Charles Montgomery Burns rested his head in his hand. Damn it all, his son was supposed to meet him for dinner at Filini, the restaurant on the second level of the hotel. Technically, since the bar downstairs was also called Filini, it stood to reason that his brilliant son would've gone there instead.
God, if I wasn't already grey… Burns groaned to himself.
It wasn't that he hated Larry. Quite the contrary, he felt a sort of bond with the man. But trying to bring Larry to a level where he could simply act presentable was like trying to drain the ocean with a teaspoon; or teach physics to a baboon.
Burns drummed his fingers on the table top. He'd stop by Larry's room, then search the bar.
If Larry wasn't there either, well, that complicated things.
As if they weren't already complicated enough. Burns was not a man comfortable with feelings. His sense of paternal ownership was constantly at odds with his utter embarrassment from Larry's lack of sophistication. It would've been easier to send him away, and never speak to him again… but that had ultimately caused more problems than it solved.
It seemed to Burns, that Larry had become a part of his life; and that would not change.
Do you really want it to?
I don't know, Burns replied in his own mind. Maybe I don't. But I can't leave the plant to him, not the way he is now. I don't think he'll ever change.
Maybe he's not the one.
Burns snorted. Well, who else? There is no one else.
There's always other options.
Burns gritted his teeth. Here he was, arguing with the voice in his own head like a madman. There are no other options. Now shut up damn you. The voice, mercifully, fell silent. He slipped his suit coat over his shoulders, straightened his tie, and took the elevator down to the lobby level.
The doors polished brass doors opened into the modern deco lobby, all fine edges, and shades of golden brown. A fireplace ran the entire length of the wall, but in the hot afternoon the burners were off.
Burns strode purposefully down to the bar. He hadn't even bothered to check Larry's room. He knew the man. A simpleton who enjoyed his booze. The odds of Larry being anywhere but the bar were slim to none.
As usual, his assessment of people proved correct.
Larry was sitting, his ample posterior wedged into a silver seat far too small. He looked like one of those Russian bears on a tiny circus chair. Beside him sat a thin man. Burns couldn't see the man's face, only the wavy black hair gelled into spikes, a few longer tendrils curling about his ears.
Of course he'd find himself some boorish oaf to coddle up to. Trying to integrate Larry into high society was proving to be fruitless indeed.
Moving quiet as a shadow, Montgomery Burns slid through the crowds in the dim light. Mood lighting, so called it. Burns didn't care. To him, it may as well have been daylight. He came up beside Larry, on the opposite side of the other patron, and silently sank his fingers into the tender meat of Larry's shoulder. Right by the neck.
Larry gave a yelp and recoiled back, a hand colliding with his beer.
The man beside him deftly caught it, preventing a spill and a scene.
"My dear son," Burns said softly, menacingly, "did you forget we had dinner plans tonight?" He regarded Larry's empty plate with placid contempt.
Larry wriggled in his grasp like a fish on a line. "I… gee… Pop I'm sorry. I meant to. I completely meant to, but I got distracted." Burns did not lessen his grip.
"Distracted now? Has anyone taken the time, to explain how critical a value timeliness is at the upper echelons of humanity? Our ability to keep a schedule is what separates man from dumb beast." He curled his lips in a not-so-friendly smile. "You're not some dumb beast, are you my son?"
Ryan watched Larry flounder, struggle for words. He couldn't see the face of the man at Larry's shoulder, but the lilting sibilant tone made his skin crawl. The voice was hardly angry, and that made it all the more menacing.
Ryan decided, right then, that he did not like Larry's father; this Mister Burns.
"It's not my fault," Larry protested. He gestured across his body. "I bumped into this guy, here, and we got talking. I didn't mean to stop, but he looks just like Pop-pop!"
Burns rolled his eyes. "That's the trouble with being uneducated, Larry. You'll see famous people everywhere. Today, Smithers, tomorrow Edna Pruviance-"
("-I have no idea who that is!")
"If you're not careful, you'll wind up inundated by the trappings of imaginary celebrities, and then what? Madness and delusion. I'll have none of it." Burns tightened his grip, causing Larry to flinch and twist his neck.
"No, I'm serious Pop!" Larry reached out with his free hand and grabbed the labels of his companion. "Look!" Larry implored, hauling Ryan forward onto the bar.
"Hey!" the dark-haired man objected.
Burns raised his eyes, expecting to be unimpressed. A pair of hazel eyes, wide and young, stared back at him.
Burns dropped his hand from Larry's shoulder. Involuntarily, he cupped it to his mouth. "No," he whispered softly. He felt the blood drain from his face. Those eyes, the color, the expression, the intelligence behind them. It was as if the past itself had ripped free from history, and sunk its talons into his chest. Memories he thought he'd buried erupted forth, bringing a flood of emotions with them. "No," he muttered again, voice trailing off. "It can't be. It's not you…"
(Ryan and Larry exchanged a confused look.)
Burns bit down on his thumbnail and struggled to regain himself.
"Yeah," Larry interjected, breaking the spell. "This is Ryan Smithers." He glanced apprehensively from Burns to Ryan. "Uhm, Ryan, this is my dad: Montgomery Burns."
Burns couldn't tear himself away. Those eyes, they may as well have been the same ones that watched him so keenly over forty years ago. Their owner stared back, unflinching.
Damn you, Burns thought, shock turning to rage. He straightened his back to his full height, and looked down upon his son and the interloper. He pointed a finger, claw-like, at Ryan's chest. "Boy, I don't know what puerile endeavor you've sought, or who you pretend to be, but I'm telling you now, your subversive attempts to torment me will fail. You are nothing to me, not even a ghost. I wash my hands of you further."
Burns sank his fingers into Larry's neck. "Come on, son, we are going. Barkeeper, put their consumptions on my room charge, except for the boy's there."
Larry gave Ryan an apologetic look, then turned his attention to Burns. "Come on, Pop! Doesn't he look just like him?"
Burns directed Larry to the stairs. "He doesn't look like either one. Any chance of something more than a passing semblance is pure malarkey. The idea that there's something more? Impossible. It can't be, and I won't have you ever speak of this further; I forbid it. Now move!"
Ryan sat alone at the bar, watching the two men disappear out of sight. He pulled a twenty out of his wallet, and set it on the bar, not looking away from the steps. The way that man had treated his son made him sick inside. If Larry considers that good treatment, I wonder what passes for abuse.
It was all strange though. It wasn't making sense to him.
When his eyes had met with that Burns fellow, something had happened.
It scared him, Ryan thought slowly. Whatever he saw, he's terrified of it. Of me…
Coincidence be damned. It was way more than that now.
Ryan's mind was full as he made his way down the strip, back to his motorcycle. He'd find a place to rest for the night, then tomorrow, he would be hitting the road. But not following the route he'd originally planned. No. Route 66 had been there nearly a hundred years. It could wait a little longer. First thing tomorrow, he'd set out for North Tacoma: specifically, Springfield.
If there were answers there Ryan would not rest till he found them.
FINAL VERSE... for now.
I didn't go to the moon, I went much further – for time is the longest distance between two places. Not long after that I was fired for writing a poem on the lid of a shoe-box. I left Saint Louis. I descended the steps of this fire escape for the last time and followed, from then on, in my father's footsteps, attempting to find in motion was lost in space. I traveled around a great deal. The cities swept about me like dead leaves, leaves that were brightly colored but torn away from the branches. I would have stopped, but I was pursued by something. It always came upon me unawares, taking me altogether by surprise. Perhaps it was a familiar bit of music. Perhaps it was only a piece of transparent glass. Perhaps I am walking along a street at night, in some strange city, before I have found companions. I pass the lighted window of a shop where perfume is sold. The window is filled with pieces of colored glass, tiny transparent bottles in delicate colors, like bits of a shattered rainbow. Then all at once my sister touches me shoulder. I turn around and look into her eyes. Oh, Laura, Laura, I tried to leave you behind me, but I am more faithful than I intended to be! I reach for a cigarette, I cross the street, I run into the movies or a bar, I buy a drink, I speak to the nearest stranger – anything that can blow your candles out.
For nowadays the world is lit by lightning! Blow out your candles, Laura – and so goodbye…
"Tom's monologue." The Glass Menagerie. Tennessee Williams 1945