Afterimage

by zerofret

Chapter 2: Framing the Shot

Los Angeles - May 13, 1984

Stan could see that Nick's was crowded that afternoon, as he pulled up in front of the bar. He guided his black Porsche to the curb and shifted it into "park". He could hear music and boisterous sounds of revelry spilling out the club's doors as patrons came and went. Many of them were summer term USC students, who were wasting no time getting the weekend started. He gave himself a quick check in the rearview mirror, before climbing out of the car and straightening his expensive leather jacket. Holding the car keys in his hand and consciously allowing the Porsche logo keychain to dangle from his fingertips for show, he crossed to the entrance.

He stepped into the noisy bar and started to make his way across the room, wading through a haze of blue hued smoke and an obstacle course of closely set tables. Ducking past one of the large video screens, he could see that it was set – as always – to MTV. Frankie Goes To Hollywood boomed out from it: "When two tribes go to war, A point is all you can score..." His progress was halted abruptly as he suddenly backed into a waitress. Spinning around, his hands shooting out to her waist to steady her, he pressed himself lightly against her as he squeezed by in the crowded quarters. Nothin' but chivalry, he smirked to himself, as he moved on.

Having successfully navigated his way across the room, he dropped into a chair at a table near the wall. He offered a greeting to his three friends who were already seated at the table. Mark Hewitt and Doug Ranford were both Engineering Studies frat boys at USC. Stan was an undergrad at USC, as well, majoring in film studies. He didn't share the frat life with his friends, opting instead for a spacious loft off campus. Alex Chang was the lone graduate of the group; the twenty-three year old was a couple of years older than the others. Stan hadn't seen him for almost a month. Just now, Al was grinning like the cat that swallowed the canary.

"So?" Stan demanded.

Al grinned some more, but remained silent. Mark, already a few beers into a good time, broke the short-lived suspense.

"Guess who's the new entry level computer nerd extraordinaire at Cyberdyne Systems?" He leaned on the "s" sounds, drawing them out.

"You got it!" Stan exclaimed.

Al nodded. "I started a few weeks ago."

Stan offered his congratulations, shaking Al's hand with only the slightest raised eyebrow. Al had been heavily recruited by most of the big players in the computer industry, but – inexplicably – he had opted for the fairly small fish Cyberdyne. He had been enthused about the company showing interest in him; he just had a "feeling" about them, he had said, and he felt that their future was bright. Al wanted his own future to be attached to theirs. Stan hoped that Al knew what he was doing; he could have been on the fast track at IBM.

"We're taking Al to the Dodgers game and out for drinks to celebrate," Mark announced. "Right?" he said, very pointedly, toward Stan, while fanning out four tickets in his hand.

"Dodgers it is!" Stan replied agreeably. But Al had picked up on the message in Mark's tone. He understood the meaning of it immediately. Mark was indicating that if Stan already had plans for the evening, he should cancel them. And Al knew that Stan did have plans.

"Whoa, wait a minute," he said. "Didn't I hear that you're supposed to have a date tonight? With that waitress from Big Jeff's, right?"

He looked toward Doug, who shrugged, absolving himself of any responsibility for having leaked this information.

Stan looked at him blankly, then suddenly remembered. Sarah! he thought; he had totally forgotten. He had kind of made a date, hadn't he? He was supposed to be taking her to the Julian Lennon concert at the Hollywood Bowl. The only thing was, he didn't exactly have the tickets, even though he'd told her he did. He had thought that he'd be able to get them, but they just hadn't materialized.

As a matter of fact, a lot of his plans seemed to be going awry. Those plans had also included maybe driving up to the observatory after the concert so they could, uh..."look at the stars". But not after hearing today's news reports. Some group of punks had messed with the wrong guy up there last night, and a couple of them hadn't lived to tell the tale. The thug hadn't been caught; he was still out there somewhere...maybe not too far from the observatory. Stan wasn't going to tempt fate by heading up there – on a Friday the 13th, no less – the very night after all of that had happened.

Al broke into Stan's thoughts. "Sarah Connor, right?"

"Uh...yeah," he answered, sounding a bit distracted. He was still thinking about his best-laid plans. Mark now took a sudden interest.

"Sooooo," he broke in, "who is this Sarah?"

Stan waved a hand at Alex, indicating that he had already answered the question.

"She's a waitress at Big Jeff's," he said, matter-of-factly.

"And what does she look like?"

"Yeah, get right to the important stuff," Doug encouraged him.

Stan shrugged. "Well, she's..." He paused, and then had a sudden thought. "You remember a few weeks ago when we went to see 'Children Of the Corn'?"

"Yeah."

"She looks a lot like the actress in that movie." Nods of approval were exchanged among the other three.

"Okay," Mark conceded, and then challenged, "but are her curves as good as Honeycutt's?" He tapped the tickets on the table, then feigned a wind-up and threw an imaginary pitch.

Stan winked, and assured him, "Oh, they're a lot better."

"Really? Then what does she see in you?" Mark goaded him, gleefully.

Stan was prepared to brag. "Well, she thinks I look like Tom Cruise. One of the other waitresses told me she said that." He flashed a brilliant, movie star type smile, but his comment only sent the others into gales of laughter.

Tom Cruise?! Oh, the poor girl needs help. No wonder you like her!" Doug sputtered, happily. "Next thing you know, you'll be sliding around your apartment in nothing but your socks and skivvies, lip synching to Bob Seger tunes!"

After the laughter had subsided again, Mark pressed on with the interrogation, asking, "How did you meet her, anyway?"

"He came to her defense when one of the customers at Jeff's was giving her a hard time," Al said.

"Oh, so you're her hero," Mark drawled, with exaggerated understanding. "It's a gratitude date. She feels obligated to you." He'd talk Stan out of this date yet, if he could.

Stan was rolling his eyes. "Gratitude date," he muttered, with disgust.

Mark was out of his seat now, launching drunkenly into his best Mick Jagger impression. "I will be your knight in shining armour-r-r..." Maybe he could embarrass Stan into changing his mind. "...riding across the desert on a fine Arab charger-r-r..."

He was starting to draw looks from people at other tables, but he didn't let it deter him. Finally, Stan gave him a quick elbow in the ribs.

"You will be mine, you will be mine, all mine," Marked squeaked – winded – before collapsing back on his chair in laughter. "Her hero...oh, that's rich."

Doug was warming to Mark's antics, and he now joined in on the merriment, singing along with him. "I'll come to your emotional rescue, I'll come to your..."

Stan turned to Al and, jabbing a thumb toward Mark and Doug, asked, "We're going to spend the whole night with these two clowns?"

"You should be spending the night with Sarah," Al replied, appealing to Stan's conscience. Across the table, the Glimmer Twins impression came to a sudden stop.

"No!" Doug and Mark protested, in unison.

"Tonight, we celebrate!" Mark insisted. Any excuse for a party, and they were already hard at it. Doug now tried a few tactics of his own.

"Come on," he cajoled, "she might be dating you just for your Porsche."

"...and she might not be," Al added, more to himself at this point than to the others.

It was of no consequence to Stan. That's what the Porsche was for, at least partly – to get girls. But he paused and thought for a moment; a night at the ballpark sounded good. In his head, he could hear the sharp crack of leather meeting lumber echoing across Chavez Ravine. He could almost smell the freshly mown grass and roasted peanuts. It was too inviting. There would be other nights for Sarah, he decided.

He held his thumb and pinkie up to the side of his face, mimicking a phone call.

"Gee, Sarah, something came up, and I just can't possibly get out of it..."

Doug and Mark whooped their approval; Al was looking somewhat less impressed. Stan gave him a light punch on the shoulder, "Come on, lighten up. This night is for you."

To ease the mood once more, Mark called for a final round, eyeing the waitress appreciatively and tipping her generously. When drinks were in hand, he raised his bottle in a toast.

"To Alex," he announced.

"Alex!" Doug and Stan echoed.

"And to Cyberdyne Systems."

Four Coors bottles clinked together. "Cyberdyne Systems!"

ooOOoo

Stan stepped out of the bar to search for a pay phone that he could call Sarah from. It wouldn't do to make the call from a noisy bar; that wouldn't be too convincing. He walked up the street a block or so, passing under a theatre marquee advertising Robert Redford in his new movie "The Natural". He grinned, deciding that it must be a sign that he was supposed to go to the game. But he needed to think of a good excuse to give Sarah as to why he was canceling on her.

Spotting a phone in front of a home electronics store, he cut across the street toward it. He pushed a dime into the change slot, and then fumbled in his jacket pocket for the scrap of paper he had written Sarah's number on. Sure enough, it was still there. Cradling the receiver between his shoulder and his ear, he dialed the number.

As he waited for the connection, he noticed a wall of TV monitors inside the store; they were all set on the same channel. On each one, an overenthusiastic MTV VJ was interviewing Julian Lennon. Stan frowned and told himself firmly that he would refuse to feel guilty. The interview gave way to Lennon's video of "Valotte". Stan couldn't hear the sound from where he was, but he could hear the familiar tune in his head, all the same. He began to sing along softly. "Thinking of a reason, well it's really not very hard..." He then chuckled to himself at how appropriate that line was at the moment.

"Hi there," a voice suddenly broke in. Show time, Stan thought.

"Sarah?...Hi, this is - "

"Ha ha ha, fooled you. You're talking to a machine," the voice continued, oblivious to him. Stan breathed an inward sigh of relief. He hadn't exactly wanted to do this in person; now he could do it the easy way. He listened to the voice of Ginger Ventura – Sarah's roommate – rattle on.

"But don't be shy, it's okay. Machines need love, too. So talk to it, and Ginger –that's me – or Sarah, will get back to you. Wait for the beep."

The tone sounded, giving him his cue. He hoped he sounded regretful.

"Hi, Sarah. Stan Morsky. Uh, something's come up, and it looks like I won't be able to make it tonight. I just can't get out of it. Look, I'm really sorry and..." Hey, he thought to himself, why not keep my options open? "...I'll make it up to you. Call you in a day or so, okay? Sorry. 'Bye."

He hung up the receiver, now breathing an audible sigh of relief. With that done, he headed back to his car.

ooOOoo

Ninety minutes later, Stan was settling into a seat down the third base line at Dodger Stadium, as Rick Honeycutt took to the mound for the home side. The lefty stared past Mets leadoff hitter Kelvin Chapman, looking for the sign from catcher Steve Yeager. The first pitch was thrown, starting an enjoyable evening for Stan; in his opinion, the game couldn't have been scripted better.

LA plated three runs in the bottom of the fifth inning, to take a comfortable 4-0 lead. But the resilient Mets charged right back to put up three runs of their own in the top half of the sixth. Stan and his friends became sideline managers, bantering amongst themselves over National League style strategy. Unknowingly, Stan was already exhibiting the beginnings of the analytical, strategic, and tactical skill that would serve him so well later in life, under much less happy circumstances. One thing was certain: Sarah Connor couldn't be further from his thoughts.

Once again, the Dodgers had an answer. They tacked on an insurance marker in the bottom of the inning, and reliever Tom Niedenfuer blanked the New Yorkers over the final three innings, to pick up the save. The final score was 5-3 for Los Angeles. Dodgers' fans were going home happy.

The pre-game drinks at Nick's – and more beers consumed at the park to wash down Dodger Dogs – made the idea of going for drinks afterwards redundant. The four friends decided to go their separate ways in the stadium parking lot. Stan strolled toward his car, tunelessly whistling "Take Me Out To the Ball Game", and listening to his boot heels ringing on the pavement. He was blissfully unaware that his perfect night was about to start unraveling.

After reaching the car, he decided he'd wait for the lot to clear a bit; he was in no hurry. He watched the parade of humanity – and flashy metal machines – stream by. He lit a cigarette, and then turned on the radio. David Bowie came on, singing about how he was never going to fall for modern love. Immediately, Stan's thoughts turned to Sarah again. He was feeling guilty about standing her up. It was too late to do anything about it now, but he hoped that he could make it up to her, as he had promised in his phone message. He hoped Sarah would give him that chance.

He watched as two teenaged girls walked by, eyeing them with a look that included his most winning, charming grin. Once past him, their voices carried back audibly on the breeze.

"I'll take the Porsche, but not the loser in it," one of them was saying to the other. Stan's mood soured a bit more. Well, they weren't that cute, and they weren't his type anyhow, he tried to convince himself. He ran a hand lovingly over the steering wheel. In fact, the "Porsche factor" could get him women ten times better than them. Better than Sarah Connor, too, for that matter, he thought, defensively. He was starting to feel outright resentful of his guilty conscience. It wasn't something he was used to feeling.

He nudged the radio volume up a notch or two, allowing the terse crooning of Annie Lennox to drown out the girls' receding giggles.

"Sex crime...sex crime...Nine-teen eigh-ty-four ..."

Stan was still smoking out the window and brooding when a news update came on. He was only half listening to the announcer drone on.

"Reaction continues to come in regarding last week's announcement by the Soviet National Olympic Committee that it will not be sending a team to the upcoming Summer Games here in Los Angeles. The statement claimed that anti-Soviet protests were anticipated, and it further suggested that an anti-Soviet hysteria is being whipped up in the country. Other Soviet Bloc nations are expected to join the boycott. We hear now from..."

Stan pondered the idea of scoring some tickets for Olympic events. Maybe he could take Sarah to something like that. If he could get tickets at this late date, that might impress her. It could get him back into her good graces.

"In late breaking news," the announcer was now saying, "police are investigating two separate murders that occurred today in the Los Angeles area. Remarkably, the names of the two victims are almost identical. Both victims, thirty-five year old Sarah Louise Connor and twenty-four year old Sarah Ann Connor, were slain in their respective homes. Witnesses told police that a lone gunman was seen leaving the house of the former. There is no known connection between the two women. Police have yet to make an official statement on the matter, but they are appealing to Sarah J. Connor to contact them immediately. That's Sarah J. Connor; please contact Los Angeles police as soon as possible. More on this story as it becomes available."

"In sports, the Dodgers avoided the sweep in their three game set with the Mets, dusting off the visitors 5 to 3 in the final..."

Stan was staring out at the now nearly empty parking lot, stunned and unmoving. But in his mind everything was in motion. He was trying desperately to process what he had just heard. Questions were rapid firing through his mind. Sarah Louise? Sarah Ann? Did Sarah have a middle name? What was it?

He didn't notice as the news update ended, and the station returned to its music play list.

"I can't believe the news today," Bono sang plaintively. "I can't close my eyes and make it go away..."

Stan jumped suddenly, the forgotten cigarette in his hand having burned down to his fingers. The sting snapped him out of his stupour. He was suddenly very aware of how fast his heart was beating. Flicking the cigarette butt away, he took a deep breath and urged himself to stay calm.

"Bodies strewn across a dead end street – "

Stan reached out and snapped the radio off sharply with slightly shaking fingers. That kind of imagery he didn't need just now. Drawing another deep breath, he gripped the steering wheel and forced himself to think. What had the newscaster said? It was a thirty-five year old and a twenty-four year old. Right? Or was it...? Damn. No, he was pretty sure that was right. That allowed him to relax just a bit. Neither of them could be "his" Sarah, then; she was nineteen.

But the police were still looking for another Sarah Connor. That had to be the one he knew. They must think she's in danger, too, he thought. The newscast hadn't said anything about the gunman having been caught. He was suddenly reminded of the punks up at the observatory, and how their attacker hadn't been caught. The idea of Sarah being in danger caused another wave of remorse to pass through him; she should have been with him tonight. He felt suddenly protective. Did Sarah even know the police were looking for her?

He decided he'd find out, and he'd start by going to her apartment. He felt sure she'd be home. He'd stood her up; where else would she be? The arrogance of the thought was entirely lost on him. He also banished the idea that he might not get a very warm welcome from her. He could call ahead, but if he actually went there he would feel more like her knight in shining armour, riding to her rescue.

Against some guy with a vendetta and a gun, a small voice in his head protested. That made him hesitate; Stan's self-preservation compass always pointed true north. Still, it wouldn't hurt just to drive by the place and see. He gave the ignition a sudden, decisive twist, then slammed the Porsche into gear. The gleaming black missile leaped forward.

ooOOoo

Initially, Stan only cruised past the apartment complex at 309 Calder, looking for anything amiss. But all seemed to be quiet. He circled the block and slowed once more in front of the building, and then pulled the car over to the curb directly across the street. He left the engine idling for a moment, unsure of his next move. No lights shone from the second floor where Sarah's apartment was located. There was no way of knowing whether or not she or Ginger were there. Better go check, I guess, he thought.

He crossed to the pathway leading to the building's main entrance. As he neared the door, he remembered Sarah having told him that it was a security building; he'd have to get buzzed in. After entering through the outer door, he glanced over at the intercom board to his left, while reaching for the inner lobby door reflexively, just to see if it was unlocked. As he did so, the door suddenly exploded outward toward him, nearly coming off its hinges from the force with which it had been pushed. The blow sent him reeling backwards into the outer door, a shockwave of pain racing up his arm and into his shoulder. He heard his head connect with the glass with a resounding thud.

His momentum pushed the door open, and he stumbled back out into the night air, doubled over, clutching his arm and cursing. It had to be broken – his wrist, his arm, his elbow – something had to be broken. He felt like he had hit a brick wall at high speed.

Slowly, he straightened up until he once again stood fully upright. A wave of dizziness immediately threatened to overtake him, and he leaned heavily against the building for support. His eyes had watered from the pain, and he now blinked them clear, looking around to see what had happened. A man was striding down the building's front pathway, paying Stan no heed; it was like he hadn't even seen him. Stan glared after him, starting to do a slow burn. No "I'm sorry"? Not even an "Are you okay"? This guy had almost put him through a sheet of glass, and he was going to walk away like nothing happened?

"Hey!" he yelled after him, indignantly. "You nearly knocked me right through the damn door!"

The man took no notice; he didn't even break stride. His manner was businesslike and purposeful, but he didn't appear to be in any great hurry. Stan pursued him a few steps down the path.

"Hey, I'm talking to you! You nearly took my arm off, asshole!

Stan slowed and paused. He was starting to notice just how big this guy was. No, big was an understatement; huge was more like it. As the man continued down the path, Stan took measure of the massive shoulders that filled out the studded khaki jacket he wore. A deeply buried, never before needed, survival instinct warned him to think better of the situation. A confrontation with this guy was definitely not in his best interest, particularly in his current condition. He fumed, his pride smarting as much as his head and arm were, but he decided not to press the matter.

The decision, however, was then taken out of his hands. Just at that moment, the man stopped abruptly. It seemed there would be a confrontation, after all.

xxx (End Chapter 2) xxx

Chapter Notes:

1. The dialogue of both Stan's and Ginger's phone machine messages are taken directly from the movie ("The Terminator"); they aren't my creation.

2.The May 13, 1984 Dodgers vs. Mets game is an actual game that took place on that date.

3. Acknowledgement to Randall Frakes' novel of The Terminator for background information about Stan used in this story. (USC film school, Lennon concert, Tom Cruise reference, how Stan and Sarah met)

4. "Two Tribes" (Gill/Johnson/O'Toole), by Frankie Goes To Hollywood (1984)

"Emotional Rescue" (Jagger/Richards), by The Rolling Stones (1980)

"Valotte" (Lennon/Clayton/Morales), by Julian Lennon (1984)

"Modern Love" (Bowie), by David Bowie (1983)

"Sexcrime (Nineteen Eighty-Four), (Lennox/Stewart), by The Eurythmics (1984)

"Sunday Bloody Sunday" (Mullen/Clayton/Hewson/Evans), by U2 (1983)

5. Thanks to all who have been reading this. Thanks also to those who have given feedback and/or encouragement; I appreciate it! Any comments/opinions are welcome.