Kelly's World-Fixing Machine

By Lane Bristow

Kelly Adams is a musically gifted orphan from Romania, studying the performing arts in a small private school in the Alberta badlands. Tanner Kounz is a talented actor and playwright, who has just been given the most important writing assignment of his career. Kyle Teller is a deaf instructor of American Sign Language, trying to cope with the traumatic events which robbed him of his hearing. Maya Carpenter is a drug addict with a life in shambles. And Cassie Hudson is an exhausted single mother and high school dropout, working double shifts at a 24-hour roadside gas station.

When reclusive novelist Max Kordon wins the coveted Klondike Fiction Prize, his acceptance speech is witnessed by viewers from across the nation, most of whom have never seen him before. But his words and face are sufficient to send shockwaves through five unrelated lives, bringing to light his hidden past, as well the largely forgotten life of a man named Stanley Harmon, whose special birthday present for Kelly was never delivered.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 10, 2009
• ISBN: 9781438989044

Lane Bristow

Lane Bristow lives in Chetwynd, British Columbia, Canada, where he works as a paramedic for the BC Ambulance Service.

Book preview

KELLY’S WORLD-FIXING MACHINE

Lane Bristow

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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© 2010 Lane Bristow. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 2/20/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4389-8904-4 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4389-8903-7 (sc)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Contents

Monday, August 1, 2005.

The Hourglass.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Tuesday, August 2, 2005.

Adaptation.

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Wednesday, August 3, 2005.

That Half Second of Fog.

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Thursday, August 4, 2005.

A Cold Summer Night.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Saturday, August 6, 2005.

The Wooden Key.

Chapter Twenty-Five

About the Author

Other books by Lane Bristow:

Slice of Heaven

The Mercy of Wolves

The Doorstop (with Corinthia Purdy)

Last Stand at Coyote Yelp Pass

For Laurentia.

Welcome home.

Monday, August 1, 2005.

The Hourglass.

Chapter One

I hate interviews, Max Kordon said by way of introduction. I really need you to be aware of that.

The love of Max Kordon’s life had once referred to him as bluntly insensitive, and she was one of his defenders. She had also called him maddeningly practical, which explained why he was already dressed in a tuxedo as he sat irritably in a padded recliner in the hotel lounge, not caring that the gala event which required him to dress in said manner was more than six hours away. He had rolled out of bed that morning, showered and shaved in his hotel suite, donned a tuxedo, and then went to Humpty’s Family Restaurant for pancakes with lots of syrup. Max Kordon hated tuxedos almost as much as he hated interviews, but was too maddeningly practical to change his clothes more than once in the course of a day, unless forced by a cataclysmic event, such as having his pants catch fire. The entire hotel was a non-smoking section, as was Humpty’s, so trouser combustion seemed to be a non-issue, and, therefore, Max Kordon was dressed to kill, well ahead of schedule.

Max and the journalist were conducting this much-loathed interview in the luxurious comfort of the Rio Palace Hotel and Convention Center in Edmonton, Alberta. The journalist was female, quite attractive in a burgundy pantsuit, and Max had already forgotten her name, as well as the name of the media outlet she was interviewing him for. There was no camera, which suited Max just fine, because it meant that he would not be televised, an ever-looming prospect which he found to be almost as sickening as interviews, tuxedos, and overcooked pancakes with that mouth-puckering low-calorie syrup.

You’re under no obligation to give this interview, Mr. Kordon.

The journalist was more than accustomed to interviewing tough cookies, celebrity types who deemed rude behavior toward her, and her entire profession, as a sure-fire way to boost their own ratings. Being a jerk was a selling point, and she knew better than to take pampered adult temper tantrums personally.

Max Kordon was neither rude, nor a jerk. He was just bluntly insensitive, maddeningly practical, and unflappably honest. Interviewers had long found him to be a tough nut to crack, but the challenge was still an intriguing one, and this journalist was ready to take her best shot at this coveted pre-show exclusive with the handsome young author.

But I’m here, Max pointed out the obvious. Please know that it’s nothing against you in any way. You seem like a polished and professional journalist, and I have a high respect for your occupation as a whole. I just hate interviews.

The journalist’s nod was one of understanding. Interviews are invasive by their very nature, Mr. Kordon. Something that possibly only you are aware of is about to be taken from you and shared with a lot of people who undoubtedly have no business or reason to know it. You’re not the only one to be offended by the concept.

You’re good, Max acknowledged. Good enough that I’m going to give you some volunteered information before you even ask a question. Ain’t that something?

By all means, she answered graciously, privately wondering if she had just stumbled onto some kind of mystical inside track that so many other interviewers had overlooked.

My personal writing secret, Max expounded with a quiet smile. You want readers to remember your words, but you have two areas to do that in. You have the narration, and you have dialogue-monologue. Each needs its own slant and colour. Now, narration can take many forms of perfection. An objective third-person, a cynical first-person, an ironic omniscient. Say that three times really fast. The real trick is the quotes. How good can it really be, because nobody’s that good? What your character says has to be eloquent and memorable, but natural and unrehearsed. And what you just said to me was rehearsed. So, what is it? Have you run into a lot of resistant interviewees, or are you just that cynical about your job?

She smiled back. Well, when you put it to me like that … probably the job.

Then why do it?

Because it’s my twisted dream. You write. I extract information from unwilling prisoners.

And readily answering questions yourself makes you appear amiable, Max replied, not without condescension. Disarms the resolve of the prisoner. I still hate interviews.

Should I take that as my cue to begin?

Even better, Max assured her. I think we’re almost done. I’ve found out a lot about you.

I believe you, she said drolly. "However, the point of this exclusive is to find out your feelings about tonight’s award show."

My feelings, Max clarified, shifting his weight as though the padded recliner had somehow become uncomfortable. There will be cameras at tonight’s award show, and I dislike seeing spots. Um…. That’s really it, I just burned out. Forgive me, but I need to make a phone call.

He stood up. She looked surprised.

Are … are we done? She hated herself for stammering.

Max gave a short, sympathetic laugh as he shook her hand.

Didn’t anyone warn you? he inquired, straightening the tux jacket and buttoning it. Then he took a small business card and pen out of his pants pocket, and wrote a name on the back of the card before handing it to her. Here, take this. Remember this name. You’ll actually want to interview him very soon.

"‘Tanner Kounz,’ she read aloud, somewhat confused. Who is he?"

Someone who a lot of the literary, theater, and film world is going to want to talk to in about a week. Consider it my apology for a lousy interview. You’ll get a great exclusive. He smiled again, and began to walk away.

Can you at least tell me what you think your chances are for tonight? she called after him, hoping that her final and only interview question did not sound too desperate.

I’m going to win, Max said flatly, his glossy leather shoes clicking hollowly as they carried him toward the lobby. We all know that.

Chapter Two

A couple of hours drive south of Edmonton, the prairie terrain begins a peculiar change. Grassy fields of wheat and barley begin to be interspersed with sudden canyons and sand-encrusted dunes. Remains of dinosaurs can be found here, displayed prominently in the world famous Royal Tyrell Museum of Paleontology in the nearby city of Drumheller. This is the Alberta badlands, a desert in the midst of a wheatland, and in the heart of it is a town that seems to have been blown in from an Old West movie set. Originally known as Akokiniskway, or Valley of Many Roses, the tiny hamlet is now called Rosebud, Alberta, with a population that hovers somewhere around one hundred, give or take. And, much like the dying utterance of Citizen Kane, this town, too, is synonymous with great drama.

What was once a virtual ghost town is now gaining widespread recognition for being a dramatic oasis in the badlands. Rosebud School of the Arts is a Christian performing arts college, albeit one where dormitories are abandoned houses, and classrooms are in theater lobbies, basements, and churches. To put it simply, there is no college in Rosebud. Rosebud is the college.

Supporting the school is the Rosebud Theater in the center of town. With a variety of shows playing at almost any given time of year, there is always something to laugh and cry at in Rosebud. With other features such as touring shows, and the Badlands Passion Play and summer school outside of Drumheller, the school and theater continually attract aspiring performers of all ages. The accepted students are able to study the arts over an eight month Certificate in Theater Foundations Program, which is followed by a three-year Mentorship Program with majors in Acting, Music, Creative Arts Ministries, and Theater Production. It should also be mentioned that having fifty students in Rosebud at one time is referred to as bursting at the seams.

Those who graduate the Mentorship Program face a variety of career choices. Some seek employment on the Rosebud faculty staff, continuing to perform within the Rosebud Theater, while simultaneously handling administrative and teaching positions. Others go on to join prominent theater companies, or seek roles in television and film. And still others return to their hometowns, don logo-emblazoned visors and aprons, and flip hamburgers for the rest of their lives, the curse of the talented actor in a mind-bogglingly competitive market.

Tanner Kounz had no intention of flipping any more hamburgers after graduation, having flipped his share over the past four years, in order to cover the expenses not covered by his scholarships. He had prospects, and not just in the realm of theater company offers. Tanner Kounz had published his first stage play at the age of fifteen, and had published six more in the ten years since, two of which had been mainstage productions of major companies in Edmonton and Toronto. Two years earlier, a glowing review of his play The Tread of Angels in The Globe and Mail had dubbed him the most promising playwright voice in Western Canada. Tanner had a lot to be proud of, but the humbling events of the past ten minutes had just blown all of his pride out of the water.

Water was dripping from his dark hair as he forced himself to walk, rather than sprint, across the single four-way stop intersection, passing the town’s original mercantile/dry goods store, now known abroad as the Rosebud Theater dining experience. Six elegantly themed dining rooms were hidden behind that rustic false front, affectionately known to the locals as The Merc. Across the street from the restaurant was a tiny museum, a general store, and the administrative office complex which had once been the town’s only hotel. That was the story of Rosebud. Everything there had once been something else, students and staff included. The landscaped yard across from the mainstage theater (one of the few buildings originally built to serve its current purpose) paid homage to the region’s agricultural heritage with a display of brilliantly painted antique tractors, and even they had once been just rusty relics. Just down the street from the theater was the combination art gallery and recording studio, which had once been a small church. In this way, Rosebud was a place of perpetual transition, the old becoming new as the new gradually became old. The one thing that did not change was the pace, and that was easygoing and laid-back, no matter how many tourists came and went, no matter how frequently trains rolled through the valley, and no matter how many grandiose ideas were proposed and eventually implemented. That is why Tanner Kounz forced himself to walk when he wanted to run. And, today, he really wanted to run.

There was no traffic to concern him as he strode impatiently down the middle of the road toward a small white cottage just beyond The Merc. The standard weekly theater run in Rosebud was Wednesday to Saturday, making Sunday and Monday the unofficial weekend. A stranger passing through on either one of those days might have easily assumed that Rosebud truly was a ghost town. The dusty dryness of August was an even slower time than usual, as most of the students were gone until the beginning of the fall semester in September. Even the students and staff who remained to serve in the dining hall or perform in the summer show were unlikely to be found within town limits on a Monday. When compared to the alternative of easy-baking for a day in a dorm house, the shopping malls of Calgary suddenly didn’t seem so far away, and crowded carpools would gladly take the hour-long drive, briefly relishing the unfamiliar sensation of speed as the vehicles exited Range Road 840 for the divided lanes of the Trans-Canada Highway 1.

Tanner did have a supporting role in the summer show and, after performing it seven times a week, he had little time to work on his own final graduation project, which was the only reason that he had not joined his roommate, Lance Masters, and half a dozen others in their Monday Calgary exodus. Monday was his best time to get some writing done, and Tanner had to admit to himself that he was truly suffering from writer’s block for the first time in his life. He had announced that his final project would be a two-act comedy entitled Shootin’ the Bull, which he would star in and direct. What he did not announce was that, after two months, he had only just finished writing the second page. He still had over two months until the performance date, but people were starting to inquire about scary words like auditions and rehearsals. An inscrutable smile and saying Patience, loyal minions, was not going to keep them at bay for much longer, and the looming terror of being declared a fraudulent writer was getting hard to ignore. But, on this Monday, Tanner Kounz could ignore a lot more than that.

He caved to his impatience just enough to break into a jog as he turned onto the stone walkway to the cottage patio and rapped his trembling knuckles against the door. Through the glass, he could see the tall, wiry form of Cody Shaw pacing back and forth, his lips moving without sound. A Rosebud graduate who had never left in the eight years following, Shaw was now one of the school’s most noted instructors, and one of the theater’s most prominent actors, and he did not like to break momentum when he was in the middle of a monologue. His lips never slowed, nor did his eyes dim, as he gave a single nod in the door’s direction, permitting Tanner’s entry.

"And as the soldier’s bore dead bodies by, Cody raved, clearly agitated and furious as the door silently swung open, he called them untaught knaves, unmannerly, to bring a ‘slovenly unhandsome corse’ betwixt the wind, and his nobility. With many holiday and lady terms he questioned me! Amongst the rest, demanded my prisoners on your majesty’s behalf."

He stopped for a breath, and immediately the fuming Hotspur was just another man, bending over the cluttered coffee table to pick up a glass of water.

What’s up, Tanner? he asked mildly.

Wow, Tanner said, impressed. Hotspur never scared me before.

Cody chuckled, sipping from the glass. Word down from Alliance Atlantis is that a film version’s being mapped, modern setting. Hotspur’s gotta be a Marine.

Casting call? Tanner inquired, raising an eyebrow.

Cody snorted derisively. We dare to dream.

This town really is too small for you, isn’t it? Tanner remarked, brushing a sheaf of loose script pages to the floor so that he could sit in the wicker chair which the sheets had cleverly camouflaged as a recycle bin. Cody’s home was impeccable to the outside observer, but the living room looked like a hurricane had hit an accountant’s file room.

Well, I like to tell myself that, Cody admitted. But I’ve been telling myself for twelve years.

Tanner fell silent for a moment, briefly licking his suddenly dry lips. He held his cell phone in his left hand.

Maybe I can help you with that, he offered, switching the cell to speaker-phone. You may have noticed that I’m … soggy. I just got out of the shower, and this is on my voice mail.

He set the phone on the coffee table and leaned back in the chair, monitoring Cody’s reaction as the message played aloud.

Tanner Kounz, we have not met. My name is Max Kordon. I received your script and inquiry ten days ago. After verifying the authenticity of your authorship, I am granting your adaptation request. You have my permission to rewrite The Hourglass as a three-act stage play, to be cast and performed entirely at your own discretion. I believe that you have a true respect for my vision, and so am placing no limits on your creative license. Please call me at this number at your earliest convenience, bearing in mind that I will be on live television between the hours of six and seven p.m. tonight, Prairie Time. Who knows, Tanner. Maybe there actually will be a good time for Patrick Walker.

By the time the phone gave its second beep, Cody Shaw was on his knees, staring dumbly at the phone in front of him. When he finally regained any power of animation, he pressed replay, and listened to Max Kordon’s words a second time. And then a third time.

No way, was the first thing Cody managed to say.

Tanner shook his head. I mailed it two weeks ago. Shot in the dark.

It’s impossible, Cody stated, exhibiting definite signs of shock. Do you have any idea how many people have tried?

Everyone, Tanner replied. Since the day it was published. And when he turned them all down, they all tried again.

So this is for real? Cody had to be sure, and now he was beginning to laugh.

Tanner smiled. Total real.

Cody reached out and grabbed Tanner’s hand, shaking it vigorously and laughing delightedly.

Congratulations! he kept repeating. Congratulations! Wow! I can’t believe it! Would you do it here?

Where else? Tanner chuckled. I’m going to talk to Leonard about a mainstage run.

We have to do it mainstage! Cody decided excitedly. We already have the next season mapped, but forget it. If you can get it written in time, I’ll recommend it as a replacement for the spring show!

Don’t get ahead of yourself, Tanner cautioned him with a smile. I’m going to want to take my time writing it. It has to be perfect.

The story’s already perfect, Cody was adamant. Just adapt it. Do you have a pen? Start writing right now.

Look, Tanner sighed. I’m not kidding you here. An adaptation is three times as hard as an original work, but people hate to admit that. Why do you think so many really good books get made into really bad movies? Because people just try to milk a good idea dry. They don’t respect the idea.

Perfect! Cody agreed. Keep thinking like that, that’s why he picked you. Respect it to pieces, respect it to perfection! Who else knows?

Just you, Tanner said. I was going to make the announcement at Fellowship House tonight. We’re all getting together to watch the Klondike. You should come.

I’m there, Cody quickly agreed. Let me make the announcement, okay? Please?

Fine, toast me, Tanner consented. And then I get to announce that I could never handle the role of Patrick Walker.

Oh, come on, Cody scoffed. You’ll do great.

No. Now Tanner was adamant. Perfection, remember? The script needs to be perfect, the set, the sound, the Shakespeares, everything. I’m not going to do a half rate production here, and the casting is going to be the most critical point.

But you have to be in it, Cody insisted. How could you not?

I’ll take Garfield Walker. I could handle that, but Patrick…. Why do you think I’m here?

Cody instantly fell silent. Tanner stood up and pocketed his cell phone.

Come over around five-thirty, he invited. I’m barbecuing. Bring pop.

Tanner, are you giving me Patrick Walker? Cody slowly asked.

There’ll be auditions, of course, Tanner reminded him. But the final casting decision will be entirely mine. Don’t get me wrong, I want to play him more than anything, but I could never do him justice. And that old man always demanded justice. You want to get out of this town? I just bought your ticket.

Whoa…. Cody seemed at a loss for words. I don’t even know what Max Kordon looks like.

I don’t know anyone who does, Tanner said with a shrug.

Are you afraid? Cody had to ask.