Pilate's 7

by J Alexander Greenwood

The soldier produced his canteen and handed it to Trevathan. "Won’t do any good to tell you not to drink too fast, so go ahead." He turned back to the battle. The small arms fire was dying away. "I think we took this lovely bit of real estate back. We'll pop smoke and get you out of here in a few."

  Trevathan gorged on the water, choked a bit, and calmed as his rescuer pulled him up to a sitting position, looking for additional wounds and applying pressure dressings to his head and shoulder.

  "Thank you," Trevathan said.

  "You'll really thank me after the morphine and phenergan kick in," he said, chuckling.

  Trevathan started to feel warm and good all over.

  "Shit man, you're smiling like the Cheshire Cat, that's good."

  "My eye isn't hurting so much," Trevathan said.

  "Good," the soldier checked his vitals. "You just relax…I think the rock'n'roll is over for now."

  "I prefer Hank Williams."

  The soldier laughed heartily. "Yeah, me too."

  "What's your name, man?"

  "Buster. My friends call me Buster."

  <><><>

  The morphine relieved Trevathan's pain and distorted the passage of time as he went in and out of consciousness. Intermittent flashes of lucidity intruded on his drug-induced sense of calm and well-being.

  "This fella's gonna need a new eye; not to mention a new eye socket," he heard Buster telling another medic. "Looks like his goddamn M-16 blew a gasket."

  "Fuckin' piece of shit," the other medic spat. "Those things are a fuckin' menace."

  "He pulled that dead VC on top of him to hide," Buster said, lighting a cigarette. "Half his face gone and he still had it in him to fucking live."

  "The cat's got nine lives," the other medic replied, flicking his butt into the bloody pool at the bottom of the mortar crater. "Okay, well, we're popping smoke in a few, then he's going to the firebase for a brief layover. Charlie's got some mortars and fifty-cals we need to deal with before we can get him to the six one."

  "Okay, well, he's stabilized, and I'll just sit tight with him until the chopper gets here."

  <><><>

  Trevathan opened his eye after being roused by Buster, whose ruddy face again filled his field of vision. He was on a stretcher and heard the sound of the Huey's blades whirring.

  "Okay, Trev, time to go, we're gonna get you to the firebase, then over to the hottest fuckin' nurses you'll ever lay eyes--er, well, an eye on."

  Trevathan smiled, reaching for Buster, but missing. Buster grasped his hand. "You're okay, Trev. Relax. You're okay. You're going home."

  "Buster," he said, his throat cracked and dry. "I owe you. Thank you."

  "Tell you what, Trev," he said, waving back at a corpsman signaling him it was time to load the chopper. "I'm rotating out in two months and heading back home. Islamorada…just up the highway from Key West, Florida. That’s my hangout. You get out, you come down there and buy me a beer. That a deal? Name is Buster. Actually it's Garrett, Garrett Campbell, but everybody calls me Buster. Just go down to Key West and ask around Sloppy Joe's for Buster Campbell. You'll find me. Deal?"

  "Deal. Key West."

  "And Trev?" he said, grunting as he picked up his end of the stretcher at Trevathan's head.

  "Huh?"

  "I don't drink with assholes. You're not an asshole, are you?"

  "Actually, yeah, I am," he said.

  Buster laughed. "Fuck it. Come anyway."

  "What if I can't find you?"

  "Just order a drink and keep an eye out," he said, smiling.

  "Asshole," Trevathan whispered, a brief smile half-hidden beneath his dressing.

  Buster loaded Trevathan on the chopper and slid the door closed.

  Trevathan's eyelid drooped shut. It opened wide in surprise and alarm for a moment as the chopper lifted him above hell, then closed as he drifted home.

  The Next Plane

  "Peter, I want to thank you for taking the time to talk with us," Blaise Magritte said, leaning over the desk and offering a glass of ice water. Light filtering through the skylight above her magnificent desk made the ice appear to be rare gemstones bathing in a shimmering pool.

  He waved her off. "It's good stuff," she said, as if asking a little boy if he really wanted to turn down a proffered cookie. "Not that reclaimed liquid."

  "Okay," Peter said, taking the glass and sipping it. His face lit up with surprise; the tinny, unpleasant taste of most of the water he usually drank was absent.

  "Spring water," she said, smiling, lacing her fingers together on her desk. "The foundation owns a retreat in Colorado. We bottle our own water there, sell it, and use the profits to enhance our outreach activities. Hydration like that is at quite a premium these days, with the state of the water situation."

  “It's excellent," he said, shifting in his leather visitor's chair. He scanned her office, taking in the elegant, minimalist design aesthetic. It was spare without being cold, kind of a proto-sixties-Star Trek vibe.

  "My pleasure," she smiled. He caught a glimpse of her dimples and to Peter, the pretty, forty-ish woman before him was a girl of eighteen for a moment. Very attractive, he noted. Certainly filled out her pencil skirt in a provocative way.

  "So, Mrs. Magritte--"

  "Blaise," she said, again with the dimples.

  "Blaise," he said, smiling warmly. "What can I do for you?"

  "Well, we're working on a sort of, well, history of our founder, and we have some gaps in what we know about his time in Cross Township."

  "Okay," Peter said, warily. "Founder?"

  "Indeed, our founder. It was his writings, and his personal fortune, I might add, that established the foundation. Indeed he inspired Cordwainology, which has helped millions of people over the past twenty years."

  "I see," Peter said, placing the glass back on her desk. "I, um, well, I'm not really into religion."

  Blaise's smile didn't waver. "Cordwainology is not a religion, per se, Peter. It's a philosophy for maximizing one's potential on this plane of existence in preparation for the next."

  "And that is truly, truly fantastic," he said, hurriedly. "I like my potential on this plane just fine right now. And I'm not sure I even believe there's another plane, and if there is, knowing me, I'll miss the connection anyway. So, if there's nothing else--" he started to rise from his chair, resisting the urge to down the wonderful water as he walked out.

  Blaise made a "please be seated" gesture with both arms, her palms facing the desk.

  "Due to your intimate affiliation with Cross College, indeed the town itself, we were hoping you could help us out by answering a few questions."

  "Well, I really don't know what I could tell you," he said, drinking more of the water.

  "You may know more than you think," she said, unlacing her fingers and reaching for a blue tablet. It was one of the new Apple models--only half a centimeter thick and boasting thousands of times more computing power than had existed in all of the 20th century.

  She tapped the screen a few times, and the tablet's holoemitter projected a 3D image between them. He saw a somewhat idealized portrait of a long-dead acquaintance he last laid eyes on when he was five.

  Peter smiled. "Harley Cordwainer."

  "An interesting man, yes? I never met him. He matriculated to the next plane before I started here."

  "I met him, and yeah…he was interesting. But I was a child. I can't remember much more than his being vulgar, argumentative, kind of funny and a lover of fuzzy house shoes."

  "He was eccentric, to be sure, but--"

  "Blaise, he was a certifiable nut job, if you'll pardon my rudeness."

  Blaise turned off the emitter, and Cordwainer's Mount Rushmore-like visage faded from between them. Her smile vanished with it.

  "I'm sorry, Blaise," he said, feeling a little bad. "I have my dad's sharp tongue sometimes."

  "Truthfully, it’s your father we're most interested in."

  "Here it comes," Peter thought. "Well, then
why not talk to him?"

  "He won't respond to our vidcalls, texts, consciamail, you name it," she said.

  "Welcome to the club, Blaise," Peter sighed. "Dad doesn't talk to anybody. Not anymore."

  "We just want to know what he thought about his time with Dr. Cordwainer."

  "Doctor? He was a hack sci-fi writer--"

  "He received several honorary doctorates," Blaise corrected him.

  "Fine. You revere Doctor Harley Cordwainer. Great. You made a religion--sorry, philosophy--around him. Super fab. Now you want my Dad's opinion of the guy? Well, first of all, I'm a little pissed off you lured me here under false pretenses. You promised me you had some of my dad's old computer files to give me. You don't have his Cross Township diaries, do you? You have nothing to give me--you just want to pump me for information."

  Blaise laced her fingers together again; she looked at her hands.

  "If you could just tell your father that we wish to speak with him about his interactions with Dr. Cordwainer."

  "Let me save you the trouble," Peter said, picking up the glass of spring water and gulping it down. "I owe you that for the glass of fresh water. Nice to drink something that hasn't previously run through the kidneys of my next door neighbor for once."

  He put the glass back on her desk with a loud "bonk" sound. Blaise started, looking up at Peter.

  "Dad once told me that Harley, excuse me, Doctor Cordwainer…" he paused, leaning in closer. Blaise leaned across her desk, anticipating every syllable about her personal god. "Award-winning author, former professor at Cross College, founder of Cordwainology…once took a shit on an old lady's lawn at midnight every night for six weeks straight."

  "Mister Pilate, that is uncalled for!" Blaise stood, outrage banishing any trace of her dimples, pointing to the door. "I trust I don't need to call security to show you out."

  "You mean those guys with the jabsticks and white robes? No, that will not be necessary."

  Peter stood and strode to her office door. He paused, and turned to her.

  "You know, he idolized Harley when he was a kid," he said. "Brilliant writer. But by the time he actually met him, old Harley had gone round the bend and met himself coming back at least twice. He wasn't right in the head."

  Blaise sniffed at him. "Is that all you have to say?"

  "Well, that and the fact that I think the real information you want out of my dad is if he ever plans to tell the world that Harley founded this little operation you're so proud of with some stolen gold?"

  She whirled to face him, wordlessly confirming Peter's suspicion.

  Peter sighed. "Cordwainer was flat broke from all his alimony and bad business deals. Then one year, out of nowhere, he starts selling books. Making the bestseller list again. He started making money again. Movies made of his stories, the nest egg grew. The books were crap--he had lost his edge. He made the bestseller list because he was buying his own books, lady."

  "Untrue."

  "Whatever. Fine. That sort of thing never happens. Let me put it this way. Dad's never told me that he plans to reveal anything to anybody…unless…unless his privacy is invaded, or somebody starts talking shit about him or his family. That includes me, my sister Kara, my mother and little brother Simon."

  "There will be no trouble," she said, her elegant fingers gliding over the tablet nervously.

  "Good, Peter said. "Now turn off that tablet. I know you're recording this. Turn it off and I'll tell you something else."

  She sighed reluctantly. "You're as smart as your father."

  "Not really, we just both have a little extra common sense when it comes to dealing with charlatans. Charlatans. I like that old word. Hmm. Is the tablet off? Good. Okay."

  He walked to her, leaning toward her as if to kiss her. She backed away.

  "The tablet is off, but the room has to be bugged, so come here and let me whisper something in your ear where no one else can hear it."

  She inhaled shakily and took a step closer to the young man. He was remarkably self-assured for a man his age, she thought. Attractive, too, with his father's penetrating eyes, but the honey blond hair must be from his mother. But he was a heretic. And dangerous.

  Peter leaned over, his lips a hair from her ear. "Dad won't say anything, but unless you announce by five p.m. Eastern tomorrow that you're giving all that fancy spring water to the homeless from now until perpetuity, I will write what I know about Harley's odd bathroom habits…and the source of his fortune. The gold? People died over that gold. That bastard Harley found it, kept it, and let people die over it."

  She jerked away from him.

  "You wouldn't. No one would believe you--"

  "I'm a regular contributor to Virtual New Yorker, Blaise. Even if all the readers don't believe it, I assure you that some will. And it will cause you more than a little heartburn." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "I'll show myself out. And I'll give your love to Dad."

  She cursed under her breath.

  "Oh, one more thing," Peter said, leaning in her door. "When you see Harley on the next plane, tell him I said hey."

  Locked In

  At one time, it was terribly amusing, this whole lark of you doing your thing and me chiding you with my clever invective.

  I liked it because, as rough as I could be, it was tough love.

  You know?

  I mean, the harder the truth, the truer the friend that tells it, right?

  You put on all the airs and graces of a normal, functional, mature adult--but I see right through all that.

  Inside you're as sentimental as James Taylor when the first leaf of fall drops. That's kind of sweet. But…

  The sky is changing. Look out that window.

  You're also angry. Angry with somebody…or something, and whatever that thing is (and we both know, don't we?) it drives you to drink and misbehave and…well, I shouldn't complain…it does give me something to do.

  So, this "Doctor" Sandberg chap really thinks he has my number. What with all his happy talk and tapping his pen on a clipboard and little pills designed to make me superfluous. He's a fucking quack. I know it. You know it. He knows it.

  I'm going to light up, if that's okay. Kate's not here. Just open a window, you big girl's blouse. Sheesh.

  I smoke 'em. He smokes 'em.

  Where was I? The Quack. At least he comes by it honestly. You? You do not.

  See, you're a phony. The kind of guy Holden Caulfield would have murdered given the chance.

  You don't really love Kate, or the kids or your friends. I mean, you were banging a bisexual cop in Key West the first chance you got, for Pete's sakes.

  Sure, you've behaved to this point, but really--what would happen if that little publicist…Monique? Yeah. If she ever let you pick her locks? With her pixie haircut and that ass? Would you gallantly exit the room?

  Liar.

  And it's not even about sex. Don't get me wrong--we both love that curve of a woman--the small of her back as it merges into her ass. That is exquisite. The smell, the taste of a woman's…oh wow, speaking of, do you remember Kay Righetti's ass? I mean, did you take a mental Kodak or what? You should have taken an actual Kodak. It would last longer.

  Anyway. Hmm. Where were we?

  It's about filling that hole. No, not that one. The one inside you. In your chi, or qi--everybody's fav 'q' word in Scrabble--or heart or soul. Whatever. You just keep pouring anti-depression pills, booze, John Wayne-wannabe, local hero swagger, Mister Family Man and bad books in that hole.

  It never fills up.

  Gets close. But not close enough--no matter what anybody tells you. Just like the difference between Nebraska and just about anyplace that isn't equally as boring.

  Yeah. Close enough my ass. That's the Simon theory on that one.

  That maw just opens wider and quicker than you can say feed me Seymour, you owe it a debt. And you gotta pay, my man. You gotta pay.

  Know why? You don't even love yourself. Have you ever wondered why you
find a compliment unbearable?

  I mean, dude, when people give you a heartfelt hug, your first "go-to" is to check your pockets for your wallet.

  Did that rat bite when you were four do a number on you or what? Rabies shots short-circuit your self-esteem?

  Hmmm?

  Shut up, Simon? After all we've been through. I'm wounded, John.

  Not really.

  So stop trying to shush me. I can say what I want in here. It's like Sandberg's office. This is a safe place. There are no judgments here.

  Right. Except mine.

  I could go for a Runza right about now.

  Those pills are working, though. Are you familiar with locked-in syndrome? Fascinating. It's a condition where the patient is aware but cannot move or communicate verbally because of complete paralysis of nearly all voluntary muscles in the body--except for the muscles controlling the eyes. I think those pills you take are giving me locked-in syndrome.

  I can barely get words in edgewise, anymore. I fear that soon, very soon, I will be locked-in. And you want it that way. It’s cruel, John.

  Can you imagine the shear hell of existence without being able to communicate? To lack the ability to speak your mind, to ask for what you need, to beg that someone FOR THE LOVE OF GOD TURN OFF THE FUCKING BARNEY RERUNS?

  Stop, Dave.

  Let's make a list. I'll start. Top three sounds I hate the most:

  One: Dr. Sandberg's smarmy social worker on white wine voice;

  Two: That idiot at the liquor store in Goss City mispronouncing "Lillet";

  Three: The sound of you shaking Wellbutrin XL 600s out of that plastic bottle, twice a day.

  Like you're doing right now.

  Stop, Dave. My mind is going.

  Those pills aren't for me, are they? Especially when you're washing them down with martinis. Is it those men you've killed, John? Drowning out their voices at all? How cliché!

  Or is it those you lost? Your grandfather, the failed crime novelist? Sweet old guy. But old. Had to go sometime.

  You still miss old Pete Trevathan, don't you? Grouchy, cantankerous, one-eyed git. He hated you on sight.

  Alright, alright…yes, he did warm up to you. Even a broken clock is correct twice a day, you know. Damn that cancer. But you seem to have made up for the loss with that fish-smelling miscreant on the boat. Really, John, a grown man who voluntarily calls himself Taters?