he’d already been disappeared. Nobody knew where he was, other than his captor. Brown had taken his identification. Milgrim had no cash, no credit card, and he slept in rooms with grayish-green boxes on their doors, to alert Brown should he attempt to leave.
Most crucially, though, there was the matter of medication. Brown provided. Even if Milgrim were to manage to escape, he could only leave with at most a day’s supply of functionality. Brown never provided more than that.
He sighed, settling through the warmly rippling amniotic soup of his state.
This was good. This was very good. If only he could take it with him.
11. BOBBYLAND
East on La Brea, Alberto steered the Aztec-lacquered VW, Hollis beside him. “Bobby’s agoraphobic,” he told her, waiting at a light behind a black Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredo with heavily tinted glass. “He doesn’t like going out. But he doesn’t like sleeping in the same spot twice, so that’s hard.”
“Was he always like that?” The Cherokee pulled away, ahead, and Alberto followed. She wanted to keep him talking.
“I’ve known him for the past two years, and I couldn’t tell you.”
“Does he have a reputation, in the community, for what he does?” Leaving “community” unlabeled, in hope he’d fill a blank or two for her.
“He’s the best. He was the chief troubleshooter for a company in Oregon that designed professional navigation gear, some military stuff. Says they were very innovative.”
“But he’s down here now helping you put your art together?”
“Enabling. If it weren’t for Bobby, I couldn’t get my stuff up on the grid. Same for the rest of the artists I know here.”
“What about the people who’re doing this in New York, or Tulsa? It’s not just an L.A. thing, is it?”
“Global. It’s global.”
“So who does it for them, what Bobby does?”
“Some of the New York work, Bobby’s involved with that. Linda Morse, she does the bison in Nolita? Bobby. There are people doing it in New York, London, wherever. But Bobby’s ours, here…”
“Is he like…a producer?” Trusting that he’d know she meant music, not film.
He glanced over at her. “Exactly, although I’m not sure I’d want to be quoted.”
“Off the record.”
“He’s like a producer. If someone else were doing what Bobby’s doing for me, my work would be different. Would reach the audience differently.”
“Then would you say that an artist, working in your medium, who had Bobby’s full skill set, would be…”
“A better artist?”
“Yeah.”
“Not necessarily. The analogy with recording music holds true. How much of it is the strength of the material, of the artist, and how much the skill and sensibility of the producer?”
“Tell me about his sensibility.”
“Bobby’s a tech guy, and a kind of mimetic literalist, without knowing it.”
Bobby, she gathered, wasn’t going to be afforded too much aesthetic influence here, however enabling he might be.
“He wants it to look ‘real,’ and he doesn’t have to tie himself in knots over what ‘real’ means. So he gets a kind of punch into the work…”
“Like your River?”
“The main thing is, if I didn’t have Bobby, I couldn’t do any interior pieces. Even some of the exterior installations work better if he triangulates off cell towers. The Fitzgerald piece, he’s actually using Virgin’s RFID system.” He looked worried. “He won’t like it, if I bring you.”
“If you’d asked him, he would’ve said no.”
“That’s right.”
She checked a street sign as they crossed an intersection; they were on Romaine now, in a long stretch of low, nondescript, mostly older-looking industrial buildings. There was very little signage, the rule here seeming to be a tidy anonymity. There would be film vault companies, she guessed, effects houses, even the odd recording studio. The textures were homely, nostalgic: brick, whitewashed concrete blocks, painted-over
Most crucially, though, there was the matter of medication. Brown provided. Even if Milgrim were to manage to escape, he could only leave with at most a day’s supply of functionality. Brown never provided more than that.
He sighed, settling through the warmly rippling amniotic soup of his state.
This was good. This was very good. If only he could take it with him.
11. BOBBYLAND
East on La Brea, Alberto steered the Aztec-lacquered VW, Hollis beside him. “Bobby’s agoraphobic,” he told her, waiting at a light behind a black Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredo with heavily tinted glass. “He doesn’t like going out. But he doesn’t like sleeping in the same spot twice, so that’s hard.”
“Was he always like that?” The Cherokee pulled away, ahead, and Alberto followed. She wanted to keep him talking.
“I’ve known him for the past two years, and I couldn’t tell you.”
“Does he have a reputation, in the community, for what he does?” Leaving “community” unlabeled, in hope he’d fill a blank or two for her.
“He’s the best. He was the chief troubleshooter for a company in Oregon that designed professional navigation gear, some military stuff. Says they were very innovative.”
“But he’s down here now helping you put your art together?”
“Enabling. If it weren’t for Bobby, I couldn’t get my stuff up on the grid. Same for the rest of the artists I know here.”
“What about the people who’re doing this in New York, or Tulsa? It’s not just an L.A. thing, is it?”
“Global. It’s global.”
“So who does it for them, what Bobby does?”
“Some of the New York work, Bobby’s involved with that. Linda Morse, she does the bison in Nolita? Bobby. There are people doing it in New York, London, wherever. But Bobby’s ours, here…”
“Is he like…a producer?” Trusting that he’d know she meant music, not film.
He glanced over at her. “Exactly, although I’m not sure I’d want to be quoted.”
“Off the record.”
“He’s like a producer. If someone else were doing what Bobby’s doing for me, my work would be different. Would reach the audience differently.”
“Then would you say that an artist, working in your medium, who had Bobby’s full skill set, would be…”
“A better artist?”
“Yeah.”
“Not necessarily. The analogy with recording music holds true. How much of it is the strength of the material, of the artist, and how much the skill and sensibility of the producer?”
“Tell me about his sensibility.”
“Bobby’s a tech guy, and a kind of mimetic literalist, without knowing it.”
Bobby, she gathered, wasn’t going to be afforded too much aesthetic influence here, however enabling he might be.
“He wants it to look ‘real,’ and he doesn’t have to tie himself in knots over what ‘real’ means. So he gets a kind of punch into the work…”
“Like your River?”
“The main thing is, if I didn’t have Bobby, I couldn’t do any interior pieces. Even some of the exterior installations work better if he triangulates off cell towers. The Fitzgerald piece, he’s actually using Virgin’s RFID system.” He looked worried. “He won’t like it, if I bring you.”
“If you’d asked him, he would’ve said no.”
“That’s right.”
She checked a street sign as they crossed an intersection; they were on Romaine now, in a long stretch of low, nondescript, mostly older-looking industrial buildings. There was very little signage, the rule here seeming to be a tidy anonymity. There would be film vault companies, she guessed, effects houses, even the odd recording studio. The textures were homely, nostalgic: brick, whitewashed concrete blocks, painted-over
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