There’s a shakedown outside the booth at Penn Station. A mustachioed cop rummages through an elderly woman’s backpack; a second one oversees the search. A golden Lab sits slack-jawed. On the ground, a white sandwich board reads:
NYPD—BACKPACKS AND BAGS SUBJECT TO RANDOM SEARCH
Boone saunters past the charade—the cops don’t look twice.
34th Street.
September 9, 2006.
Welcome to the demilitarized zone: concrete and steel barriers dictating pedestrian flow, mobile command posts, surveillance cameras perched high on traffic poles, mounted police—all amid neon glare, honking cabs, bustling crowds, street vendors and tourists snapping photos.
The sidewalk beneath the New Yorker Hotel awning is lit like a Broadway production. The bit players clear away. That’s when he clocks her. Downstage center: an erudite hippie with short hair and apple cheeks. Her eyes—jaded. Her grin—transgressive. She puts a hand on her hip, stares him down. He wants to look away but can’t. The light from above contours her ample curves in a boho skirt, breasts veiled only by a black T-shirt with bold white print: Investigate 9/11.
You Mr. Burgh?
I am.
Thanks so much for stoppin’ by.
You’re a real life-saver.
No problem.
I’m Zelda…
She offers her hand—he lets it hang.
No need to shake hands.
Straight to business, huh?
If you don’t mind.
Not one bit…
Let’s go up to the room.
As they churn through the revolving doors into the lobby, the back of her shirt is all he can see: ThePretext911.com
So this is The War on Terror?
I guess.
Is it ramped-up for the anniversary?
It’s always like this.
Seems oppressive.
You get used to it.
Those bag searches on the subway—
Don’t they jam you up?
They only check when you enter.
And when you do?
I exit.
Find another entrance.
Doesn’t that piss you off?
Not really.
How come?
It’s outta my control.
That’s very stoic of you.
Docile.
That’s the way they want you to be.
Who’s they?
The globalists.
She leans in, slips into character:
They’ve declared war on your mind.
The lobby’s art deco grandeur gleams beneath a massive chandelier. He squints in the pasty light to make sure—her skin’s still flawless.
They’re turning this country into a police state—
using 9/11 as a pretext to seize your rights.
They skirt the velvet rope barrier that guards the elevator banks.
I’m guessing you haven’t seen my film.
I haven’t.
Heard of it?
Betty mentioned something.
10 million views on Google Video.
Vanity Fair said it’s the first Internet blockbuster.
She pulls a white DVD envelope out of her tote.
I’ll give you a copy—
on one condition.
What?
That you give it to someone when you’re done.
Okay.
Someone who hasn’t seen the film—
that’s how we spread the word.
All right.
Promise me.
I promise.
The black silkscreen label on the DVD reads clear through the plastic window of the sleeve: The Pretext.
I made that shit with two grand on my laptop.
Imagine what I could do with a budget.
I’ll definitely watch it.
I love conspiracy theories.
The comment doesn’t sit well with her.
The air gets awkward as the elevator ascends.
Conspiracy theory is a pejorative label.
A what?
I’m an investigative journalist.
I’m a filmmaker—
not some kook on the fringe.
I didn’t mean anything by it.
Referring to my work as conspiracy theory is a trap.
The label itself is enough to reject the claim.
He watches the elevator numbers climb.
In ’67 the CIA told its field offices to call
Warren Commission skeptics conspiracy theorists.
That’s how the term got weaponized.
The elevator doors open on the 18th floor. The long, ornate hallway belongs to them.
Do you believe that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone?
Probably not.
Then you’re a conspiracy theorist.
You and 75% of your fellow Americans.
Her room is all the way at the end. 1822.
65% think it’s likely 9/11 was an inside job.
Really?
Mm-hmm…
You know what that means?
That there’s a market for the shit you’re selling.
Precisely.
She opens the door.
After you…
Her room is neat, untouched. It smells new. There’s an unopened suitcase on the armchair. The glassware’s still wrapped in plastic.
End of the shift—
I only have Trainwreck and Silver Haze.
He puts two cubes of each strain atop the desk.
Which one will help me fall asleep?
Silver Haze.
Which one is good for protesting at Ground Zero?
Trainwreck.
Give me two of each then.
She lifts a bank envelope from her tote.
$200, right?
Yes ma’am.
She peels off two crisp bills.
Don’t ever call me ma’am.
She cracks a cube—the aroma of pine and earthy citrus overwhelms the room.
Ah…
This is lovely stuff.
Thank you so much.
He moves toward the door.
See you around—
Hold on.
His steps still.
Aren’t you gonna smoke one with me?
I can’t.
Why?
Dog-sitter’s waiting.
I’ll be done rolling this fattie in no time.
She thumbs a rolling paper, sprinkles greens inside.
I think the bow-wow can wait a lil’ longer.
Boone cracks a smile.
There’s beer in the mini-fridge.
Grab one if you like.
He takes one and sits on the bed.
She pops the joint in her mouth.
Walks over to him.
Fires the flame.
The puffing begins.
What’s your story?
My story?
What d’you want to be?
You seem like a man with big ideas.
She studies his inhale.
Are you an actor?
Smoke bursts from his lungs; tears pool.
He mutters between the coughs:
No.
Damn it.
Am I close?
I should go.
I’m sorry.
I’m being nosy.
It’s not that—
Right—
You have a dog to get home to…
Their mutual fascination spirals, cementing their gaze.
She slowly closes the gap between them. No words are needed.
The silence intensifies. Passion hums.
They succumb. Their mouths draw close, unblinking, terrified.
The kiss annihilates them both—pure being. No time. Just the rhythm of their lips in ancient sync. Déjà vu.
Zelda bites his lip gently as she pulls away.
Can I see you again?
Sure.