The Animators(67)

“What, no thank you?”

“Thank you for scaring the bejesus out of me. Now scootch.”

We take U.S. 60 to the interstate. A long line of kids riding ATVs cruise along the road shoulder. A few lift their arms in greeting.

I-64 west winds up and down through the hills, flattening as it passes Lexington. Two bathroom breaks and three carside jogs later, we arrive at 75’s midsouth fork-off—St. Louis in one direction, Nashville in the other, Louisville in the cradle—get turned around taking a downtown exit, then ramble out Muhammad Ali Boulevard through blocks of fried chicken joints and Chinese takeout, houses with single red bulbs by the front door. “Did we just get teleported back to Brooklyn?” Mel says.

We make a turn, find ourselves on a block of Victorians, where we stop to photograph a jockey statue that has been painted pea green. Cut through Cherokee Park, nearly collide with an SUV on a turnabout, and emerge onto a tree-lined thoroughfare. The sidewalks are populated with kids in skinny jeans and square sunglasses. “Holy hell,” Mel says. “Sorry, but if that was East New York back there, then this looks like—”

“Williamsburg. This is it. Bardstown Road.”

“Jesus. Everything’s a microcosm of New York now. It’s ruined America for us.” She rolls her window down and lights a cigarette, checking out two girls in cowboy boots at the light. “I spy with my little eye…an ironic mustache,” she mutters.

And that’s when I see it: a large, spray-painted marquee reading WEIRDO VIDEO. Above that, an R. Crumb–style fiend hovers, tongue lolling out, one eye askew, horny hand grasping at old-school VHS cassettes.

Seeing it makes it real. My insides twist. I feel my armpits. Soaked.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” I say. “Remind me why we’re here. Why did we think this was a good idea?”

“Because it is,” Mel says. “Why not? He’ll be glad to see you. And if he’s not, then we leave.”

“Let’s go home. Let’s get some pie, then go home. There’s a pie kitchen up that way.”

“Okay, Cathy. Let’s all go ACK and shove our faces in some pie. Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Stop it. I don’t like this.”

Mel sticks her cigarette between her teeth and cranks the Mazda into a parking space. “Remember why we’re here. We had to come to Kentucky to see it for ourselves. And we have to go to Teddy to see him, too. Whatever story we’re doing here—it’s incomplete without him. He was there with you in that room.”

The image of Phillips-Stamper Cemetery flickers to mind, but dimmer than last night, weakened by the daylight, sobriety, my rising heart rate. “You know, I haven’t technically given the go-ahead on this thing yet,” I say.

“I didn’t realize a formal go-ahead was required.”

“For fuck’s sake.” I lean over and put my head between my knees. “I don’t feel good,” I tell her.

She hauls a bottle of water out of the back and hands it to me. I groan. Drink. Breathe.

“You’re never going to get out on the other side of this thing if you don’t confront some of it,” she says. “You know I’m right.”

I look around. It would take too much effort to run away.

“All right.” She climbs out of the car, comes to my side, and opens the door. “M’lady. Let us sally forth.”

The Weirdo Video exterior is a mosaic of broken glass—green Heineken and Ale-8 shards rendering Godzilla, a brilliant, plummy tongue, sparkling quartz for an eye. A bench studded with RC Cola and Nehi caps. Two boys are parked on it. The one in the Dinosaur Jr. shirt gestures to the one in aviator sunglasses holding The Definitive Herzog. A few cars line the employee lot, all European—a dented BMW, two newer-model Volkswagens with rainbow decals. A swath of bumper stickers reading STOP MOUNTAINTOP REMOVAL. Beyond: head shops, thrift stores, an old-school storefront catering to cotillions, white gloves and crinoline in the window displays.

I feel a strong, sudden affection for Louisville. It’s too much city for where it is, stuck between the South and the Midwest, metropolitan pheromones forging a force field around its borders. It has no choice but to go off the rails and become its own entity, a mishmash planet spinning off on its lonesome.

We open the door and a blast of cool air greets us. A guy with dreadlocks sits at a counter, a container of noodles in front of him. He gives a little wave and stuffs in a mouthful. “Welcome to Weirdo Video,” he chews. A television behind him plays something loud and stuttery. Rodney Dangerfield’s face blinks.

A bald, lanky kid who looks about sixteen bounces out of the back room, throwing a wad of paper at Dreadlocks. “Dude, your dinner smells like ass.”

“Shut up.”

That’s when I spot the trampoline by the door. It’s a small version of the large one we had as kids—black base, blue liner. Someone’s rigged an electric Domo doll, purple and ham-faced, to jump, getting about a foot of leverage before sailing back down.

“Psst.” Mel is next to New Releases. She wags a DVD at me. It’s Nashville Combat. “Check it out, baby,” she sings.

Dreadlocks swallows before saying, “You should get that. It’s awesome.”

Mel and I grin at each other.