Canni

by Daniel O'Connor

  Skunk and Hoffman stood off to the side as Rob began to head off into the tunnel system. Russo stopped bouncing the ball.

  “Hold on, partner,” said the naked leader. “I promise she is safe. We ain’t lost nobody yet.”

  Rob stopped walking and said, “Can you at least tell me which direction to go?”

  “You made me stop bouncing my ball,” said Russo. “I once did it over a thousand times straight without a fuck up. Sounds simple, but there are so many variables; you get tired, lose concentration, it takes a goofy bounce. Sometimes even the simplest things go wrong if you do them enough times. Law of averages.”

  “Cash!” yelled Rob as loudly as he could. It echoed through the tunnels and startled many of the inhabitants.

  “Holy fuck!” said Russo. “Chill, brother. We don’t operate like that down here, all high octane shit. Your girl is fine.” He turned to his men. “Go get her and Phaedra.”

  Skunk and Hoffman took off. Rob began to follow them. Russo grabbed his arm. His grip felt like a bear claw. Rob tried to pull away.

  “You can go if you want,” said Russo, “but you’ll feel better and learn something if you let her return without you. You won’t be able to watch her twenty-four-seven down here. Not possible. You need to see that she is safe even if you aren’t beside her, Rob.”

  Russo loosened his grip. Rob looked in the direction taken by Skunk and Hoffman. His body actually leaned that way, but his feet remained firm.

  He stayed.

  “Cool,” smiled Russo. “Now take a deep breath. She’ll be back in a minute. She was being shown around and taken to wash up. No men around her, just our girl Phaedra.”

  Rob still stared down the length of the tunnel, though he couldn’t see much.

  “I’ll wait maybe five minutes, then I’m getting her,” he said.

  “Sounds fair,” answered Russo as he held the little ball up to Rob’s face. “I know you’re from Brooklyn, but you’re kinda young. So, do you have any memories of the Pimple Ball?”

  “The what?”

  “Pimple Ball.”

  Russo held it up to Rob’s eyes. A rubber handball. Quite dirty, but it was once white. There were small bumps all over it—’pimples’—and it had stars at what would be its North and South Poles.

  “Yeah, so?” mumbled Rob.

  “These were the greatest. I grew up in Philly. They were the shit, Rob. These little bitches could be bounced crazy. Before computers and all that crap, we could play all day with these things. All kinds of different games. Then, when the air finally went outta the ball, we’d cut it in two and play Halfball. All we needed was a broomstick.”

  “I’m not sure . . . ”

  “Look, buddy,” Russo held the ball up close to Rob’s eyes. “I used to have a few of these. They all went flat. This here one is the only Pimple Ball left in Artsy Bunker. It’s almost like a miracle to me because it’s still full of air.”

  “Cool, I guess.”

  Don Russo placed his chapped lips on the dirty ball and kissed it. He then took two steps and fired it with all his strength down the long, dark tunnel. It went so far that they didn’t even hear it land.

  Then, Russo and Rob stared at each other.

  For too long.

  “Cash!” Rob yelled, louder than before.

  “Aw, geez,” sighed the nude Russo, “I did all that for nothing. You said you’d give her five minutes and you didn’t.”

  “I said five minutes before actually getting her. All I did was call her name.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you that. I wanted you to see that the Pimple Ball was important to me. It was with me every day. But I just let it go. If I’m meant to have it again, I’ll come across it. If not, life goes on. Maybe I’ll find another ball down the road.”

  “She’s going to marry me. She’s not a rubber ball.”

  “Fair enough. I’m just saying to let things happen. If they are not meant to happen naturally, then I promise, you don’t want them to happen. It’ll all go ass-ways. The whole ‘square pegs’ bullshit.”

  “Why were you playing ball beside our beds in the first place, Mr. Russo?”

  “Let me get to that in a minute. Did you ever see a Pimple Ball by the side of the road when you were growing up?”

  “Uh, I don’t know.”

  “Tennis ball?”

  “What does this even mean?”

  “Please don’t say ‘golf ball’.”

  “I can’t remember. None of them, okay?”

  “That might be the best answer! I say you can judge how spoiled a person is by the balls found on the streets where they lived. Golf balls would mean a silver spoon in the ass, ya know? Living by a golf course. If you didn’t see no balls at all, you’re probably a good dude. Shit, even I saw Spaldeens, Pinky Balls, and Pimples, and I grew up in squalor.”

  “And you were playing ball beside my bed for what reason?”

  “Yeah, that. Well, I came to wake your ass up, and if I got a ball, I’ma bounce it.”

  Rob was looking down the tunnel as he spoke. “Why wake me at all?”

  “These tunnels are filled with slackers: drug addicted gamblers who have been sucked up in slot machine tornados and deposited right here, just like Dorothy and Toto. Except this ain’t Oz. They wander around down here like zombies. No structure, no hope. We don’t want those types in our bunker. Sure, we got addicts and gamblers, but the ones here have a purpose. We have chores and duties that keep our society running. The lazy ones can fend for themselves in the other tunnels. We want the workers.”

  “So, the ball-bouncing was my work bell.”

  Russo laughed heartily. “Yeah. But you can clean up and grab breakfast first. This ain’t a sweatshop. We have lots of fun down here. Have some drinks, smoke some stuff, dance parties, free love for those who want it. We just get our work done first. I’m hoping you can fix those generators. My boys will show you the ropes as to the washing up and bathroom stuff. That’s where your Miss Brooklyn went with Phaedra.”

  “I’m just worried when I’m not there to protect her. I know you can imagine how crazy this is for her. Just coming down to these tunnels is weird enough, but with the threats we all now face with this disease, or whatever it is . . . ”

  Russo placed his hand on Rob’s shoulder.

  “Listen,” he said. “Truth be told, it’s Phaedra—down that tunnel—and me right here that’s in danger. We’ve been living below in our little piece of America where no one has flipped. You and your girl are the dangerous ones because you’ve just come from above, where the monsters are.”

  Rob, perhaps as a reflex, turned his attention to the traffic noises above their heads. He hadn’t considered the prospect that he and Cash might be a danger to those who’ve welcomed them beneath the chaos. He certainly didn’t trust Don Russo, or anyone in the tunnels. Hell, he wasn’t even too comfortable with Paul Bhong. Yet so far, they had all conspired to do exactly one thing: keep Rob and his girl as safe as possible.

  Well, that and the request that Rob give Russo a blow job.

  “You guys have been great,” said Rob, “but it must be about five minutes by now. I’m not saying that your people are a threat, but I need to have Cash with me.”

  “I had an enormous bong once,” said Russo. “It was beautiful, all Rastafari colors. I cherished it because it came from a Marine buddy of mine. He had the most wonderful and powerful Rasta name too. I was so damned jealous.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Bob.”

  “Bob?”

  “Yeah. Like Marley. Those fuckers had the most common names, but made them so badass; Bob Marley, Peter Tosh, Jimmy Cliff . . . ”

  “Yellowman?”

  “Shit, Rob, you know Yellowman?”

  “Well, I’ve heard of him . . . ”

  “Real name: Winston. Nice try, though.”

  “Cash?” bellowed Rob down the tunnel.

  “On the way back, Rob,” came the distant r
eply. Hearing Cash’s voice usually increased his heart rate, but in this one instance it slowed it down.

  “Thank Christ,” mumbled Russo. “Listen, bud: I loved that bong. More smoke flowed through that thing than the fucking chimney at Chernobyl. One night, long before I lived down here, while listening to Canned Heat and watching The Mary Tyler Moore Show on mute, some chick knocked it to the floor. It was in pieces. I blamed no one. It was an accident. The next day I glued every damned piece back together. I still have that bong. I’ll show you later. It’s not as pretty as before and it has scars all over where I reconstructed it. But you know what? The smoke still flows through and I get just as stoked as before. It’s not perfect, it was damaged, but it still functions once I made sure to put it all back together.”

  “Is this the final metaphor of the day, Mr. Russo?”

  “Okay. I see.”

  “I just . . . I must admit that I don’t understand how your story pertains to me.”

  “I’ll be more direct. You’ve been here exactly one night and the whole place sees that you are, well, I was going to say you were wrapped around that little girl’s finger, but it’s more than that. You are wrapped around her like a boa constrictor, squeezing till she can’t breathe, wanting only to consume her. You are the one actually at risk, Rob. What I mean is that if the day comes that she smashes the blood-pumping bong that resides deep inside your chest, you can still patch it back up and get high on the rest of your life. The scars will remain forever, but you must find a way to keep smokin’, motherfucker.”

  Rob had no answer. He was shocked that Russo had sensed his greatest flaw and deepest fear in such a short time. He was puzzled as to why the society’s leader would even care enough to offer advice. He was also coming to terms with the fact that Don Russo had apparently served his country as a Marine. If Rob hadn’t shied his eyes from Russo’s perpetual nakedness, he might have noticed the tattoo over his heart: a Battlefield Cross that consisted of a helmet sitting atop a rifle, with two boots below. The inscription above read: FOR THE FALLEN.

  Russo was covered in ink, from an Oakland Raiders logo, to the quartet of symbols that adorn Led Zeppelin’s fourth album, to an elaborate portrait of most of the cast from the old prisoner of war comedy television program, Hogan’s Heroes. But it was the Marines artwork that covered his heart.

  Cash had returned. Her hair was wet from washing. Rob loved it that way. Like when she’d stride out of the ocean at Rockaway Beach.

  “This is Phaedra,” said Cash, as she gave her boyfriend a hug.

  Rob smiled at the young woman, extending his hand. “Rob,” he said.

  The redhead gave a broad smile as she clenched his palm between both of hers.

  “Come Phaedra,” said Russo, “Let our new friends have some moments together before their workday begins. Someone will come to show you where to wash up, Rob.”

  As the pair left, Cash said, “Workday? I thought we came to Vegas for a vacation.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” asked Rob. “You ran off without me.”

  “Because you stayed up all night, staring at me. You need to sleep too.”

  “I wasn’t staring. I’m just trying to keep you safe.”

  “Rob, we came down here because supposedly it is safe. They watch over each other. That is basically the only positive in being here. If you can’t embrace that, we should just go back above ground and take our chances protecting each other. We won’t be together all the time down here because we’re going to have different chores, or whatever.”

  “I’m going to request that we have the same jobs.”

  “Oh, I’m going to fix generators?”

  “No. But when I get that done, I’m going to ask if we can do the silver mining.”

  “That again? You found out what it is?”

  “Yeah. They have people go into the casinos and check all the slot machines for unused credits. Sometimes they get just a few cents, but there have been times where they’ve gotten hundreds of dollars, just left in the machines by drunken gamblers. They do this every single night.”

  “Hmm, so we can either dump buckets of human waste or stroll through air-conditioned casinos, printing out tickets? No way the new guys can get that cushy job, Rob. You’re smarter than that.”

  “Two things: don’t you think some of these unwashed types get tossed out of the casinos . . . ?” Rob hushed when two dwellers of that variety cruised by on safety patrol.

  “If we stay clean,” he continued quietly, “no one’s gonna notice us on the casino floor. We could be there all night. Number two: remember that the casinos are up there. They are not in the supposed ‘safety’ of the tunnels. We’d have to walk the streets to get there and count on their security to protect us once inside. Even cops have been flipping, so there is no guarantee there. I don’t think the silver mining gig is the prize it once was. Hell, Russo himself said two of them never returned from their last trip.”

  “I’m confused,” said Cash. “You say everything is about keeping us safe . . . ”

  “Keeping you safe.”

  “Whatever. But if we go up to the streets every night, doesn’t that defeat the purpose of being here?”

  “I don’t even know anymore. If I can watch you while you sleep and be beside you when you’re awake . . . ”

  “Rob. Baby. Listen to yourself. If all of what you said were to take place, you might be the one who kills me.”

  “But . . . ”

  “Or, I’ll kill you. I’ve already done away with my best friend . . . ” She sat down on the mattress, her head in her hands. Rob came to sit beside her and stroked the ringlets in her damp, sandy brown hair. She’d been doing reasonably well considering the events of recent days, but every now and then the horror fought its way to the surface and consumed her.

  “To think we thought it sucked back home,” she said.

  “I didn’t think it sucked.”

  “I’d give anything to just be back the way we were,” she explained. “Being a paralegal, going to school at night. It was hectic, but it wasn’t really so bad. You could keep working toward opening your own auto repair shop. Teresa would be there. We were always there for each other.”

  “I know, baby.”

  “This was supposed to be a fucking vacation.”

  “Well, it would be just as bad back home. The whole country is screwed. At least we can still get our Las Vegas wedding done, if you want. I know John G is gonna call me when he’s here. I guarantee that crazy fucker is still coming, all ready to be my best man.”

  It was too late to suck the words back in. Rob had done it again. Yes, the best man might still be en route, but Cash had shot and killed her maid of honor.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  President Collins was erect in his chair within the Situation Room of the White House. The vice president sat beside him, and they were surrounded, horseshoe-style, by their national security team. There was no Taco Bell in sight. It was not yet afternoon rush hour in Washington D.C., but half the world away in the Middle East it was well past midnight. An unexpected sandstorm had kicked up, but it was not enough to deter the U.S. Navy SEAL teams. The White House leaders watched two separate screens as their armed forces converged simultaneously on two modest homes, some thirty miles apart. The president had expected maybe some flash grenades and a whole lot of yelling, but that was not to be. It was more like some deadly surprise party. A quick and quiet entry, night vision goggles giving his men the edge they needed. Finally, some screams, a religious proclamation—neither from the SEALs—and a barrage of pops that sounded like fireworks, but certainly were not.

  Then, silence.

  The president, safe as could be expected within the fortified White House, felt his heart thumping as fast and loud as he’d ever experienced. Even after he gave the go-ahead, he did not want any of his troops wounded or killed, but he thought he had the spine to deal with such a result if it happened. If not, he wouldn’t have applied for t
he job.

  “Two under, two expired,” came the first transmission.

  “Five under,” was the report from the second location.

  “Let’s hope the dead ones aren’t the primary targets,” mumbled someone in the Situation Room.

  “Liberty team intact,” came another transmission.

  Then: “Vesey team intact.”

  “No American casualties,” translated a military officer standing near the president.

  A sigh of relief, followed by more silence as the SEAL teams prepared to extricate themselves along with their prisoners and the two bodies.

  One could actually hear the faint sound of a ticking clock on the wall to the right of the commander-in-chief. As the White House staff watched the specialized Navy units proceed to a quartet of Sikorsky Black Hawk helicopters, two per location, another sound began to battle the clock as the chief silence-breaker.

  The panting dog.

  Tick, pant. Tick, pant.

  President Collins looked over at his helmeted guard and the dog attached to him. He smiled.

  “You might want to give Lassie a cold drink, Harold. That is Harold in there, correct?”

  The guard raised his visor, “Yes, Mr. President, it’s me,” he smiled, revealing his face briefly before lowering his faceguard again.

  “Get that puppy some water,” laughed the president.

  “Sir, unless that is a direct order, I request waiting until this meeting is concluded.”

  “Not an order, Harold; just a suggestion from a guy who loves animals. I’m sure you know best.”

  “Liberty on helos.”

  “Vesey on helos.”

  Applause from the Situation room, and one dog bark. The SEAL teams were safely aboard their helicopters and on the way to a U.S. airbase with prisoners in tow.

  President Collins put his hand on the shoulder of Vice President Montgomery. “Owen, those guys are amazing. They pull these things off so matter-of-factly. In and out within minutes; coming back safely.”

  “Yes they do, Mr. President. We would be nowhere without our armed forces. The entire free world depends upon them, whether they know it or not.”