came off in one piece. He tossed it out of the car into
the orchard. He shoved his thumbs into the orange and broke it down
the middle.
To his shock, a mass of rice-sized,
opalescent bugs swarmed out of the hollow fruit onto his hands,
while others spilled out onto his jeans and car seat.
He sprung out of the car and flung the orange
into the trees. The tiny insects were already on him and spreading.
He frantically tried to brush them off.
They circled around his arms and onto his
back and up the nape of his neck and into his hair. He wanted to
scream but feared if he unsealed his lips they would crawl into his
mouth.
II
The overripe fruit smelled even more pungent
fifteen years later, on August 31 st , 2015. The trees
refused to die despite neglect, and now an unnatural layer of rot,
decay, and cancerous regrowth disfigured the orchard. This didn’t
stop the nesting bugs inside from multiplying into profusion.
The engine of the SUV that drove among the
gnarled trunks hid the insect buzz. Here was Chuck Pointer, with
unruly, receding hair and squinty eyes that made him look stoned, a
man widely considered the world’s most notorious living biographer,
driving to interview Everett Grimes for his next book. Chuck
resembled his Jewish father, Aaron Pointer, more than his
Scandinavian mother. On his father, the sleepy look read as
sadness. On Chuck, as he drove (and in his life in general), it
came across as unflappability, a useful quality for putting his
subjects at ease.
He’d inherited more than his father’s looks:
Aaron’s life was one of struggle and perseverance. Chuck honored
that legacy by putting his career first and working relentlessly to
maintain economic prosperity.
After a few minutes winding through the
orchard, oranges smashing under his tires, he came out onto a
grassy flat. He continued down the narrow red-brick road until he
reached the beach and slowed to a stop.
From there, the road took a sharp turn north
into a roadblock, before it continued on and rounded its way up a
cliffside. He wasn’t going that way. Never mind the roadblock.
Those cliffs were where the House of Cabal had perched before
falling into the ocean, killing all who’d resided within.
Chuck’s research revealed that on May
19 th , 2000, Everett Grimes had been a guest when a quake
or an explosion caused the whole estate to plummet into the ocean.
Beyond that, most of the details were contradictory. In contrast to
his S.O.P., Chuck was coming into this interview relatively blind.
He didn’t necessarily view this as a bad thing. Focusing on his
primary source first could cut down on the kind of unnecessary
tangents that often bogged down his process. This time he would
fill in the gaps with research only as needed.
His objective was to solve the mysteries as
efficiently as possible. His current mantra was work smarter, not
harder. To accomplish this goal, he would have to understand
Everett Grimes first and foremost. Facts didn’t sell biographies;
confessions did. Today he would pierce through the front Grimes
wanted others to see. Long-coveted secrets would be revealed. The
forthcoming bestseller was all but inevitable.
It all seemed like common, human hubris to
me, but I couldn’t confirm my suspicions. Chuck’s destiny thread
led me here, but disturbingly, didn’t allow me to jump forward.
Traveling into his past was still possible, and so I did just that
for more context.
His father Aaron had the surname Poneviaser
until he’d changed it to Pointer in the early 1950s to benefit a
potential career in Hollywood. Unlike his son, he never found
success. Not that he didn’t try his damnedest, first to become an
actor and then to become a producer. Eventually, given enough
punishment, even the most resilient fighter throws in the towel.
Shortly after turning fifty, Aaron resigned himself to a managerial
position at a paper mill.
Not long after that, Chuck’s mother died of
breast cancer. Aaron had divorced her
the orchard. He shoved his thumbs into the orange and broke it down
the middle.
To his shock, a mass of rice-sized,
opalescent bugs swarmed out of the hollow fruit onto his hands,
while others spilled out onto his jeans and car seat.
He sprung out of the car and flung the orange
into the trees. The tiny insects were already on him and spreading.
He frantically tried to brush them off.
They circled around his arms and onto his
back and up the nape of his neck and into his hair. He wanted to
scream but feared if he unsealed his lips they would crawl into his
mouth.
II
The overripe fruit smelled even more pungent
fifteen years later, on August 31 st , 2015. The trees
refused to die despite neglect, and now an unnatural layer of rot,
decay, and cancerous regrowth disfigured the orchard. This didn’t
stop the nesting bugs inside from multiplying into profusion.
The engine of the SUV that drove among the
gnarled trunks hid the insect buzz. Here was Chuck Pointer, with
unruly, receding hair and squinty eyes that made him look stoned, a
man widely considered the world’s most notorious living biographer,
driving to interview Everett Grimes for his next book. Chuck
resembled his Jewish father, Aaron Pointer, more than his
Scandinavian mother. On his father, the sleepy look read as
sadness. On Chuck, as he drove (and in his life in general), it
came across as unflappability, a useful quality for putting his
subjects at ease.
He’d inherited more than his father’s looks:
Aaron’s life was one of struggle and perseverance. Chuck honored
that legacy by putting his career first and working relentlessly to
maintain economic prosperity.
After a few minutes winding through the
orchard, oranges smashing under his tires, he came out onto a
grassy flat. He continued down the narrow red-brick road until he
reached the beach and slowed to a stop.
From there, the road took a sharp turn north
into a roadblock, before it continued on and rounded its way up a
cliffside. He wasn’t going that way. Never mind the roadblock.
Those cliffs were where the House of Cabal had perched before
falling into the ocean, killing all who’d resided within.
Chuck’s research revealed that on May
19 th , 2000, Everett Grimes had been a guest when a quake
or an explosion caused the whole estate to plummet into the ocean.
Beyond that, most of the details were contradictory. In contrast to
his S.O.P., Chuck was coming into this interview relatively blind.
He didn’t necessarily view this as a bad thing. Focusing on his
primary source first could cut down on the kind of unnecessary
tangents that often bogged down his process. This time he would
fill in the gaps with research only as needed.
His objective was to solve the mysteries as
efficiently as possible. His current mantra was work smarter, not
harder. To accomplish this goal, he would have to understand
Everett Grimes first and foremost. Facts didn’t sell biographies;
confessions did. Today he would pierce through the front Grimes
wanted others to see. Long-coveted secrets would be revealed. The
forthcoming bestseller was all but inevitable.
It all seemed like common, human hubris to
me, but I couldn’t confirm my suspicions. Chuck’s destiny thread
led me here, but disturbingly, didn’t allow me to jump forward.
Traveling into his past was still possible, and so I did just that
for more context.
His father Aaron had the surname Poneviaser
until he’d changed it to Pointer in the early 1950s to benefit a
potential career in Hollywood. Unlike his son, he never found
success. Not that he didn’t try his damnedest, first to become an
actor and then to become a producer. Eventually, given enough
punishment, even the most resilient fighter throws in the towel.
Shortly after turning fifty, Aaron resigned himself to a managerial
position at a paper mill.
Not long after that, Chuck’s mother died of
breast cancer. Aaron had divorced her
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