by Adam Felber
Whoops—Bernie’s just stopped muttering to himself, which means he’s getting ready to be sociable. It’s the psycho’s equivalent of putting on a sport jacket and slicking down the hair. If he behaves, there may just be a big molecule in it for him. Time to sign off. Good night, ladies.
Deb: SEX Grant: EXCITE
Johnny and Arlene: TERMINAL
Leonora: CEREAL
Deb: GAVE
Grant: YEN, SEXY, IN
Johnny and Arlene: FIN, FAT, AT
Leonora: GAVEL, SLOG Deb: REAM, FINE
Grant: DUET, TO, US
Johnny and Arlene: S(H)ADOWS
Leonora: (A)T(H)EISM Deb: MOVE
Grant: INURED, FATE, EXCITED
Johnny and Arlene: MOVED, DECAY
Leonora: EF, FINER, FEWER
“Schrödinger’s Humdingers: harmless fad or deadly distraction? What you need to know about the popular new molecule … on Eyewitness News, tonight, after the game.”
“Are your children safe with Schrödinger’s Humdinger? After the movie.”
“Molecules that kill and molecules that don’t. Which are which? We have a ‘humdinger’ of an answer … tonight at eleven.”
Chapter 8
IT HAD BEEN A CLOSE ONE, but Grant won at Scrabble, narrowly edging out Deb, Leonora Decaté, and the inconstant team of Johnny and Arlene. The game wasn’t made much easier by the fact that Johnny’s grandmother had broken out another bottle of Lagavulin midway through, and by the game’s end everyone was warmed and giddy. A bottle of Talisker accompanied the arrival of the Monopoly board, and by the time Grant had his first house (a green single-family dwelling on Illinois Avenue, very convenient to the railroad), the room was a cacophony of laughter, screams, and silly accents. Grant and Deb reverted to the pseudo-Scottish brogue they’d evolved over the past year (which seemed to go nicely with the scotch), while Arlene tried to mimic Leonora’s surprisingly accurate French dialect. Johnny mostly laughed. Roared, in fact, to the point of oxygen deprivation.
Though Johnny hadn’t been outside for hours, the party continued out there, the assembled folk entertaining one another with acoustic guitars, domestic beer, and any number of illicit substances. The strumming and warbling provided a pleasant backdrop, further enclosing the five of them from the rest of the world.
Leonora, who’d made indecorous references to how little sleep she’d had the night before, was the first to go, uselessly trying to straighten her headdress while wobbling up the stairs and exhorting the others to keep going. Before leaving, she generously willed all her property to her surviving grandson. Nobody really minded this, because Johnny had made a complete hash of his initial assets and would need any help he could get just to stay in the game.
They drank, snacked, and played for another hour before Johnny was eliminated. Arlene went soon after that. Her rapid decline was more than a little suspicious, considering that she had well-developed holdings with good St. Charles and his purple fraternity. Still, Grant and Deb were clearly ahead, and were in the process of marshaling their forces against each other when Arlene drunkenly grabbed Johnny and more or less dragged him bodily back to his room.
The good times continued to roll out in the living room, until Grant’s mind suddenly notified him that the fact that he was alone with Deb meant that he was in fact Alone. With Deb. The drunken, giddy momentum of the evening suddenly came to an abrupt, teetering halt.
This is what Grant took in at the instant that time stopped: They were on the living-room carpet, on opposite sides of the game board, both leaning on one arm toward Jail and Free Parking, their legs sprawled off toward Go and Go to Jail. Deb had just declared, “Ach, ye’ve taken the food from the mouths of me wee bairn babes!” and she was about to roll the dice. Her hair was a glorious mess, her dress had more or less abandoned its attempts to conceal certain things, torso-wise, and for Grant the all-important game of Monopoly had suddenly vanished into the thick air, leaving just some cardboard, paper, and plastic on the floor between them….
Deb sensed it, too (or perhaps merely noticed that Grant had frozen, his mouth literally hanging open), and she stopped rattling the dice. Her smile grew wicked, and the room shrank, pushing the two of them closer together.
“Maybe,” said Deb slowly, leaving no room for misinterpretation, “we should switch to a different game.” Laughing lightly, she pushed the board aside and crept toward him, back arched, a knowing and extreme parody of a sexual predator.
The force of the come-on hit Grant like a sharp blow to the forehead—he was pretty sure his pupils were now different sizes. Here it was, here was Deb, laying it out for him like the gift he’d always wanted, and there was nothing even he could do to fuck it up now.
Sure there was.
Her breath was on his throat, and he tried desperately to think. He was so, so drunk. She read his face. “What’s the matter, laddie?” she purred, Scottish again. “Aren’t ya wantin’ to toss yer caber a bit?”
“I … can’t believe I’m saying this, but I don’t think so, lassie. I don’t think you’d be happy with the results….”
“What?” As in most extremely drunken conversations, they were too loud, too animated, Grant realized. His thoughts were unclear, but he hoped Deb was getting it.
“Grant, if you’re worried about my ‘requirements,’ that’s kind of a joke. I don’t care, really, and I make exceptions for people I really like….”
She wasn’t getting it.
“No! It’s not the size thing.”
“Thank God!” exclaimed Deb with exaggerated relief, and the tension disappeared, popped like a balloon as they laughed. Grant sighed gratefully.
“No, I knew that wasn’t it. Unless you’re trying to steal Leonora’s antique pepper mill …” said Deb, staring down at Grant’s lap and bobbling her eyebrows comically.
“Hey! Cut that out! Leave a guy a little mystery, can’t ya?” Grant strategically placed a few Community Chest cards in his lap as they laughed. She “helped” him place a few, he restrained her, they tumbled over and destroyed a fortune in houses and hotels. Somehow they ended up on their backs, next to each other, and a deep silence took over the room.
“Why not?” asked Deb quietly and a bit petulantly, staring at the ceiling.
“You really don’t know?”
“No.”
“…”
“…”
“That’s probably for the best,” said Grant finally, taking her hand gently.
Within five minutes, they were curled up amid the game pieces, deeply asleep.
… 17. And it came to pass that, as the Time of the Crossing drew nigh, the Prophet Bernie did awaken from his slumber and thanked the Lord for His many Gifts. 18. And Bernie gazed down and saw the face of the woman he had lain with upon the hard ground, and his heart was filled with gladness. And lo! For in Bernie’s pocket there now lay a talisman of many sides and of unknown purpose! 19. And the Lord said to Bernie, “Lo! For I have created a chill upon the air in the midst of summer, and though it shall pass, thine raiment protects thee not at present. Thine dungarees are thin, and thy flannel shirt hast been made threadbare.” 20. “Therefore, Bernie,” spake the Lord, “thou must go now to My servants in the Army of Salvation, which I have in My wisdom located conveniently on Mass Ave, not far from My Dunkin’ Donuts. There Mine servants will adorn thee with a light Coat of Green, which shall protect thee from the chill.” 21. “And the price shall be Reasonable, for I have ordained that they shall vest ye without Duress.” 22. “For the Time of the Crossing draws nigh, and thou must keep thyself in readiness for it. Go now, and do as I have commanded.” 23. And Bernie said unto the Lord, “Lord, thanks. This will I do. You’re the best.” 24. And Bernie did set out from his place of rest, and looked not back upon the Lot of Parking or the woman with whom he had lain, and he did as the Lord commanded. 25. And the Prophet Bernie did arrive at the camp of the Army of Salvation, and lo! It was as the Lord had promised, and the Army d
id clothe him in a Coat of Green. And though Bernie had lived as a beggar in accordance with the Lord’s command, still was he able to pay for the Coat, for the Lord had seen to this. 26. And Bernie was pleased, for the Lord had provided many other Bargains for His servant there, and Bernie did spend much time enrapt by these good gifts. 27. And the Lord said unto Bernie, “Move ye! Thou who accepts My gifts; waste not thine time in idle Shopping, for the Time of the Crossing draws nigh, and there is much to do.” 28. And Bernie was ashamed, and begged the Lord’s forgiveness. 29. And the Lord said unto Bernie, “No Problem. For thou art My good servant, and it would please Me if thou wouldst go forth to My nearest House of Worship, and there thou wilt find that it is Sunday, and I have provided thee with a free Cup of Coffee.” 30. And Bernie did thank the Lord anew, and did as He commanded….
The President of Montana (As If He Still Gave a Fuck) stood in a parking lot in Springfield, Massachusetts, and wondered why he felt so much younger. He had three theories:
1) Because I just ran away from all the responsibilities that were making me feel old.
2) Because I’m going back to Boston.
3) Because the natural direction in the United States is east-to-west—westward ho!—and when you reverse that, you get younger. Like E = MC2 or something.
The PoM(AIHSGAF) had to admit that that last one was a long shot—he didn’t really know all that much about science. He guessed that number 3 was probably also a symptom of number 2—he was returning to the place where he’d gone to college, where speculation was a way of life, where he’d arrived as a Montana farmboy and had a million experiences, tried curry, had his mind opened up….
When exactly, mused the President, had it closed up again? Well, no, not closed, really, but definitely narrowed. Streamlined, he’d thought, but now it looked like he’d been being too generous with himself. Why hadn’t Tammy told him about that? Why the hell had she kept that to herself?
The President’s mind flashed back to the last couple of years and Tammy looking straight at him and saying things like “You’re getting kinda close-minded there, Earl,” and “Maybe you oughta try thinking more than one way for a change,” and “Stop and smell the roses, Earl,” and “Are you sure that all this antigovernment stuff isn’t just a way of narrowing your life down to one far-from-personal goal so you don’t have to think about the more complicated issues of aging and childlessness and our terrifying financial situation?”
Yes, the President had to admit, she may have hinted at it a bit.
He smiled, and looked back toward the sunset. The past few days had been easy, fun, even revelatory. North Dakota, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New York … What a spread. He’d been only mildly surprised to find no traces of the New World Order. Well, there’d been a lot more surveillance cameras than before, a lot of talk about being “on alert,” a few more signs with warnings printed on them, and you basically couldn’t smoke anywhere anymore. But it didn’t really feel like a shadowy, controlling authority. More like a confused mess, like always, with no one really in charge of it all. Just like Tammy always said, and he once again wondered why that lady even bothered with him.
His key said “17,” so he went to that door, opened it, and was greeted by a sad and musty little room with bolted-down furniture and a carpet stained with at least a decade’s worth of the Unexpected. Tomorrow he’d board the 7:43 A.M. Peter Pan bus and ride I-90 upstream all the way to the source. This tiny, dank space was to be his shelter until then.
He instantly loved it, and he walked into the motel room with his arms open wide.
Arlene dreams of showering, of swimming, of wetting her bed at summer camp. She wakes up slowly, and dimly realizes that she’s draped around Johnny, and that her hands and chest are wet. Johnny’s wet.
Weird, she thinks, slowly bringing her hand toward her and opening her eyes. She sees an unexpected color, and first thinks that the sun is in her eyes. No, not the sun. But her hands, her arm, her chest are all wet and warm and shiny. And bright red.
Her heart pounds, and her veins fill with sudden adrenaline. “Johnny?” she asks, tentatively. She touches his shoulder and rolls him toward her.
He’s covered in blood. There’s no doubt where it’s coming from, because the right side of his face is … missing. He’s been bleeding for a long while—it’s not even trickling anymore, and some of the blood is starting to dry. He’s dead, Arlene realizes. Very, very dead. She screams, hard and ragged.
Arlene wakes up, or something. She’s in the same position as before, sitting up staring at her hand, an inert Johnny turned toward her, her scream trailing off….
But there’s no blood. No wound. Nothing.
That, thinks Arlene, is one fucked-up dream. It didn’t even feel like a dream, and just now didn’t really feel like waking up. It felt like … blinking really hard. It’s too weird, and her heart is racing and her throat feels raw, as if, for instance, she’d just screamed.
Johnny opens his eyes, and Arlene thinks she can see the pillow beneath through them. He smiles and she grabs his face, kisses it madly, throws her thigh over him. It’s not enough. She flings the sheet, rolls onto him, finds him stiff as the proverbial board (morning wood, thinks a little voice inside her hopefully, and not rigor mortis), still holding his face, enveloping him desperately, slamming up and down, kissing him. It’s not fun. It’s not recreational. It’s just necessary, if she’s going to stay sane…. She looks in Johnny’s eyes, and though he couldn’t possibly have seen what she saw, it’s clear that he understands on some level. She’s sure he understands.
Whoa, thinks Johnny, I am getting SO laid right now.
Dear Diary,
Crazy Bernie was off and running at around eight, so I had to spend a half-hour pretending to still be asleep. No matter how old they get, they still wanna pull on their pants and hoof it before you’re awake. And when you’re waking up behind a Dumpster, every little bit of dignity counts.
Me, I don’t need dignity.
Say this for Bernie—as far as nutzoid psychos with messiah complexes go, he’s a pretty good lay. And completely nondangerous. I give him the thumbs-up. Though not the “thumbs-up” he asked for last night—Bernie’s not exactly Mr. Hygiene, and a girl’s gotta keep a little mystery about her.
Back to the History, boys and girls.
1570—The Iroquois League is coming together. They originally start off as a sports league, but they turn political real quick when they figure out they’re never going to be allowed to play in any of the big stadiums. Mongols are overrunning China, which drives down property values, which makes the Europeans start smacking their lips and hunting for bargains. In Australia they’re getting wind of the Europeans, so they start packing up their technology and sending most of the really cool stuff off-world. They draw straws to figure out who’s going to remain behind to play the “Aborigines.”
1590—The Ottoman Empire’s as big as it’s ever going to get. Suleiman the Magnificent is dead, but his son Suleiman the Adequate is holdin’ down the fort. The new craze among the Turks is macramé, and they start hand-weaving things that shouldn’t be woven. Like flatware and armor. Over in Europe they’ve managed to kill most of the Huguenots, which means Mercy and Understanding are just around the corner. The Huguenots don’t mind because they’re robots.
1600—Dawn of the new century. Everybody’s happy, except the Russians, who’ve just entered the Time of Troubles and wish they’d named it something cheerier. Queen Elizabeth’s just about had it, and it’s Shakespeare’s fault: He and his sister have been running her ragged in the bedroom. Meanwhile, the Shakespeares’ musicals are doing great, but all of Vivian Shakespeare’s songs are about to get edited out, because the public is getting tired of all that singing and dancing.
In Africa, a man named Sool marries his 12,952nd wife. He is so charismatic that each of his wives considers herself his “favorite.”
In Morocco, they bu
ild the Tower of Foreskins, which stands anywhere between 150 and 400 feet, depending.
The clatter of dishes and the smell of coffee wake Grant. He’s got that could-be-worse kind of hangover that comes from really good scotch….
His surroundings slowly come into focus, and his memory struggles back online at the same time. He’s still on the floor, curled up around Deborah Johnstone. Before he can even get worked up about this, he remembers: He turned her down.
What the fuck? thinks Grant. Was there any logic to that? Or did I just feel like I had to obey the “logic” of badly written romantic comedies? Well, I’m not Tom Hanks. I’m not gonna get another shot. The most I’m gonna get is this right now, spooning with Deb, still dressed, with my hand on her breast—
Oh God.
It’s a natural position, what with his arm over her like this it’s hard to imagine where else his hand could be right now. But the fact is that Grant’s left hand is more or less completely covering Deb’s right breast. And if her dress was covering it before they fell asleep, it isn’t right now. That’s flesh under his palm.
Panic sets in. On the one hand (Grant dimly finds this turn of phrase amusing), this is tremendously interesting. But mostly he’s worried about Deb waking up and branding him a rapist, or at least a pathetic perv. A somnophiliac (is that the word?) who turns down girls when they’re awake so he can feel them up while they sleep. Any second now, the sounds in the kitchen are going to wake her, and it’ll all hit the fan. So Grant knows he’s gotta fix this situation ASAP.
He gently begins to lift his hand straight off, but finds that perspiration (either from his hand or her breast or both) has made the area slightly sticky—her flesh rises with his as he tries to withdraw it, and either the stretching or the eventual elastic bounceback is sure to wake her. So he aborts that approach, slowly allowing his hand to sink back into its initial position, trying not to enjoy what his hand is feeling.