. I hope to god he never mentions good ol’ Vinny to Rocco, because who knows what consequences that could have.
Should I look in the mirror? Has my face changed? More wrinkles, a scar I don’t recognize, because of this impromptu rip in the continuum? Did we create a ripple significant enough to re-write time and space for us?
For now, it’s easier not to know.
We get back in Delilah. Drive away. Richer in cash, richer still in anxieties.
Because the risks of this impossible place . . . they’ve never felt so real.
And so absolutely terrifying.