“It’s the future,” Silverman said. “That’s what interests me. This source of energy, this power, and—well, I’m preaching to the choir here, right? But it’s guys like you bringing it in, and that’s just fascinating to me, you know?”
“Fascinating.”
“The human angle.”
“Human.”
“Look. I’ll be straight with you, Chris. I do the exhibition job, the museum gigs, but that’s not my main work. That’s what pays the rent. Fact is, I’m a filmmaker. I do camera, lighting, sound, and edit. I’m portable. I go places where a big crew can’t or won’t. You maybe know my work . . . ?”
“I maybe don’t.”
“Well, yeah. You’re not from here. I’ve been shown at the MoMA and Tribeca. Rikers was on PBS. I interviewed the guards, prisoners, anybody I could find. I’m interested in that human situation, you know? We’re human, we’re interested in human. What’s it like to do this job or that job, be subject to these sets of circumstances, or, or—” He looked at me. “What’s it like to work for the Registry?”
I sipped my coffee. Glanced out the window at a cop car on the corner of the block. Some early morning pigeons had gathered round it, looking for donut crumbs, or whatever it is cops eat these days. Everything looked leached out, gray.
“Lot of paperwork,” I said. “Though it’s all online, now. Like any other company, really. Rules and regulations. Dress code. Boss who sits in the office, drawing twenty times my salary. All that.”
“Ah—ah.” He wagged a finger. “Now you revealed yourself there.” He smiled. “’Cause that was bullshit, wasn’t it? The first part. Then the bit about the boss. The salary. You let go there. You said something real. That’s what I like.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Everyone says that, it’s not—”
“Sorry, sorry.” He raised his hands. “I’m rushing, aren’t I? I’m putting you under pressure. I apologize. You’ve had a bad night, and now, I’m doing this to you.” He shook his head. “That’s so bad of me.”
“You’re not putting me under pressure.”
I took another sip of coffee, then pushed it away, made to rise. He put a hand on my wrist.
“Look,” he said. “I’m sorry. I haven’t worked this out yet. I never thought I’d meet one of you guys, and then, you know, actually work with you.” He hunkered down, glanced at the booth behind as if he thought someone might listen in and steal his plans. “This is my elevator pitch, OK? I was thinking, see? You—me. I’m almost done with the display. If I can free up a few days, a few weeks? I follow you around, film what you do. I show the world—Field Ops. Yeah?”
“Not up to me.”
“Whoever. We clear it with your rich boss. I understand you can’t make a decision now, but—”
“Like I said, not up to me. In fact, a few years back, I’d have denied it all. I’d have told you I worked for an organization devoted to energy efficiency strategies, and that’d be the end of it.”
It was probably a mistake, but I reached for my coffee cup again, and sat back.
I said, “Going public’s quite a novelty for our lot. Plenty of ’em still don’t like it. But, that’s the way the wind’s blowing.”
“And I can help! Believe me, I can be respectful about this. I already know plenty, just from working on the exhibit. People talk.” He dropped his voice. “I know what happened in Chicago. And—yeah. Indiana.”
I bet you don’t, I thought. But I nodded, and he got all bashful for a moment, then he smiled, and for no real reason, I smiled back.
“I’ll tell you something—something kinda weird, shall I? Kind of a confession.”
“If you want.”
“Earlier, when all that stuff was happening, with the old lady . . . know what I was thinking?”
“It looked more fun in The Exorcist?”
“No—and, listen, I was concerned for her, of course I was. And you, though we’d only just met. But at the same time, there was this little part of me, all the time, thinking . . . wish I had a camera here.”
He kept his eyes on me, and when I didn’t answer, he said, “Is that . . . is it creepy, or something?”
“Yeah, it’s creepy.”
But I smiled when I said it.
“If I had your OK—if I could tell them you were on board, just in principle, when I make my pitch, then—”
“Hey. I’m Field Ops. Lowest of the low. What kind of power d’you think I’ve got?”
It took a moment. I could almost see the quip arriving, dawning in his eyes. And then he leaned towards me, aimed his index finger, and in a voice like James Earl Jones’s, said, “You have the power to command the gods.”
He freeze-framed, posing there, then sat back, grinning at me.
“How’s that for a strap-line, then? I mean, we are halfway there now! How is that?”
Chapter 13
Mr. Appleseed