Chapter 14
One year later.
I’m still waiting to hear if our marriage is approved.
The way it works is the marriage certificate is ratified by the family “librarian” who is essentially the hand of Hans Arto. And through various conversations on the phone for the past 12 months, I’ve gathered she is sort of like a wicked stepmother figure.
Every day I receive calls from various entities looking for financial statements and residential history. Who my uncles are. Where my family emigrated from. At least twice a day, my phone rings and I pick it up, someone is muttering Italian or something, then hangs up.
Until it’s confirmed I cannot tell anybody.
Which is probably best, since the only person I really talk to is Everhet.
If he catches wind that I have any remote access to someone with wealth he’ll pressure me into trying to get them to invest in DPZ.
And he is the only person who can’t see the lack of appeal someone who isn’t a hardcore enthusiast would have in investing in a website that specializes in pornography as art.
The timing seems suspicious but during my waiting period, Everhet found major funding on his own. Apparently Marcus Green online approached him. Capital investment juggernaut whose dealings could be labeled questionable. Pharmaceuticals, basic utilities, and other known criminal enterprises were his specialty. He is known to employ some of the lobbyists who help ensure drug manufacturers can charge what they want for their products.
Everhet told me about him and apologized that he knew for months but had to wait until his deal with Marcus went through. And all I wanted to do was one up him with what I’ve got going on.
Marcus Green’s private investment conglomerate has agreed to underwrite DPZ’s initial launch and would finance “reasonable” expenditures until the time for an IPO would be fortuitous.
It’s an interesting setup Everhet has. He pays for it first, and almost anything is a business expense.
I suspect I am jealous, waiting to get my approval to marry into the Arto family. Which even when I say it to myself sounds so stupid. So unrealistic.
But the fact that Everhet sees the results of a once-in-a-lifetime out-of-the-fuck moment before I do drives me up every wall in existence. It diminishes my moment. Which I know is selfish, but without trying, I make it personal.
In the same way it is not the paramour’s fault in an affair, but the partner who swore to be faithful, I cannot logically blame Marcus for getting involved. But there is something about him that rubs me wrong.
We were on the verge of being fired from VGV for consecutive no-call no-shows but they’re so short-staffed they just dealt with it. It’s a weird and exciting feeling but we both just kind of knew we were close to not needing a day job anymore.
The sudden influx of cash allowed Everhet to plan out week-long excursions to do clandestine premieres in dive bars in cities no further than a six hour flight away. If you have a local dive bar and are within two hours from an airport, odds are we’ve visited where you live.
The support we have is quite surprising and refreshing. There was a time where I couldn’t understand how a parasocial relationship could exist. But something as secret and meaningful as sexual deviancy, and the desire to be understood can cause people to be extremely open with complete strangers like us. Except we aren’t strangers to them, they’ve been bonding with us without us knowing. Waiting for the day they could meet us. It is not remotely as flattering as you would think. In fact, it feels awful. Because there’s no way Everhet or I could fill the hole inside them that they want us to fill.
We get envelopes in every city. People want us to see the videos they’ve made. Videos too personal to put up on any website.
They’d find out where we’re staying that night and we’d get external hard drives slid under the door. Or at restaurants, after returning from the bathroom find single-use download codes on cocktail napkins.
Men and women, the bolder ones, at the signing tables would lean in and slide USBs over discretely while whispering, “Dox me baby.”
If the next FMCA 12.2 update goes through, snuff flicks will be legal to own, but not to sell.
Morphing the definition of pornography to be something so wide open is like equating ibuprofen to black tar heroin.
In Dallas, off I-30, Everhet and I are making small talk with some fans who are reeking of shake, in a bar outfitted with Victorian furniture and tarot reading stations strewn about.
A slick haired Marcus bounds through the entrance at an unnatural speed and his presence was immediately noticed by all.
A surprise visit. Everhet looked happier than shit.
Something about how his face looked. Not shiny, not even aesthetically pleasing. He looks too unburdened if that makes sense. I can’t explain how this looks, but it something that sticks out in people.
Tonight, his typical credit card wielding demeanor was fully intact. But he was looser than normal. That’s when I clocked him.
A gum chewer can recognize another gum chewer from a mile away.
The glassiness of the eyes, the unprompted pursing of lips, the licking of the roof of the mouth, the sudden desperate need to hear other people talk about themselves—all of these things are fine individually, but when characteristics exist simultaneously, you’re likely in the presence of a gum chewer.
And if there’s anything gum chewers hate, it’s another gum chewer. They’re like Highlander; there’s only one permitted per group.
And again, maybe it’s just the jealousy overtaking all other emotions, but I had a feeling there were larger things at play here.
Everhet had been targeted and only I could see it.
James Jacob Hatfield is a displaced engineer, a painter, and many other contradictions. His work has appeared in X-R-A-Y, Maudlin House, Vol. 1 Brooklyn, Barely South Review, Chaleur Magazine, Havik, and others. His ekphrasis poem “torrents of lahar, No. 36” was anthologized by the North Carolina Museum of Art. He is a Sterling Fellow and a Weymouth Fellow. He is the creator and curator of the Gemini Sessions Substack. He lives in Durham, NC.
Follow Vol. 1 Brooklyn on Twitter, Facebook, and sign up for our mailing list.