Der Filmvorfuhrer

By Frederick Barrows

"Without light, there can be no knowing."

Jarrett Yawp thought he could "control the light." But he soon discovers that being a successful projectionist, the master manipulator of fantasy and reality behind the immersive new art form of the HoloPlay, means being able to comprehend—and control—far more than the simple reality in front of you.

What constitutes art in our ever-evolving consumer culture? How much control do we really exert over our own fates? Is time travel a scientific possibility? Der Filmvorführer ("The Projectionist"), the third novel from Frederick Barrows, poses these and other intriguing questions, while taking the reader on a whirlwind tour of some of the more obscure corners of film history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frederick Barrows
• Release date: Oct 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781943713004

Frederick Barrows

Frederick Barrows has published novels and short stories.His latest novel is Der Filmvorführer ("The Projectionist").

Book preview

Widmung

Die Kunst und der unbeugsame kreative Geist von Werner Herzog.

Pitch

Xanadu, Charles Foster Kane’s massive estate near Florida’s Gulf Coast, was dismal and fog-shrouded. Perfect cover for a heist. Jarrett, seated in the front row of the theater, watched older brother Kyler’s avatar, dressed as a groundskeeper, enter unobserved through a back door just off the crumbling domain’s ground floor kitchen. The projectionist shifted the focus, locking onto him. The voting members of the audience responded to this and Kyler’s score multiplied.

Classics, like Citizen Kane, typically operated at a slower pace, especially in comparison to the intense rush of modern, action-driven HoloPlays. Kyler’s avatar, by contrast, was almost superhumanly quick, the bulk of its talent points invested in agility and athletics. He’d built a master thief, posing as a faceless nobody who trimmed hedges and scraped bird crap off fancy statues; the guy no one cared about until the con was complete and it was too late to hit the reset button.

Kyler moved to the top of the stairs. He then silently crossed a series of long, dark hallways. The night nurse, nose buried in some book, failed to notice the hint of a shadow flashing past.

The stealthy groundskeeper slipped into the private chamber. Old man Kane was beached on his bed, weakly clutching a snow globe, practically beating death’s door to splinters with his labored breathing.

Rosebud was the trigger word fellow HoloPlayer Tommy had told Kyler to listen for. Even though Kyler hadn’t seen the original movie, Tommy promised Kyler if he reached Kane before he croaked, he couldn’t miss it. Kane obliged with a dying whisper, the globe falling from his lifeless hand, tumbling down short steps. Kyler dove, nimbly catching the fragile thing before it smashed against the polished tile floor.

Yes!

Tumble roll and he was upright, coolly popping a window’s lock and clearing out.

His score spiked.

The nurse burst into the room. She shouted something, but it was too late. Kyler danced along a narrow ledge, reaching a spot where thick vines grew. He tucked the treasure inside his padded, workman’s coveralls and then shimmied to the ground, sprinting through misty, overgrown gardens.

An alarm sounded. Monkeys shrieked. A pack of hounds appeared from the side of the main house, followed by a gang of men carrying flashlights and shotguns. Kyler broke for the front gate.

Snatching the globe was the easy part. The true challenge was escaping Kane’s mountaintop fortress. Fortunately, Kyler was a veteran of similar, adrenaline-pumping action sequences. He’d planted dynamite beneath Nazi-controlled Eagle’s Nest. He’d outwitted cannibal bowmen in ultra-creepy Wisconsin woods. He’d circled the planet at nearly three times the speed of sound, g-forces so intense he thought his head would swell up like a balloon before deflating pancake-flat.

Kyler and his buddies dominated the Action and Horror genres. Classics was a fresh challenge. Tommy had gone first, somehow managing to bed Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard before William Holden’s Joe arrived on the scene. Tommy ended up strangled in the bath by Norma’s creepy manservant, Max, but at least he’d made an impression. Kyler had to one-up him. Tommy suggested he steal Rosebud from old man Kane if he really wanted to cement his HoloRep.

True to form, Kyler blindly accepted the challenge. Now his score was off the charts, the projectionist spotlighting him. Kane was no longer the story. It was Kyler. He had become the sole focus.

Fourteen-year-old Jarrett thought it was awesome.

Kyler crashed out of the brush and hit the outer wall. He then scrambled up the thick stone, grunting as he propelled himself over the crowning wrought iron. Down the mountainside he skidded, reaching a narrow, winding road. Kyler had left the known boundaries of the original movie. Could the projectionist handle it? Did the digital ringmaster have the proper visual elements to deal with such a dramatic shift in the plot? Could Kyler break the narrative, maybe crash the entire system?

Panting, he flagged down a rumbling delivery truck.

Evenin’, said the driver, as Kyler scrambled into the cab. Name’s Al. Al was an older guy, with big, bushy eyebrows and a shabby baseball cap that had a big diamond on it. Where ya headed, stranger?

Hopin’ to get to the coast, find me a boat…

Oh, yeah… Al shifted a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. What is it yer runnin’ from?

The truck sputtered and headed down and away from Kane’s depressing castle.

Too obvious, huh? Thankfully, Al was a fellow working man, like Kyler’s character. He’d understand. He had to. Kyler Todd Yawp was driving the yarn. The projectionist bowed to his demands. This would never be topped, not in a million HoloPlays.

Citizen Yawp!

Kyler reached into his coveralls and produced the still pristine globe, proudly showing it off.

What’s that? Al asked, returning his attention to the road.

It’s a snow—

No… Al tilted his head. I mean, that scene there, what is it?

Kyler examined the globe. Cute little house covered in snow. Nothing particularly special about it. Um … this here is, well … this here is Rosebud.

Al raised a shaggy eyebrow. Rosebud?

Yeah… Kyler exhaled. It, um, belonged to the dead rich guy who lived up on the mountain, his most prized possession. Can’t imagine why that was, though. I mean, maybe there’s a key hidden in here, tucked in the base, or somethin’, that opens up a bank box, and…

No… Al shook his head. I don’t think so.

Kyler chuckled. He clutched the globe with both hands, like a gypsy fortune teller banking on a crystal ball to make her serious coin. Yeah, wishful thinkin’, I s’pose…

No, what I mean is, what you think you got there, it ain’t Rosebud.

What? There was an awkward catch in Kyler’s throat. What are you talkin’ about?

His score dipped.

Al drove through total darkness.

You stole a snow globe.

Rosebud, Kyler said.

Not Rosebud. Al shook his head. You see Rosebud written anywhere on that schmaltzy trinket?

Kyler did not.

His score plummeted.

Al removed the toothpick and cleared his throat. Where’d you hear about this Rosebud thing, anyway?

Jarrett wanted to know what happened to the boat that was supposed to take Kyler far away, to some sunny tropical island, scot-free, enjoying the good life.

It … Kane, it was the last word he said before… Kyler sighed. His grip on the globe weakened, as if the delicate souvenir suddenly weighed a ton. You know, before he … dropped it.

Yeah, okay… Al nodded, as if everything was cleared up. Tell me somethin’, what do you know about this man, Mister Kane?

Damn you, Tommy.

Kyler shook his head. Um … Rich old guy, kinda sad and all alone. Last thing he said … Rosebud.

Around the bend, a light.

Finally…

You know, kid, if you’re gonna steal the most important thing in a man’s life, you really oughta do your homework first.

Kyler leaned forward. You can let me out up here.

Who was Kane?

Right here’s just fine. Kyler couldn’t even look at the man. Thank you, really…

Al brought the truck to a halt in front of a shimmering, bright white door guarded by two police officers.

Jarrett slumped in his seat.

Toast.

Kyler frowned. Say, what’s the big idea?

Al tipped his cap to the lady officer. Go on. End o’ the line.

Yeah, yeah… Kyler wrenched the door open. Thanks for nothin’.

Better luck next time, kid.

Al’s truck did a wide turn and rumbled away.

Hand it over, handyman, said the guy officer, nametag of Roberts.

Kyler’s score bottomed out. Laughter rippled through the auditorium.

Petty theft will put you out of commission for a day, at least, said Officer Hobson, the lady cop, forcefully cuffing Kyler’s slump-shouldered avatar.

Too bad for you, bub. Officer Roberts deposited the globe in a large envelope marked EVIDENCE and handed it to Officer Hobson.

So close, yet so far, said Hobson.

Now, if you was one of them smart thieves… Roberts cinched the back of the handyman’s collar. You’d ’ave laid low at Xanadu. Waited until the very end.

Yeah, Hobson said. Snatch victory from the fiery jaws of defeat. She chuckled. Metaphorically speaking, a’ course.

There’s the smart play, Ringo, said Roberts.

What do we know, eh, Roberts? Hobson shrugged. Just a coupla beat cops marking time on the dead shift.

Say, can’t I—

Kyler’s avatar was rudely shoved through the glowing portal.

Deleted.

Chants of Rosebud hammered Kyler as he exited the shiny pod behind the HoloStage, his negative score burning hot red overhead. The projectionist paused the show—holographic officers frozen, smug grins boosting the swelling mockery—guaranteeing Kyler absorbed every humiliating blow.

Citizen Schadenfreude.

ROSEBUD!

ROSEBUD!

ROSEBUD!

Fleeing the theater, Kyler glanced Jarrett’s way, but he was too embarrassed to make eye contact.

Eins: First Licht

Except From Malcolm N. Prokop’s Holoplexus Rising

The use of discretely controlled, dynamic holography came into prominence not long after 4D films fell out of favor. In a bold attempt to thwart pirated downloads and take back market share lost to the increasing popularity of in-home console gaming and on-demand content providers, movie palaces were converted into wholly immersive playgrounds, offering uniquely expressive cinematic experiences.

Now, audience members could be in the movie, anything from walk-on extras to full blown leads. Wearing a visor-like First-person Panoramic Virtualizer (FPV) and utilizing a handheld wireless controller, called a HoloPad, while occupying a single-seat, force feedback-enabled pod enclosure, participants were able to have their spoken words artfully (not to mention often censorially) presented as HoloFlow-appropriate dialogue while moving their avatars through the exquisitely rendered digital worlds, enhanced by full-range positional audio and optional olfactory response mechanisms.

During a showing, there were voters, who judged participants via the HoloJudex app, either giving players more incentive (tallied in points) to attempt a larger role in the unfolding drama or deducting points (up to and including ejecting them from the exhibition altogether) for failing to perform at a satisfactory level. The crucial incentive was that no HoloPlay was ever repeated. If you wanted to know what happened, you had to be there, either passively watching, actively judging, or participating via player-controlled avatar.

Older films were aggressively converted to the groundbreaking holographic format, reconstituted in fresh and fascinating ways. Concurrently, original works revolutionized the filmmaking process. It was a brave new world, one bursting with staggeringly limitless possibilities.

There were still recognizable movie stars, of course, and people flocked to see them in their three-dimensional forms. Talented players gained sizeable followings, as well. The true colossi of the HoloPlexes, though, were the projectionists. These skilled manipulators of light controlled the HoloPlay, moving the story along and integrating (or erasing) avatars within the spontaneously unfolding narrative…

1 EXT. Outer Ring Holoplex (ORH) Front—Day

The Outer Ring HoloPlex was outfitted with ten theaters and a total seating capacity of five thousand (with an average passive-to-voting viewer ratio of 80/20). Configurable seating for up to twelve participants ringed the upper hemisphere of the egg-shaped, translucent HoloStage. Eight of the ten theaters were equipped for HoloPlays, with the ninth screening 2D/3D shows, and the tenth serving as a 4D-immersive space that, more often than not, was rented out for movie-themed parties or promotional events.

Operating seven days a week, year round, first showings typically began at noon. Special exhibitions took place during off-hours and group bookings were actively encouraged, with a recommended advance reservation window of three months.

Business had never been better.

2 EXT. ORH Back—Day

Grandt Favours, Assistant Manager (and procrastinating law student), met Jarrett in the back parking lot of the Plex. Jarrett was chaining his bike to a NO PARKING sign when the tall, young, fair-haired and green-eyed Favours appeared through a metal door designated EMPLOYEES ONLY.

No safety helmet? Grandt looked around, as if he was uncertain what to do with his unlit cigarette.

Jarrett gave the lock a firm tug before presenting himself to his new, immediate supervisor. I’m not late for the staff meeting, am I?

Late? Grandt retrieved a lighter from his pants pocket. My being out here should make it blatantly obvious you’re anything but late.

Whew, Jarrett said. Caught every light.

Hey, relax. Favours savored a long drag. I’m one of those people who can be intimidating without even trying. Just goes with the stature. Blame it on my old man. He argued cases before the state supreme court and I’m pseudo-sorta-pre-law, so … whole apple-tree proximity dealio.

Grandt had hired Jarrett. Plex manager Meryl Cosgrove, apparently, only got involved if it concerned filling one of the all-important projectionist slots. Grandt promised Jarrett that it would be the most fun summer job he’d ever had.

Jarrett certainly hoped so.

Look, I’m only twenty-five, been here nearly seven years, Grandt said, during the interview, a week prior. I love it, seriously, but don’t know how much longer I can put off starting a real career, you know?

Jarrett, prematurely white-haired but a still boyish-looking nineteen, was far too young to relate to such things, but outwardly empathized with Grandt all the same. What had been intended as one summer for teenaged Favours had morphed into a major life choice, perhaps creeping up imperceptibly before smacking with concussively blunt force, like the day Jarrett’s dad looked in the mirror and exclaimed, Where the hell did all my hair go?

Jarrett pulled out his phone and texted Mom that he’d made it safely to work. Do these, um, staff meetings take place daily?

Typically, yes, Grandt said. Ms. Cosgrove likes the whole team continuity aspect of it.

Mom texted back k and Jarrett, per Plex rules, silenced the phone and put it away. So … the whole staff’s included, mandatorily speaking?

Grandt studied the inquisitive new hire. No, not everyone. But, listen, Jarrett, all that matters is that you are required to be there, okay?

Jarrett nodded.

Once we’ve introduced you at the meeting, you’ll spend the rest of the day rotating between various jobs around the Plex. Ms. Cosgrove is very big on the whole cross-training method when it comes to efficient employee utilization.

Jarrett’s eyes widened. Every job, including…

Every job except for projectionist.

Jarrett’s shoulders slumped. Oh.

Though… Grandt propelled a smoky tendril skyward. Time permitting, you will have a chance to visit a few booths. Ms. Cosgrove prefers new hires experience all facets of the business.

3 INT. ORH—Day

After the staff meeting, Grandt handed Jarrett off to Arlen Trouers. Arlen, a couple of years older than Jarrett, primarily worked as an usher, but appeared far more focused on achieving his goal of having sex in every theater at the Plex before being fired for gross misconduct, as spelled out in the employee handbook’s unambiguously-worded code of conduct.

Seven down, three to go, Arlen said, escorting Jarrett to a ticket booth.

The two moved toward the downstairs lobby, filled with various holographic displays, some locked in complicated motion loops, others strikingly static; all meticulously crafted to hype current and upcoming releases.

What if you get caught before finishing the circuit? asked Jarrett, admiring Arlen for his strapping build and heroic jawline.

Jarrett, by contrast, was below average height, hampered by slouchy posture, pensioner hair, and a blotchy complexion. To combat perceived shortcomings, he habitually wore non-corrective colored contacts, affecting different hues several times weekly, mostly to see if anyone noticed the revolving shades of blues, greens, browns, or hazels, as opposed to his naturally born slate grays. Most didn’t. Not that he’d ever concede defeat. Effort, coupled with a relentlessly proactive attitudinal disposition, could overcome most obstacles.

It was important to stand tall, even if he needed lifts to do so.

My ultimate goal, scrubbo, is to get caught, Arlen said. It’s a form of social protest. Much more profound than just getting laid. He nodded. My own special thing.

So what happens if you complete the circuit and still aren’t caught?

Not to worry, burba, for I have a foolproof contingency.

Jarrett itched the space between his ashen eyebrows. Being…?

Visually irrefutable evidence, captured by discretely stashed cameras, will be left by an anonymous tattletale for Ms. C. to gawk at—and probably pleasure her hefty-sexy self to—before ordering my immediate, with-just-cause termination.

Jarrett’s face brightened. Say, can I be your tattletale?

Sorry, newbie, he said, that position’s already filled.

Male or female?

No can do, pinkle. Class-o-fried.

Right, but what about your partner?

Come again, zhopa?

Jarrett stopped walking. I mean, it’s all well and good that you want to get fired, for whatever reason, but how about your partner? What about her, or, um, him… He paused.

She. Arlen cleared his throat. This stunt is a revolving, strictly she-only arrangement.

Fine. So what if one of your co-stars doesn’t want to be exposed alongside you?

Hey, man, that’s part and parcel with the arrangement. If you wanna play, you gotta be willing to pay.

Right, so does that mean you’re up front with your assorted female friends about the potential video leakage?

Arlen slowly shook his head.

Seriously?

Trouers smiled.

Man, that’s incredibly rude, not to mention massively disrespectful.

They do it for the thrill, chorra, he said. Getting caught excites almost as much as the spicy hot carnalized act itself.

And what if I threaten to expose you before you finish. What then?

Arlen shoved Jarrett against a wall. I was born without a moral compass, affenschwanz.

Okay … okay, Jarrett said, knees buckling.

Arlen relented, smiling with sociopathic sympathy. Hey, kima, I like you. You’re a desperate little scamp, but far too forthright to be of any real danger.

Jarrett caught his breath. Wait, was that supposed to be a compliment?

4 INT. ORH—Ticket Booth—Later

Please, they’re certifiably real. Lacey Payes, ticket booth attendant, pressed an artificially tanned hand to her impressively healthy bosom. Lacey was eighteen but carried herself with the sexually-charged confidence of someone Jarrett figured had banked double the years in experience.

Um, you must have me mistaken for someone less … obvious. Jarrett immediately wished he’d used a better adjective, like chivalrous, instead. Regardless, his striking hazel irises struggled to locate a less obvious center of focus.

That’s okay, everyone does it. Lacey’s soft, watery blues missed nothing. She was expertly suited for her primary role at the Plex. Ms. Cosgrove knew she provided the proper visual stimulus for those waffling on how best to part with hard-won discretionary income.

Jarrett cleared his throat.

Besides, she said, it would be totally phony to look anywhere else. They’re amazing, practically demanding to be gawked at. Just don’t overdo it, dweeb. I’m deadshot accurate with keychain mace.

Jarrett smiled. Truthfully, I couldn’t stop staring at them during the staff meeting.

I know. All the new hires do it, boy, girl, doesn’t matter. It’s just something to help ease the tension that comes with being in an unfamiliar situation. Breasts are universal icebreakers. She sighed, totally endowed. Warm-blooded globes of tranquility.

Jarrett teetered, toes drifting heavenward. So … tickets?

Okay, nuisance, I’ll go over the basics, but, to be honest, the only way a guy winds up in one of these booths is if all the girls come down with mono, or something likewise contagious. Ms. C. would build a female robot first. Lacey paused. Wow, I’d love to be the model for that, all prominent and shiny forever.

Prominent, indeed. Jarrett double-pumped his eyebrows.

Lacey studied him. So, like, how long has your hair been like that?

Jarrett ran a hand through his shock white no-style. Um, since puberty.

Her eyes widened. Some puberty.

Most definitely. He grinned.

Anyway, she said, turning, let’s breeze through the basics.

There was three tier pricing, beginning with non-voting passives. Voting actives paid more for the privilege of earning coveted cineaste cred, ideally shaping tastes and elevating the hopes (or crushing the dreams) of competing participants. Players paid the most, unsurprisingly, but also had a chance to gain tons of bonus build points for particularly stellar play that led to more tricked out avatars and access to exclusive, proven-skill HoloPlays, like the painstakingly converted classics or big, Bollywood-inspired song-and-dance spectaculars. Players also had the option of bringing their own (Plex-approved) FPV and HoloPad peripherals to the competition.

All three classes of consumers could cross-pollinate; passive to pod-encased active. The Plex catered to whatever its customers demanded, rarely having to cancel a HoloPlay due to subpar sales. For a showing to occur there had to be no less than three players. If at least two paying customers were tucked in their pods, the Plex would occasionally break the minimum participation rule and dispatch a staff member to occupy a slot.

Bonus points are cashed in at the kiosks upstairs… Lacey crossed her legs and smoothed bronzed hands over a skintight plaid skirt. Booths just handle initial HoloPlay buy-ins. What happens after that is between customers and their respective account balances.

Yeah, I’m mostly familiar, Jarrett said. I, um, used to come here a lot when I was younger. Pretty passive, mostly. My older brother, he was a serious Holo—

Finally, you can also add credits to a card, like this gentleman is doing. Lacey tapped a customer’s electric blue PlexCard against a mounted reader. Thank you, enjoy, she said, leaning forward and returning the card.

Jarrett smiled at the gentleman on the other side of the Plexiglas barrier, who totally ignored him.

And out you go. Lacey swiveled her stool and gestured toward the door.

5 INT. ORH—Transitioning To Concessions Area—Later

Oh, yeah, Lacey is one tough nut to crack. Arlen’s disappointment was obvious.

She’s sharp, Jarrett said, as the two ascended a glowing, neon white escalator. If only technology existed that allowed him to download a less prickly personality into so bodacious a body.

I dated her older sister. Arlen shrugged, as if it was no big deal. Danni’s taller than Lacey but not nearly as stacked. Great stems, though. We drank each other useless. Missed chances, matako. That’s the secret to a full and satisfying life, minimizing the number of lost opportunities.

Jarrett silently agreed, soaking in his surroundings. High above, projections of popular HoloStars darted and danced about, an entrancing tease of what awaited patrons within the vaulted auditoriums.

The escalator deposited the two ushers in an open space populated by milling customers, soft-padded benches, and freestanding UAM (User Account Management) kiosks.

For Jarrett, it was one step closer to the theaters and a chance for some candid, behind-the-scenes observations.

During his callback interview, Grandt was stunned to learn that it was Jarrett’s first trip to the ORH since his early teens.

Why us, then? he’d asked, sitting behind a cramped desk, thick binders and time sheets scattered haphazardly.

My older brother, Kyler, he talked about this place a lot, Jarrett said. It was a serious hangout for him and his friends.

Right… Grandt eased back in his chair. But he wasn’t here to work.

Exactly. Jarrett straightened. HoloPlays won’t be a distraction for me. I just want a fun summer job, something close to home, that won’t detract from my studies.

Excellent. Grandt related how he’d sniffed out too many flatterers and HoloAddicts, those who desperately desired to see what lay behind the magic curtain, to draw it back and gaze upon the proprietary projection equipment and, especially, meet the proficient wizards who worked the control boards.

While Grandt talked, Jarrett studied a roster tacked to a corkboard behind his desk. It listed lead projectionists, their backups (or Seconds as they were called in Plex parlance), and respective genres.

Ion Gaase was the Classics projectionist. He had no Second.

How come no one backs up Ion Gassy?

"It’s pronounced Gaza. Favours unearthed a retractable ballpoint pen. Like the well-known Strip."

Jarrett nodded, sufficiently enlightened. Right, so how come he doesn’t have a Second?

Grandt rolled his chair to Jarrett’s right, obscuring the schedule. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Jarrett. We’re still in the interview phase.

Jarrett smiled. Honestly, sir, if it’s all right with you, I’m ready to move on to the hired phase.

Grandt paused, and then clicked the pen. Well, you are within pedaling distance.

6 INT. ORH—Concessions Area—Continuous

Smell ya later, noobles. Arlen broke off toward the bathrooms as he and Jarrett arrived at Concessions.

Jarrett gazed across the sleek, candy apple red countertop and inhaled deeply. Smells like a winning formula.

Oh, please! Nikki Freeney, a few months shy of eighteen, dismissively shook her frizzy red afro side-to-side. She had caramel-colored skin highlighted by a density of lighter toned freckles. Captive audience feed buckets, and nothing more.

Jarrett lifted the hinged countertop, crossing over to the service side. It’s the unmistakable aroma … no matter how amazing the technology, it’s the popped kernels that keep customers coming back.

Nikki rolled her eyes. You won’t last an hour. She shrugged. Good thing I only got you for, like, half that.

Jarrett began filling orders. Say, you don’t happen to have Lacey’s number, do you?

Nikki leaned close. For the right price, I can provide whatever you need.

Really?

She smiled. Watch and be amazed, creepster.

An older guy approached the counter. "Small popcorn and, uh, an easy way to score with Muriel Stanshall’s character in Fatal Mountaintop."

Nikki directed Jarrett to handle the food part of the order and then rested her elbows on the counter. Twenty.

The man hedged. How much credit do I have left?

Nikki checked her Whitetail XL tablet. Five.

He produced his phone. Okay, fine. They tapped gadgets.

Transaction digitally processed, Nikki offered the following advice: Muriel’s character has serious daddy issues. You’ve got to be paternal with her, don’t suck up, and definitely do not cave in to her ridiculous demands. Scold her, Hank. Scold that bad girl. Do this early and often and you’ll have her in the sack before the second wave of mutant alpinists attack.

Thanks, Nikki. Hank munched a few kernels and then waved his PlexCard before the transactional scanner. Have a good one.

Better you than me, she said. Enjoy.

Jarrett wiped the counter. Wow. Isn’t that, like, totally illegal. Not to mention moonlighting on the job?

Hey, some people can’t wait for hot tips on how to rule the HoloSphere. They want inside info before the chatter goes viral. I simply satisfy demand. Besides, I provide really good, insightful tips. Maximal pith to froth ratio. Not to mention, I’m saving up for a down payment on my own place, free and clear of domineering parental authority. Please, new meat, don’t be a snitch. I really need my own space and I’ll only be full-time until the end of summer.

In the staff meeting, Nikki continually interrupted Grandt, asking about upcoming features and if any actual flesh and blood actors would be making promotional appearances. She studiously took notes on her handy Whitetail that was nestled in an orange and green leatherette protector.

No need to worry about me, Jarrett said. I’m just surprised you haven’t been caught.

It’s the openness of my approach, she said. Trust me, I have the perfect cover. Act suspicious, you got no chance. As long as I do my job, skillfully incorporating my expert tips into the perfunctory serving process, all natural and smiling, good little Ms. Worker Bee, no one’s the wiser.

There’s no way you’ve snowed Grandt.

Nikki made a sour face.

Jarrett grinned. What a scam.

Hey, keep your mouth shut, geek, she said. And, before you ask, no one else gets a cut. This is my racket and there’s zero margin for new partners.

Jarrett made a zipping motion across his lips. Making enemies on the first day offered little strategic advantage. So, is there anything else I need to know?

Nikki consulted her Whitetail. She then jotted a series of digits across a napkin and discreetly passed it to him. Not that you heard it from me, but word is she loves to chat while soaking in the bath.

7 INT. ORH—Men’s Bathroom—Later

Tony Maechlon, nearly twenty, ruddy-complexioned and slightly pudgy, aspired to more than cleaning bathrooms. They’re unknowingly grooming me to take Red’s place, he told Jarrett, squirting cleanser around the stainless steel wash basin. It’s just a matter of time.

Bill Red Timmons, sixtyish, was an old-timer, a guy who had actually mounted reels and threaded dangerously flammable film strips. He hung around, though, evolved with the technology, and was the as-needed 2D projectionist who also