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by George Saunders

  “What is it?” I said.

  “It’s more like what’s it for, is how I’d say it,” this kid said.

  “What’s it for?” I said.

  “Actually,” he said, “this is probably more the one for you.”

  He handed me an identical tag but with the word “MiiVOXMIN” on it.

  Another kid came over with espresso and cookies.

  I put down the MiiVOXMIN tag and picked up the MiiVOXMAX tag.

  “How much?” I said.

  “You mean money?” he said.

  “What does it do?” I said.

  “Well, if you’re asking is it data repository or information-hierarchy domain?” he said. “The answer to that would be: yes and no.”

  They were sweet. Not a line on their faces. When I say they were kids, I mean they were about my age.

  “I’ve been away a long time,” I said.

  “Welcome back,” the first kid said.

  “Where were you?” the second one said.

  “At the war?” I said, in the most insulting voice I could muster. “Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

  “I have,” the first one said respectfully. “Thank you for your service.”

  “Which one?” the second one said. “Aren’t there two?”

  “Didn’t they just call one off?” the first one said.

  “My cousin’s there,” the second said. “At one of them. At least I think he is. I know he was supposed to go. We were never that close.”

  “Anyway, thanks,” the first one said, and put out his hand, and I shook it.

  “I wasn’t for it,” the second one said. “But I know it wasn’t your deal.”

  “Well,” I said. “It kind of was.”

  “You weren’t for it or aren’t for it?” the first said to the second.

  “Both,” the second one said. “Although is it still going?”

  “Which one?” the first one said.

  “Is the one you were at still going?” the second one asked me.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Better or worse, do you think?” the first one said. “Like, in your view, are we winning? Oh, what am I doing? I don’t actually care, that’s what’s so funny about it!”

  “Anyway,” the second one said, and held out his hand, and I shook it.

  They were so nice and accepting and unsuspicious—they were so for me—that I walked out smiling and was about a block away before I realized I was still holding MiiVOXMAX. I got under a streetlight and had a look. It seemed like just a plastic tag. Like, if you wanted MiiVOXMAX, you handed in that tag, and someone went and got MiiVOXMAX for you, whatever it was.

  8.

  Asshole answered the door.

  His actual name was Evan. We’d gone to school together. I had a vague memory of him in an Indian headdress, racing down a hallway.

  “Mike,” he said.

  “Can I come in?” I said.

  “I think I have to say no to that,” he said.

  “I’d like to see the kids,” I said.

  “Past midnight,” he said.

  I had a pretty good idea he was lying. Were stores open past midnight? Still, the moon was high and there was something moist and sad in the air that seemed to be saying, Well, it’s not early.

  “Tomorrow?” I said.

  “Would that be okay for you?” he said. “After I get home from work?”

  I saw we’d agreed to play it reasonable. One way we were playing it reasonable was saying everything like a question.

  “Around six?” I said.

  “Does six work for you?” he said.

  The weird part was I’d never actually seen the two of them together. The wife back there in his bed could have been someone else entirely.

  “I know this isn’t easy,” he said.

  “You fucked me,” I said.

  “I would respectfully disagree with that,” he said.

  “No doubt,” I said.

  “I didn’t fuck you and she didn’t,” he said. “It was a challenging circumstance for all involved.”

  “More challenging for some than for others,” I said. “Would you give me that much?”

  “Are we being honest?” he said. “Or tiptoeing around conflict?”

  “Honest,” I said, and his face did this thing that, for a minute, made me like him again.

  “It was hard for me because I felt like a shit,” he said. “It was hard for her because she felt like a shit. It was hard for us because while feeling like shits we were also feeling all the other things we were feeling, which, I assure you, were and are as real as anything, a total blessing, if I can say it that way.”

  At that point, I started feeling like a chump, like I was being held down by a bunch of guys so another guy could come over and put his New Age fist up my ass while explaining that having his fist up my ass was far from his first choice and was actually making him feel conflicted.

  “Six o’clock,” I said.

  “Six o’clock’s perfect,” he said. “Luckily, I’m on flextime.”

  “You don’t need to be here,” I said.

  “If you were me and I was you, would you maybe feel you might somewhat need to be here?” he said.

  One car was a Saab and one an Escalade and the third a newer Saab, with two baby seats in it and a stuffed clown I was not familiar with.

  Three cars for two grown-ups, I thought. What a country. What a couple selfish dicks my wife and her new husband were. I could see that, over the years, my babies would slowly transform into selfish-dick babies, then selfish-dick toddlers, kids, teenagers, and adults, with me all that time skulking around like some unclean suspect uncle.

  That part of town was full of castles. Inside one was a couple embracing. Inside another a woman had like nine million little Christmas houses out on a table, like she was taking inventory. Across the river the castles got smaller. By our part of town, the houses were like peasant huts. Inside one peasant hut were five kids standing perfectly still on the back of a couch. Then they all leapt off at once and their dogs went crazy.

  9.

  Ma’s house was empty. Ma and Harris were sitting on the floor in the living room, making phone calls, trying to find somewhere to go.

  “What time is it?” I said.

  Ma looked up at where the clock used to be.

  “The clock’s on the sidewalk,” she said.

  I went out. The clock was under a coat. It was ten. Evan had fucked me. I considered going back, demanding to see the kids, but by the time I got there it would be eleven and he’d still have a decent point re the lateness of the hour.

  The sheriff walked in.

  “Don’t get up,” he said to Ma.

  Ma got up.

  “Get up,” he said to me.

  I stayed sitting.

  “You the one who threw down Mr. Klees?” the sheriff said.

  “He’s just back from the war,” Ma said.

  “Thank you for your service,” the sheriff said. “Might I ask you to refrain from throwing people down in the future?”

  “He also threw me down,” Harris said.

  “My thing is I don’t want to go around arresting veterans,” the sheriff said. “I myself am a veteran. So if you help me, by not throwing anyone else down, I’ll help you. By not arresting you. Deal?”

  “He was also going to burn the house down,” Ma said.

  “I wouldn’t recommend burning anything down,” the sheriff said.

  “He ain’t himself,” Ma said. “I mean, look at him.”

  The sheriff had never seen me before, but it was like admitting he had no basis for assessing how I looked would have been a professional embarrassment.

  “He does look tired,” the sheriff said.

  “Plenty strong, though,” Harris said. “Threw me right down.”

  “Where are you folks off to tomorrow?” the sheriff said.

  “Suggestions?” Ma said.

  “A friend, a family member?” the sh
eriff said.

  “Renee’s,” I said.

  “Failing that, the shelter on Fristen?” the sheriff said.

  “One thing I am not doing is going to Renee’s,” Ma said. “Everyone in that house is too high and mighty. They already think of us as low.”

  “Well, we are low,” said Harris. “Compared to them.”

  “The other thing I’m not doing is going to any beeping shelter,” Ma said. “They got crabs at shelters.”

  “When we first started dating I had crabs from that shelter,” Harris said helpfully.

  “I’m sorry this is happening,” the sheriff said. “Everything’s backwards and inverted.”

  “I’ll say,” Ma said. “Here I work for a church and my son’s a hero. With a Silver Star. Dragged a marine out by the beeping foot. We got the letter. And where am I? Out on the street.”

  The sheriff had switched off and was waiting to make his break for the door and get back to whatever was real to him.

  “Find someplace to live, folks,” he advised genially as he left.

  Harris and I dragged two mattresses back in. They still had the sheets and blankets on and all. But the sheet on their mattress had grass stains on one edge and the pillows smelled like mud.

  Then we spent a long night in the bare house.

  10.

  In the morning Ma called some ladies she’d known as a young mother, but one had a disk out and another had cancer and a third had twins who’d both just been diagnosed manic-depressive.

  In the light of day Harris braved up again.

  “So this court-martial thing,” he said. “Was that the worst thing you ever did? Or was there worse things, which you did but just didn’t get caught?”

  “They cleared him of that,” Ma said tersely.

  “Well, they cleared me of breaking and entering that time,” Harris said.

  “Anyways, how is this any of your business?” Ma said.

  “Probably he wants to talk,” Harris said. “Get some air in there. Good for the soul.”

  “Look at his face, Har,” Ma said.

  Harris looked at my face.

  “Sorry I mentioned it,” he said.

  Then the sheriff was back. He made me and Harris drag the mattresses out. On the porch we watched him padlock the door.

  “Eighteen years you have been my dear home,” Ma said, possibly imitating some Sioux from a movie.

  “You’re going to want to get a van over here,” the sheriff said.

  “My son served in the war,” Ma said. “And look how you’re doing me.”

  “I’m the same guy that was here yesterday,” the sheriff said, and for some reason framed his face with his hands. “Remember me? You told me that already. I thanked him for his service. Call a van. Or your shit’s going to the dump.”

  “See how they treat a lady works at a church,”

  Ma said. Ma and Harris picked through their crap, found a suitcase, filled the suitcase with clothes.

  Then we drove to Renee’s.

  My feeling was, Oh, this will be funny.

  11.

  Although yes and no. That was just one of my feelings.

  Another was, Oh, Ma, I remember when you were young and wore your hair in braids and I would have died to see you sink so low.

  Another was, You crazy old broad, you narced me out last night. What was up with that?

  Another was, Mom, Mommy, let me kneel at your feet and tell you what me and Smelton and Ricky G. did at Al-Raz, and then you stroke my hair and tell me anybody would’ve done the exact same thing.

  As we crossed the Roll Creek Bridge I could see that Ma was feeling, Just let that Renee deny me, I will hand that little beep her beeping beep on a platter.

  But then, bango, by the time we got to the far side and the air had gone from river-cool to regular again, her face had changed to: Oh, God, if Renee denies me in front of Ryan’s parents and they once again find me trash, I will die, I will simply die.

  12.

  Renee did deny her in front of Ryan’s parents, who did find her trash.

  But she didn’t die.

  You should have seen their faces as we walked in.

  Renee looked stricken. Ryan looked stricken. Ryan’s mom and dad were trying so hard not to look stricken that they kept knocking things over. A vase went down as Ryan’s dad blundered forward trying to look chipper/welcoming. Ryan’s mom lurched into a painting and ended up holding it in her crossed red-sweatered arms.

  “Is this the baby?” I said.

  Ma turned on me again.

  “What do you think it is?” she said. “A midget that can’t talk?”

  “This is Martney, yes,” Renee said, holding the baby out to me.

  Ryan cleared his throat, shot Renee a look like, I thought we’d discussed this, Love Muffin.

  Renee changed the baby’s course, swerved it up, like if she held it high enough, that would negate the need for me to hold it, it being so close to the overhead light and all.

  Which hurt.

  “Fuck it,” I said. “What do you think I’m going to do?”

  “Please don’t say ‘fuck’ in our home,” Ryan said.

  “Please don’t tell my son what the beep he can beeping say,” Ma said. “Him being in the war and all.”

  “Thank you for your service,” Ryan’s dad said.

  “We can easily go to a hotel,” Ryan’s mom said.

  “You are not going to any hotel, Mom,” Ryan said. “They can go to a hotel.”

  “We’re not going to a hotel,” Ma said.

  “You can easily go to a hotel, Mother. You love a good hotel,” Renee said. “Especially when we’re paying.”

  Even Harris was nervous.

  “A hotel sounds lovely,” he said. “It’s been many a day since I reclined in a nice place of that nature as a hotel.”

  “You’d send your own mother, who works for a church, along with your brother, a Silver Star hero just home from the war, to some fleabag?” Ma said.

  “Yes,” Renee said.

  “Can I at least hold the baby?” I said.

  “Not on my watch,” Ryan said.

  “Jane and I would like you to know how much we supported, and still do support, your mission,” Ryan’s father said.

  “A lot of people don’t know how many schools you fellows built over there,” Ryan’s mother said.

  “People tend to focus on the negative,” Ryan’s dad said.

  “What’s that proverb?” Ryan’s mother said. “To make something or other, you first have to break a lot of something or other?”

  “I think he could hold the baby,” said Renee. “I mean, we’re standing right here.”

  Ryan winced, shook his head.

  The baby writhed, like it too believed its fate was being decided.

  Having all these people think I was going to hurt the baby made me imagine hurting the baby. Did imagining hurting the baby mean that I would hurt the baby? Did I want to hurt the baby? No, Jesus. But: Did the fact that I had no intention of hurting the baby mean that I wouldn’t, when push came to shove, hurt the baby? Had I, in the recent past, had the experience of having no intention of doing Activity A, then suddenly finding myself right in the middle of doing Activity A?

  “I don’t want to hold the baby,” I said.

  “I appreciate that,” Ryan said. “That’s cool of you.”

  “I want to hold this pitcher,” I said, and picked up a pitcher and held it like a baby, with the lemonade spilling out of it, and, once the lemonade was pooling nicely on the hard-wood floor, spiked the pitcher down.

  “You really hurt my feelings!” I said.

  Then was out on the sidewalk, walking fast.

  13.

  Then was back in that store.

  Two different guys were there, younger than the earlier two. They might have been high schoolers. I handed over the MiiVOXMAX tag.

  “Oh shit, snap!” the one guy said. “We were wondering where that was.�
��

  “We were about to call it in,” the other guy said, bringing over espresso and cookies.

  “Is it valuable?” I said.

  “Ha, oh, boy,” the first one said, and got some kind of special cloth from under the counter and dusted the tag off and put it back on display.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “It’s more like what’s it for, is how I’d say it,” the first guy said.

  “What’s it for?” I said.

  “This might be more in your line,” he said and handed me the MiiVOXMIN tag.

  “I’ve been away a long time,” I said.

  “Us, too,” the second kid said.

  “We just got out of the army,” the first kid said.

  Then we all took turns saying where we’d been.

  Turned out me and the first guy had been in basically the same place.

  “Wait, so were you at Al-Raz?” I said.

  “I was totally at Al-Raz,” the first guy said.

  “I was never in the shit, I admit it,” the second guy said. “Although I did once run over a dog with a forklift.”

  I asked the first guy if he remembered the baby goat, the pocked wall, the crying toddler, the dark arched doorway, the doves that suddenly exploded out from under that peeling gray eave.

  “I wasn’t over by that,” he said. “I was more over by the river and the upside-down boat and that little family all in red that kept turning up everywhere you looked?”

  I knew exactly where he’d been. It was unbelievable how many times, pre-and post-exploding doves, I’d caught sight, on the horizon, down by the river, of some imploring or crouching or fleeing figure in red.

  “It ended up cool with that dog, though,” the second guy said. “He lived and all. By the time I left, he’d be like riding right up alongside me in the forklift.”

  A family of nine Indian-Americans came in, and the second guy went over to them with the espresso and cookies.

  “Al-Raz, wow,” I said, in an exploratory way.

  “For me?” the first guy said. “Al-Raz was the worst day of the whole deal.”