THE TERMINAL COMPLEX
-by Roger Jacques
Installment One
(This is the beginning of an unpublished novel about computers,
Native Americans and lumber clear-cutting. If you are interested in
obtaining the full text, contact _Currents_.)
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-) 1.1.0 (-
A leisurely day's drive up from San Francisco, on the coastal cliffs
carved from the mouth of the Pomo River, lay the village of Navion. Its Main
Street, a mere snip of the great El Camino Real, or Highway One, which
ribboned the West Coast from Alaska to the tip of South America, catered to a
unique mix of salmon fishermen from its harbor, tough loggers from the
redwood mill that owned the coastal strip that separated the town from the
Pacific, and artisans whose shops and galleries along the highway fed an
annual summer tourist invasion. The reduction of fishing and logging for
environmental reasons had left this migration of queer birds, plumed with
brightly-colored credit cards, as the village's lifeblood, a seasonal scourge
to be endured with contempt by the permanent residents.
The rest of the year Navion, and the surrounding county, was as near-
defunct as the gulf coast of Louisiana. And almost as sleazy. Pomo
Bridge spanned the mouth of the river, looming three hundred feet above it
like gleaming modern dentistry, clamped on either jaw by gas stations, chain
motels and coffee shops.
And the HarborView, a sorry bygone bar and grill with a million-dollar
view.
-) 1.1.1 (-
It was a Saturday in early June, a postcard perfect day, and the
HarborView, which had only been open for the season's business for a week,
was virtually dormant. Only the bar was available -- the dining room still
had upturned chairs on tables surrounded by stacks of stock in cardboard
boxes.
At the bar a gaunt man from out of town, the only customer, toying with
a toothpick, was waiting for a gin and tonic and enjoying the view through
green-tinted corner windows.
He could see a sparrow hawk circling the inlet, preying. He could see
three - no - four desultory fishing boats, and a line of jerry-built shanties
on the promontory jutting beyond the bridge below the HarborView. At the end
of a dirt road that ran past the shacks to the promontory's very tip he
spotted a vintage Silver Cloud trailer glistening in the early evening sun.
He had to squint to spy a thin black ribbon of electronic cable that
stretched from it to the nearest slum home.
He was alone with the barmaid who was on the phone with her boyfriend,
whose car had apparently broken down on the way back up from Los Angeles.
She was a thin, tawny blonde in her late-twenties, sexy in blue jeans and a
pink tank top.
"What's with those poor shacks?" he inquired, pointing through the
window with his toothpick, when she returned from the phone with his gin that
contained too much tonic.
Her mind still on the chat with her boy friend, she scanned the
shanties, "It's an Indian reservation. Million-dollar real estate."
"Why they don't sell it?"
She gave him a rigid look. Apparently it was a stale question.
"Why don't you ask them? Are you another agent?"
"No. I'm about to start work at the saw mill. Just curious. Sitting
on that fortune, and they what -- just fish?"
His dry smile and the mention of easy money softened her.
"And drink," she smiled back.
The sparrow hawk was moving in slow circles along the far cliff. More
boats were heading in.
Maybe it was his aviator shades, or the fact that she could see his beat
blue MG through the tinted front window. Something about him had snagged her
attention.
"You got on at the mill, did you? They've been laying off for months.
You must have something going for you."
"Something they need. I'll just be here a few weeks. I checked in
across the street, at the Surf Inn, this afternoon, but I'm looking for
something homier ... and cheaper."
She pondered a minute, looking through the window with a hand on one
hip. Her hair had been sculpted in the shape of the rear end of a duck.
"There's some drab rooms downtown, but they usually fill up as summer comes
along. Wait a minute. Would you mind a room over a bar?" "If it's not
too dirty or noisy."
She fixed his drink with a look just this side of vacancy then returned
to the phone, with a nice natural move under her jeans. In the meantime he
reduced his toothpick to slivers cleaning his fingernails. His body was
still in motion from the long drive, despite a shower and a short nap.
The sparrow hawk had slipped out of sight.
She returned with an address written on the back of a HarborView
matchbook.
"Go to Tad's Tavern. He's got one. Tell him Stella sent you."
"How do I get there?"
"Three blocks north, one block east, take a left and you'll see it on
the right. Neon cocktail sign over the door."
He bottomed the drink, slid off the stool and left a five-dollar tip.
"See you, Stella. Thanks."
"Hey, your name?" she called to back of his wrinkled grey second-hand
designer sport coat.
"Shade."
"Shade?"
"Just Shade."
-) 1.1.2 (-
Tad's Tavern was one block off the highway and two blocks south of
downtown. Across the street from Twin Cinemas, Downhome Foods, Recycled
Styles and Lyle's Laundromat, Shade parked in front, pushed through a heavy
lacquered wooden door into dimness and ordered a Budweiser.
"Stella sent me."
Tad, a compact pit bull of a man, whose attention, with two of his
regular customers, had been focused on a cadre of young women in Day-glo
bright tights doing aerobics on the TV above his bar, slipped a paper napkin
under a bottle of beer before him.
"So you need a room?"
Shade shook his hand across the bar.
"The name's Shade. Yes, something halfway decent."
"Who knows you in town?"
"Just me, but I'm not worried. I work all over and this is how I go
about moving in, usually."
"What'll you be doing at the Mill?"
"Computer Development. It should take only a few weeks."
"So you'll be supporting management?"
"My job will have no effect on any dispute. I won't be here long enough
to bother with a lease, and I hate motel living."
Tad looked him over like a mule or a second-hand truck for sale then
slid over to his cronies, who had been joined by a third who'd entered
through a side door and helped himself to a beer in the freezer behind the
bar.
Shade's eyes had adapted enough to distinguish the pool table, potbelly
stove, pro football banners and pin-up calendars.
Tad returned with a key.
"It's eighty a week, plus a hundred deposit. Go up the back stairs if
you want to look it over. If you take it, I suggest you do your drinking on
the premises. The young cops here will think you're a tourist."
"I thought busting tourists was bad for business."
"These are young cops."
Shade took the key. "I don't need to see the room now. If it's as
clean as your bar it'll be all right. I've paid for a motel tonight, so I'll
move in tomorrow. Is a San Francisco check okay?"
Shade handed him his checkbook and driver's license. Tad handed them
back, nodding: "San Francisco. I left that town forty years ago."
Shade gave him a signed check, received a receipt, and, bracing himself for
the harsh light of day, pushed off the bar, stating, "I'll leave you with the
last word."
-) 1.1.3 (-
Shade drove around town before returning to his motel. First, he drove
to the main employees' entrance to the mill, which turned out to be a cluster
of small corrugated tin and pinewood shops surrounding a long worn redwood
structure that housed the primary saws, surmounted by a lofty brick pipe
which spewed the steam from the wood-fed engines that drove the saws. The
tall barbed chain link fence on either side leading to the entrance would be
easy for anyone to climb with serious intent. The mill had been operating
for a century on the stretch of beach that ran the length of town, and both
the northern and southern perimeters could be penetrated, especially on foot.
Then he drove in a methodical sequence of right hand turns that showed
him where the sundry city offices, shops and galleries were, relative to
Tad's Tavern.
At Downhome foods, he bought frozen shrimp, soda crackers, a bottle of
Creole hot sauce, and, at a liquor store, a quart of cheap vodka and a half-
gallon of reconstituted orange juice.
He'd had enough for the day.
Back at the Surf Inn he fixed himself a drink, ran a shower, and turned
into bed with his screwdriver, the shrimp, which he'd thawed under the tap in
the bathroom while he was showering, and crackers.
Life in America.