The Zero

They climbed into Paul’s unmarked. He swerved into the crowd of waiting taxis and gypsy cabs and curbside loaders and began angling away from the airport.

“So how you doing?” Paul asked.

“Not so good,” Remy said.

“Back bothering you?”

“My back? No. My back is-”

“Did I tell you the agent sold my story?” Paul asked.

“No,” Remy said. “That’s great.”

“I suppose. I’m not go

“So… a movie?” Remy asked.

“Well, no… not exactly,” Paul said. He put on his blinker and looked over his shoulder, drifting across lanes. “This company makes all sorts of products. DVDs. Cigarettes. Food. Cereal.” He glanced over.

“Cereal?”

“Yeah. That’s what they want me for. This new cereal called…” Paul hesitated, then just spit it out. “First Responder.”

“First Responder?”

“Yeah,” Guterak said. “They needed one smoker and one cop for ads and PR and shit. They were go

“Yeah, I could see that.”

“Yeah.” Paul shrugged, a moment of unusual circumspection.

Remy looked over at his old partner and friend. He thought about confiding in Paul that he’d cheated on April, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to admit it to himself. Paul’s hair covered the peak of his head like spring snow, cut high above the ears and melting on his forehead. He turned the steering wheel gently with one hand and the car listed that way, and Remy felt as if he were on the ocean again. He grabbed the armrest and held onto it, trying to fix himself in the moment.

Remy closed his eyes and the streaks did a slow waltz for him, bits gently circling one another in the dark, like a choreographed fight. He opened his eyes and looked out the windows at the flattened landscape slowly dragging alongside the turnpike – brush-lined riverbanks and ledges of condos, freight cars stacked and lined like old shoeboxes, river-flat refineries, and, across the gray slick of water, the brick, steel and glass anthill of the city. April was there, in one of those buildings. And that’s when Remy had an idea.

He fell back against the headrest. “Paul. Can you do something for me?”

“Anything, buddy. You know that. I’d do anything for you. I mean… within reason. You know, obviously I wouldn’t eat garbage off a sidewalk, or sleep with a man… well, I mean, if it meant your life or something… you know, depending on how much shit. And I guess what the dude looked like.”

“I need you to follow me.”

“Follow you.”

“Right.”

“Follow you?”

“Yes.”

Guterak scratched his head. “You mean… like keep track of what you’re talking about? That kind of follow?”

“No. I want you to physically tail me. Follow me around and see where I go. What I do. Keep track of it. Don’t let me see you.”

“You don’t want to see me.”

“Yeah. I don’t want to know you’re doing it. And then write down everything I do and tell me about it afterward. Make up a report.”

“Who do I give the report to?”

“Me.”

“And why am I doing this?”

“So I can figure out what I’m doing.”

“Uh-huh. You want me to follow you so you can figure out what you’re doing.”

“Yeah. I need to see if I’m hallucinating or if I’m really involved in something… something bad.”

“Oh,” Paul said. “Okay then.”

“You’ll do it?”

“Of course I’ll do it,” he said. “I’ll use my black helicopter. I’ll shove one of them fuggin’ GPS transmitters in your ass, put a wire in your teeth. Get one of them Air Force drones to track you. Or… remember that movie where they shrunk those guys and put ’em in the president’s body? I’ll do that.” Guterak shook his head and laughed as he steered the car through traffic. “You fuggin’ kill me, man.” He looked over at Remy and shook his head. “You know, you get fu

“WAIT. WAIT.” A stout woman wearing jeans and a bulging fa

Behind Gus, a man with a television camera on his shoulder and a utility belt around his waist was scurrying to change positions as the woman with the fa

“We need to get this again in a two-shot,” said the fa

Gus smiled in spite of himself and then worked to clear his face.

“Okay,” said the producer in the fa

“Sure, Tina,” said Gus. Remy searched Gus’s face for co

“Mike pack,” said the cameraman, and Tina the producer adjusted the microphone pack strapped to the back of Gus’s belt so that it wouldn’t be visible in the shot. “I wish we could use a boom.”

“Well, we can’t use a goddamn boom,” the producer snapped, and then smiled, and asked, “Ready?” She pointed to Gus, who nodded and took April’s hands in his.

“Look, Sis.” Gus stared into her eyes. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you, then. Afterward, I mean. I just… couldn’t face it. I guess I was…” He stared out the window, and took a practiced pause. “…angry. Angry at myself for not being here.”

April glanced at the camera through the corner of her eye and then looked at Tina the producer. “Don’t look at me,” she said in a stage whisper.

“What am I supposed to say?” April asked.

“Say something like, ‘That’s okay, nothing you could’ve done would’ve brought March and Derek back, anyway,’” Tina said helpfully.

“I don’t think I can say that,” April said. She looked at Remy, who tried to look supportive, even though he felt like he’d been banished to the farthest corner of the room.

Tina the producer and her cameraman huddled for a moment near him but Remy could only make out a few words: first unit and truck and boom and editing bay.

Then Tina turned and smiled. “You know what? Okay. That’s okay,” she said. “Pete says we have the audio and we can cut away. No… we’re good. Why don’t you just do your goodbyes and we’ll take care of it in editing.” She chewed a thumbnail and shrugged to the cameraman as if that were all she could do.

April and Gus stood awkwardly, like actors in a scene that’s just broken. Gus drank water from a plastic bottle and rolled his shoulders while April looked around the room, as if looking for some place to hide. Tina grabbed April’s arm. “Look, April, I totally get your discomfort. Totally. And I respect it. In fact, I don’t want you to do anything that makes you feel phony. That would be creepy. Do you know why we call it ‘reality’? Do you? Because it’s best when it’s… real. The realer the better. That’s what our show is about. Taking these stories of tragedy and letting people inside.”