Why did you send me to a fancy school and then make me clean toilets at night. Why did you make me work at McDonald’s. The kids looked down on me. I had to tell them–
I wanted something better for you.
Well– I know. I'm sorry I wasted it. I'm sorry I was ungrateful–
She was gone. He’d been here a long time. Night coming on. He had to get home to his cat. Who would feed him. He needed to let him in, the coyotes were out– and he was standing with his father. Big as a bear with scars from tattoos rubbed off with a wire brush. When he was five they’d found a pigeon in the street. Stomped on but alive. His father made a splint for its wing. Kept it warm in a box of wood shavings on the porch. He would whistle to it at night until one day it flew off. He had thought it might come back to visit, but it never did.
I'll take care of him, son, his father said.
He felt an incredible relief.
But you ought to take care of someone too.
There was a sound beginning. An organ. A man in a suit. You were friends with the deceased, he asked. He looked like Tony Todd from Candyman.
Was he? Yes, he said. Very close.
How long?
My whole life.
You loved him?
Sometimes.
Well I think thing are about to wrap up, the man said. I'll see you outside. And there was Marcy in her toothpaste color underwear. Dirty hair, dirty face, the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. He was asking why did you leave me. I didn't leave you, she said.
I'm sorry I gave up–
You didn't yet, she said.
I didn't want to lose you.
You're still here. But why did you let me go. It’s not safe.
A hymn played. Things were indeed wrapping up. And did those feet in ancient times walk upon England's mountains green. He remembered it from Monty Python. And they'd sung it at his school. In chapel. Years later he'd looked at the lyrics in a book of hymns. Something something dark Satanic mills. The Industrial Revolution. From some William Blake poem. The school was kids whose grandparents had money from factories and slaves. That was who read William Blake.
There was a crowd now. He recognized every face. People murmuring, mumbling, losing their places; half-coherent lyrics swirling around big glass stained glass windows that were beginning to melt. Jesus with a sheep. Jesus with a U.S. Navy corpsmen circa 1912 kneeling, offering him something. Old bearded men in togas. Peter or Paul or somebody. There was some convention as to who had what face since 30 AD but he could never remember. Holding a book open to three Greek letters he couldn't read. Pointing up an impossibly long finger. Eyes of the pictures all blue. The coffin was closing. New growth pine, semigloss. He had a headrush coming on and he was walking fast up the aisle toward a back door open a crack. Everyone looking at him. A thump as the door slammed behind him. A black vestibule for a second. The big gray sky outside. Then the wind picked up. And he fought, but he was being carried
.
Treehouse
There was a raft in the catfish pond and one time Bryan kissed her under it. Both of them holding onto the ropes the 55 gallon drums were tied to the old deck wood with. Hanging with their legs dangling into the cold deep water. The sunlight out past the shadow of the raft made rays in the silt that seemed to go down forever, even though it was maybe 8 feet deep. You could almost feel the slimy brown bullheads squirming in the mud. They had a stinger on their side fins that felt like frozen metal going into you. The plastic barrels making noises on the wood like bongo drums.
They were whispering. The sound carried over the water. He made her laugh and she looked up nervous at his fingers on the white nylon ropes. Water spiders big as a coffee can lid lived on top of those barrels. Came down at night to stalk the elegant silver bugs that skated on the water. And he kind of wrestled his legs around her waist in her white one piece bathing suit. Wrapped his ankles around her and pulled her in while she was laughing and sucked on her bottom lip a little. And she stuck out her tongue like she and Tanya practiced on their fists. He’d eaten a grape Otter Pop and his mouth tasted like it. And when they pulled apart his tongue still had a little bit of that color. Someone did a cannonball off the raft and the corner dipped down to where it almost hit her head and they swam out separately and didn’t talk about it. Thinking about it made her arm hairs stand up after.
When school started again they started talking. He’d call her and she’d be near the phone so her mom wouldn’t get it. Take the band aid color receiver on its long curly cord into her room. Sit against the door. Talk about kids in his class. Movies. Softly so her mother couldn’t hear. He loved Aliens. She made her father rent the tape but he insisted on watching it with her. It was rated R. He’d liked it more than she had. The ecology of the creatures didn’t quite make sense.
They talked so long the phone handset would stay warm after. His voice made her feel like someone was tickling her back. Why don’t you come out to the treehouse Saturday, he said.
The boys had a treehouse. Even though they were too old for it now. Ricky McAllister had a car even, a hardship license. A Mercury Topaz in metallic teal. Somewhere past where the last tract houses sat half finished in the mud. White plastic sheets flapping off them that said Dupont Tyvek. Beer bottles everywhere and bullet holes in the old gray plywood. Cicadas screaming. We’ll pick you up, he said. We’re gonna get beer.
How? Does Ricky have a hardship license for that too-
His brother’s home.
Ricky’s brother was in the army. His fiancée was pregnant. There was a joke that no one knew what the baby would look like. She worked at the antique store. It was called The Town Pump and so was she.
OK– what will I tell my parents–
Tell em you’re getting drunk with older boys–
I’m serious.
Tell them you’re visiting Ricky’s brother, helping him with his PTSD.
**
She put on her lipstick two hours before. She‘d worried that riding her bike would make her sweaty. But it had rained enough to be cool. Not so much that the mud sucked in your bike tires out past where the hot top ended. God was looking out for her. She laid her bike in the tall wet weeds and waited for the Topaz to come. She was early.
In the car the boys played AC/DC so loud you couldn’t talk. Her friends still listened to the Backstreet Boys. Ricky was fifteen but his fingernails looked like he worked on cars and his voice sounded like he smoked. He had blue eyes like a movie star but the whites were red. Pupils the size of a pencil dot. She was in back with Bryan and in the passenger seat in front was Ricky’s cousin Steve, who had epilepsy and scars on his arms. He’d lit his shirt on fire burning garbage with an old can of gas.
They parked next to one of the gutted out half built houses. Rocks banged on the metal parts of the car underneath. The foundation full of brown water where mosquitos bred and on the cement someone had painted FUCK and SATAN. Past the last house the road turned into a dirt path into the woods. She heard great-tailed grackles whistling back in the pines. Their song was supposed to contain the seven notes of passion. On the path a female dipped dead grass into a mud puddle and flew off to add it to her nest. Steve carried the beer. Ropey muscles rippling under his scars.
Ricky asked Bryan: so is this your new girlfriend. She felt her ears get hot. Bryan said: a good friend.
You still got a broken heart for that Stacey?
Fuck Stacey.
Stacey was from the side of town with horses. She had one for dressage and one for barrel racing, and she let you know it. Sang in the choir. Her family went to church twice a week.
You wish, said Ricky, and Steve laughed.
**
The treehouse was three stories tall. It was made out of plywood covered in old walnut color deck stain. Two by fours with the ends painted red nailed into three pine trees that bled sap around the nail heads. Window holes with nothing in them. Inside, the walls had pages from porno magazines tacked up. Oui, Swank
and Cheri. Women on all fours, spines bent into C shapes so their face and crotch could both regard the camera, looking surprised. Their faces looked ancient to her. The men’s intent expressions made her laugh. They sat Indian style. Is this your first beer, said Ricky.
It’s my third
I don’t mean today
I’ve had sips of my dad’s before–
But this is the first time you’re feeling it.
Yes
You like it?
She did. She said so. It made her feel like she could make anyone like her.
Bryan should have told you not to wear nice clothes, these fucking trees get pitch all over the place.
They’re beautiful– shortleaf pines.
I’ve been coming here since I was a kid. Never knew what they were.
There was a fire here, she said. A long time ago. They need it to grow. Otherwise they’re outcompeted by other conifers–
Damn, Nature Channel.
Each tree has both male and female cones. See how there are different kinds? It can take a year for the female cones to be pollinated–
Haha, so they can fuck themselves–
Plants had mechanisms to prevent self-pollination, but she didn’t say so. She said yes and laughed. He laughed too and it felt like she was floating. Hey Bryan come here, said Ricky.
What, said Bryan, and stood up.
You like these trees too, huh?
Yeah they’re nice.
You like camping in the woods?
Yeah–
You got a sleeping bag?
Ye– Bryan started to say, and Ricky punched him underhand in the crotch, and said: not anymore. Steve started laughed like it was the funniest thing that ever was.
Bryan was twisted over panting with his shoulder pulling a Swank centerfold off the wall. She rubbed his back in his black flannel and felt his little muscles moving. Are you OK. I’m fine he said, I’ll be fine. He does this. Relax, said Ricky. We do this shit all the time.
**
They finished the case. It felt like it took as long as a movie. She had never felt this good. Sat next to Bryan and he moved his hand to hold hers and she let him. Thought about her palm sweating. He might think it was gross but somehow she knew it was OK. They were talking about catching fish. How tourists bought fancy lures but the thing the fish liked best was just a wadded up ball of Wonder bread. Ricky, why do you hit Bryan, she said.
Because he’s a fag, said Ricky. Steve laughed.
It’s guy stuff, said Bryan. We forget we have a girl here. We tried to get a bunch to come but you’re the only one who said yes–
You wanted to have a party?
We were gonna play spin the bottle. She felt her ears get hot again. Have you ever fucked before, said Ricky.
What?
Have you ever fucked before? It’s OK if you haven’t.
I haven’t.
Well what about now?
She felt like she’d stood up too fast. The windows wouldn’t stay straight. She looked for Bryan. He was next to her but it took a long time to find him. He was biting his lip.
I can’t.
It’s all right, we won’t tell. The girls in our class do it. Even Stacey, she’s got that college boyfriend. Plus the horses. Steve laughed.
I can’t, I have to go–
Where are you gonna go? We’ll get you home. Relax–
Bryan will you please take me home. I can’t, he said.
Don’t worry honey, said Ricky. It’s fine– you need another beer? I have half left.
I have to go back–
Why did we come all the way out here then. She couldn’t talk, and he said: answer me.
What?
Why did we come here and spend the whole day with you? Are you wasting my time?
No–
Are you gonna cry? Are you a baby?
No–
Why can’t you just be cool then, he said.
**
Bryan went last. He wore after shave on his neck even though you could have counted his beard hairs. His eyes looked sad at first. Then he made a face like he was concentrating on a math problem. Then a sound like he was hurt, and his eyes looked like nobody was in there. An old nail was biting into her hand. Her dad would make a big deal about getting a tetanus shot.
She had to bike back home. The seat was wet and she couldn’t stay on the road. When she got there she was crying. Her mother was out beating rugs with a broom and said oh My God what’s wrong. And she just said I don’t want to tell, I don’t want to tell.
Her mother didn’t push it. Just held her hand. At school they started calling her Easy Marcy. It was her birthday. She was thirteen.
What Can You Do
Hello, FBI.
Yes, I'd like to report a... a threat, it's a threat to seize nuclear weapons–
I'm sorry can you repeat that sir?
Yes, I am aware of a terrorist– it's... they're trying to get nuclear weapons, they're going to–
Can I get your name please sir?
I'd rather not say.
He was on a phone he bought at 7-11. Where he couldn't not notice the Evian rack. $35 but had full smartphone functionality. Barely a signal. Walking fast down the sidewalk and it felt like he had no knees. Vagrants sitting in zipped open pup tent doors stared him down with eyes like opossums. One looked up meaningfully as he passed. Screamed: I'm the Polish Prince of Penis.
This tipline is 100% confidential, sir.
It's fucking Ben Dover, OK? Listen, ISIS is trying to get American nukes, they're going to blow up the world–
What you're telling me sir, is that ISIS would like to have nuclear weapons. Sir, the Bureau has been aware of that–
No it's a specific plan, they have– they use a woman in the Philippines... she gives you a backrub and makes you fall in love with her, and then–
Are you referring to the MILF, sir?
No, she's 22–
The Moro Islamic Liberation front, sir
No it's Abu, fucking– ISIS is using marketing data to get nukes, I gave it to them-
You're involved in this yourself sir?
No, I– I gave them data but I didn't know what it was for, I swear.
What sort of data?
It's, they– it's credit card purchases of individuals, for, it's used for refining branded content–
And this... is going to be employed for hostile purposes?
They're going to blackmail people with it.
All right. It sounds like this is a problem related to wire transfers, is that correct?
What?
It sounds like this is a problem related to wire transfers and/or interstate commerce.
I mean I guess they have to wire money–
OK great sir, it'll be just one moment.
Then he was on hold.
**
He was on Tinder. And what do you do, she asked.
He worked in a call center. People reported national security threats. Their caller ID appeared on his monitor. He typed notes. When they finished he selected an onscreen button.
The system had three tiers. Green was credible threat. Yellow was potential threat. Red was non-credible. Drunk women reporting their boyfriends for cheating. Mentally ill or mentally challenged callers. The Fuck You Button, they called it. It has to do with counterterrorism, he said. The phone was ringing.
What exactly, she said, and he said Homeland Security, then picked up the phone and said it again.
After 9/11 the public-facing counterterrorism efforts of various agencies had merged under the rubric of the Department of Homeland Security. DHS had rerouted tiplines for the CIA and NSA, and FBI liked to transfer their cranks in too. But mostly it was the US Post Office, Office of the Inspector General. Elderly callers. Someone tampering with their mailbox. Someone living in their mailbox. The mailbox was a demon. Oh so you're like James Bond, she said.
The phone said hello? He said yes, Homeland Security again while he ty
ped
...Kind of...
with his thumbs. He'd thought of himself more like Felix Leiter when he pursued a career in federal law enforcement. But she wouldn't know it. James Bond was a pathetic plea for relevance from the British, who were more like George Smiley. Or not even. One of his other crusty colleagues. Whichever one was gay. Homeland Security?
How can I help you sir.
Is this a different guy?
Yes sir, it looks like you've been transferred here from FBI?
Jesus Christ, OK– I just need to report this to somebody.
If this an emergency please hang up and dial 911 for your local poli–
Who is this?
This is the Department of Homeland Security, sir. Mouse hovering over red. Mentally challenged caller.
Listen I need to report a serious nuclear threat. OK, he said. That sounds hot, she said. Go on.
Approximately one mile south of the Palawan Seashore Resort in a mangrove forest there's a Filipino ISIS operation. They're using a girl to get lonely guys to give them information on military officials. They're coordinating with Somali terrorists based in California to get access to American nuclear weapons. They're going to reroute them to attack major population centers. I know this because I gave them consumer credit card data tracked at the individual level–
You were involved in this, sir? he said, and typed Haha it's not that sexy. Then erased it, not wanting to say any variant of sex too early.
I don't want to talk about my involvement, said the crank on the phone. I need you to know that there is going to be a blackmail effort against the… against high ranking nuclear security officials.
This was credible. A shell company run by the Chinese government had recently purchased Grindr. Grindr was a smartphone app to help men have raw anal sex in toilet stalls. Idea being that the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and/or a Federal Reserve Board Member liked to meet in mall bathrooms with 18 year old black boys. Not check ID. The idea for Tinder had been stolen from Grindr. It didn't work, because of women. U still there, she said. I'm getting bored
It has to do with national security, he typed. Mousing over Yellow. Can you tell me what kind of data you provided? Do you have a government clearance?
Finally, Some Good News Page 8