Joytime Killbox

by Brian Wood

  “Look at you,” the girl said. “Were you crying?” Gregory turned to her. His face was red from his panicked bleating. She laughed. “God. You’re such a noob,” she said. “You were crying? You actually thought you were going to save me?” Gregory wiped his face with his sleeve. His throat shook but he had no words.

  “If it helps, you’re not the first.” The old man gave Gregory his silk handkerchief. “She always does this. Latches to someone new, the poor orphan thing before she rides.” Gregory felt ill. His head. That vice on his lungs. The curdling of his bowels. He was here for a purpose. A grave matter had brought him here. And it was just a game for her.

  An attendant held out his hand to assist the girl. She pushed his arm away and hopped down the stairs. She whipped her bag over her shoulder and checked her phone.

  “Why would you do that?” Gregory said.

  She looked up for a beat and then was back down at her phone again.

  “You let me believe—”

  “Look, I need to go if I’m going to ride again before fifth period.” She made her way to the exit. “But if you really want to hash it out,” she pointed to the back of the line with a limp wrist. “Yeah, I’ve got to go.” She left him there before he could think of anything good to say.

  A mist of disinfectant stung the air. The crew was at task spraying down the Killbox. Gregory watched as the old man prepared. First the focused look, sharpening his eyes. Then the anticipations. His body leaning square toward the door. He was ready to ride and Gregory was timid to disrupt such concentration. He folded the man’s handkerchief. “Sir?” he said. He held out the cloth. “In case you need it.”

  The old man glanced over his shoulder. He had a leg propped on the step, eagerly waiting the sign to move into the box. “Keep it,” he said.

  “But it’s embroidered.”

  The attendants had the box gleaming and the man began to tap his foot. “I want you to have it,” the old man said. “Something to remember me, all of it.” Gregory stepped forward, pushing the cloth toward the old man. “Don’t,” the old man said. He turned toward Gregory. “Why are you even here?”

  Gregory stammered. “I’m, I don’t know. Why’s anybody here?”

  The old man fanned his fingers at the crowd. “For her it’s all a game. I’ve got nothing left here. And you.” He shook his head in disappointment. “You’re not even a voyeur. You don’t even watch.”

  “Rider ready?” an attendant said.

  “Yes.” The old man took the podium.

  “Wait,” Gregory said. The old man sighed before turning. “It’s just that I’m tired,” Gregory said. “Of being ignored, passed up and left alone. Because I’m too young to be with it, or I’m not quite old enough to be put to pasture yet. I don’t know. But I know I just want to be part of something.” Gregory could feel his chin quivering. He could not stop it from happening. “I want to be—”

  “Nice speech,” the attendant said. “Sir, get in the box please.” The old man gestured for him to wait.

  “Then watch,” the old man said. “Don’t turn away. Watch me ride this out.” He sat in the chair the way a royal might. Shoulders back. His hands dangling from the armrest.

  It hadn’t occurred to Gregory before seeing him so singularly displayed in the Killbox, but the man was more than dapper. He was beautiful. And the thought of him being culled from this world in a glorious bang might be beautiful too. When the barrel revealed itself and the box illuminated in red, Gregory found himself clapping for the man. His fist, still clutching the man’s handkerchief, pounded on the platform. He cheered and as the clock rode down he found his fear giving way to a spark of excitement.

  The man held his noble posture. He didn’t bargain or plead with the box. He didn’t act brave or allow himself the blast of adrenaline. Instead he leaned his chin to the center of the gun. His head tilted back and he looked down his nose into the cold spiral of the barrel. It looked to Gregory like the old man was daring it to go off. He didn’t fidget or writhe. There was no fighting the restraints or hope of escape. He didn’t gnash his teeth in the face of death. No, he stared down the beast with a fearless gaze. What manner of man does this?

  Gregory wanted to know him. He didn’t want him to die alone in the box, his history lost with his blood. But before Gregory had a chance to plea for the old man’s safety the box clicked and the light turned off. His ride was over.

  With the call of the horn the door opened and the attendants entered the box. The old man’s posture had changed. His head hung. His shoulders rose and slightly fell, a small gesture, not of relief, but of an unspoken failure. Quiet disappointment. He had defied the odds yet again. As the attendants ushered him out, Gregory waved the handkerchief like a flag. “My God. You made it,” Gregory said. He pressed himself against the stairs. “Thought for sure you were going to buy it in there. What a ride.”

  The old man swallowed. His throat seized midway and he coughed into his fist. “It seems it is not my day,” he said. He scowled at the mob. Somebody here would have his prize.

  “Look,” Gregory said, “I don’t know anybody here. And it’d mean a lot if you’d stay and see me ride it.” Gregory climbed onto the podium. “Don’t want to do it alone,” he said. “Don’t really want to do it at all.” He forced a sad laugh.

  “I’d be honored,” the old man said. “But it’s not allowed. You’ll be fine. Look at them.” The crowd was stirring. They shouted for the light to come on, to load another. “If they can make it, you can.” The old man brought his hand to his brow. He motioned as if he was tipping the brim of a bowler hat. Then he slid his hands into his pockets. “Until then,” he said, and the attendants showed him out.

  “When?” Gregory said. But the man was too far off to hear him. He felt a hand push at the small of his back, forcing him to walk, and with just a step he found himself inside the box. As he sat in the chair he was surprised at the cold sting against his legs. His arms tightened against his sides.

  “Alcohol,” the attendant said. He pressed Gregory’s chest against the backrest and began strapping him in. “The spray makes everything feel freezing. Loosen your legs, please.” He took hold of his ankle and bound it. “But a little cold beats—who knows what you’d catch from that chair?”

  “Like what, hepatitis?” Gregory tried to lift himself off the seat, but he couldn’t move.

  The man was pleased with his work. “Okay, looks like we’re all set.”

  “Wait.” Gregory’s arms tugged but stayed put.

  “If I was in there, I wouldn’t breathe through my mouth too much.” He stepped out of the box and gave the wall two deliberate knocks. Gregory flinched. His chest heaved around the strap. “Good luck with the ride,” the man said. With the door shut, the box was quiet. Gregory watched the man’s mouth overemphasize each word through the glass. Now that he was alone there was a stillness that unnerved him. No movement to the air. The sound, quiet and dead. Gregory tried to move. His body shimmied against the chair. It held him. He looked between his feet. A drain was cut into the floor. He hadn’t seen it before and seeing it now seized his mind with the thought of death. If it happened, dear God, his life would slip between his legs. And what remained—whatever else clung to the wall and arms of the chair—would simply be mopped away.

  “Shit,” he said. His teeth locked together. “Hey. Let me out. Please, don’t start it. Let me loose. Please. Somebody?” He thrashed in the chair.

  The attendant stared at Gregory. He didn’t care enough to smirk. Instead he put a piece of gum in his mouth. He smacked a few times while Gregory wailed in the box. Then he held his hand high in the air, his thumb pointing to the ceiling. A whirring sound came from the black box. Gregory looked to the black tile on the other side of the Killbox. He could see his reflection disappear as the tile slid open. A heat burned in his chest. He felt a wet heat flood his eyes and his stomach caved into his spine. From the black square the gun barrel speared the air. First a smal
l hole, no bigger than a dime, but as it thrust toward his face the barrel grew to the size of a cavern. Gregory puckered his mouth. He shook his head side to side but he couldn’t escape the dark stare of the gun. Gregory shuddered. His lungs clenched in a hysteric scream. The light came on and the barrel reflected a menacing hue. A deep black-red, like blood not yet spilled from a body.

  Gregory flexed against the chair. His arms torqued and he stretched his neck. But he could not hide. He puckered his mouth and tucked his chin. A feeble defense to stave off a shotgun. The barrel stayed centered on his face. Ominous. Merciless. As he looked into the depth of the barrel he took no inventory of his life. He thought not of his seventh birthday when his father took him to the sporting goods store and let him buy a football jersey, or his wedding day, his bride-to-be walking down the aisle, a veil so long she nearly tripped, and he did not think of their child, taken from them inexplicably, and he did not cry to God, forgive me, save me. His mind was empty, and he felt as though his insides, from lungs to groin, had hollowed, as though his emptiness was total and complete. And he felt the floor give way beneath him, that he might tumble headlong into the barrel. Nothing but him and the gun. Oblivion in waiting.

  The light went off and the gun retracted. Gregory gasped for air. He took it in like it was his first. And as he took another he found that his shirt was plastered to his chest. Then the sound of the crowd returned in a rush. He could hear them chanting, clapping with abandon. The door was open. An attendant came in to free him.

  “Did you see?” Gregory’s hands came loose and he cradled his head. “That was—I had no idea.” He tried to stand but his knees folded. The attendant draped Gregory’s arm over his shoulder and shuffled him out of the box. Gregory gave a tired smile to the crowd. He was like a prize fighter that went the distance, staggering through the crowd with a beaming exhaustion. As they carried him to the exit he pumped his fist in the air. “It’s so great,” he said, before shaking into tears.

  After the exit was a narrow hallway that led him to an office. Behind a desk a woman waited, a bank of monitors behind her, dozens of screens tiled up to the ceiling. They all displayed various pictures of Gregory. Him getting in the box. The barrel in his face. His fear. His anguish. The relief. Release.

  “I like number four,” the woman said. “Just look at that face. What a reaction.”

  Gregory laughed. Number four showed him from the gun’s point of view, right down the barrel. His eyes clamped shut. Sweat pouring down his forehead. A deep frown cutting his face. It looked like he was passing a stone. “Classic,” he said.

  “We can print it and frame it,” she said. “We got T-shirts, mugs, keychains.”

  “I survived the Killbox,” Gregory read from a display coffee mug. It had a cartoon explosion with the picture of a man screaming inside the box.

  “You can have it say something else. That’s just the most popular.”

  “Can you put number four on a mug, like that?” Gregory pointed at the display.

  “Give me two minutes,” she said.

  As he waited, Gregory helped himself to a cup of water from the cooler. He sat and thought about how nice it’d be to go into work. He’d amble through the office and into the break room, fill his mug with coffee. He was eager to place it on the edge of his desk so when a co-worker walked by and mentioned something about it, he could sheepishly brush it off, like it wasn’t a big deal. He wondered what they’d say to him and what that’d lead to. He knew that mug would make things different. And he wondered if he came here again, maybe not tomorrow, but perhaps next week on his lunch hour, would he see the old man waiting in line with his hands folded, hoping to punch his ticket? And the girl, too. If he rode it again would they cross each other? He hoped to God they would. He wanted to know.

  FALLEN TIMBERS

  “When the impartial historian records his preservation of Fort Meigs, the reader will find a monument which no time can decay.”

  —Celebratory toast given July 4, 1813

  Before I was old and wise enough to bury the feeling, I helped a man start a fire. I was driving home from the grocery store, two blocks past the fire station, headed toward an open stretch of road, when I saw him.

  He was a sorry sight. An old man walking alone in a fierce summer. Even with the late sun, merciless as ever, he still wore a flannel, tucked in and buttoned all the way to his neck. And that made him an even sadder thing, it seemed to me. The man labored on with a tiny gas can. He swung his arm wildly to keep his balance. He shuffled along, right to where the sidewalk ended and it was only the road and the weeds.

  I wasn’t the type of person to stop something in motion. I didn’t know why he was out here, so far from the fill-up, struggling with that little can. But there was something in the way he fought against his frailty, haunted by God knows what, that made me pull over.

  I watched him in the rearview as he set down the gas can. He jabbed his thumb into the palm of his other hand. He had to force his hand open, massaging each finger. And I could tell there was a great pain he was working through. He shook out his arm, picked up the canister, and pushed on. When he came near I leaned over. I opened the passenger door.

  “Need a lift?” I said.

  He bent down and looked in. Me up front. The bag of groceries in back.

  “I can take you as far as Waterville,” I said. I waved him in.

  He stood there rubbing his back a moment. “Up to Fort Meigs will do,” he said. “Best put this in the trunk on account of the fumes.” He filled the car with a smell of gasoline and stale tobacco. As the air conditioning recycled the scent it stung my nose like a cheap cowboy cologne. He kept a close eye on the old trees and the bones of the older houses on the roadside. He looked at the signs with a strange reverence.

  “You run out of fuel?”

  “No, sir,” he said. “Don’t drive no more.” He stabbed a finger against the window. “Big battle fought over there, year of our Lord 1813.” He squinted at an empty field. A Doritos bag spun a lazy circle in the weeds. “Ground drank up a lot of fire and blood there.”

  “You picked a hell of a day for an errand,” I said. “Radio said it was the hottest of the year. Muggy too.” He kept staring out the window. His silence made me feel strange. And I began to resent taking him on. “What’re you looking for?” I said.

  “Used to be a service station up there.” He pointed to another empty patch leveled to the concrete slab. “But that’s long past. Back to the way it ought to be I guess.”

  My nostrils widened. The fumes were beginning to make my head ache but I didn’t want to let the cold air out. “What’s with the gas then?”

  “Like I told you,” he said. “I’m taking it to Fort Meigs.”

  “They sent you all the way back there for gas?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m on my way there.” He reached over and touched my hand, which surprised me more than a simple thing like that should. “I’m a burn that thing down,” he said. He looked out the window and chuckled. “About time somebody did it again.” I watched him laugh. Even that was sad.

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. He had that sorry little gas can and he seemed determined enough. But I ignored it. I began to worry the heatwave might have gotten him. Or that he’d gone AWOL from a home or something and some men in white would come looking for him. “Fort’s closed today,” I said. I explained in a tone I reserved for talking to children. “They’re only open on the weekdays. For kids and field trips about the war.”

  “Think I don’t know that?” He laughed again. “I’m not trying to hurt anyone. I’m setting her back right. Besides,” he shook his head, “you’re talking about the museum part of it, the gift shop. It’s a damned fort, son. Anybody can walk around it when they please.”

  We came around a curve and the fort rose before us. Perched on a small bluff, against the bend of the river, the wooden blockhouse and bleached palisades pierced the sky. How many times I’d ignored it I couldn�
��t say. But he made it seem like a strange thing to me, a creature resurrected.

  “Look, I can drop you off but you’re not setting anything on fire.”

  “Like hell I won’t.” He touched my arm again before pointing at the fort. “Look at that monster. You tell me it belongs here.”

  We pulled into the lot. On weekends, a lap around the fort served as a quarter mile track for joggers. And when the sprinklers came on at dusk, the dogs would run through the lawn. But the heat hadn’t quit. We were alone.

  The palisades cast a jagged shadow on the parking lot. I followed him as he staggered around to the back of the car. He knocked his knuckle on the trunk. “I’m a be needing this.” I could have told him no. What could a frail man do to me? But I knew I wouldn’t. It wasn’t worth fighting over. And part of me still wanted to know.

  I kicked at the gravel. The cicadas paused their awful pulsing for a moment, but were back at it before there was a silence to enjoy.

  “What’d this place ever do to you?”

  “Watch your step.” He was looking off across the river, out toward Fallen Timbers. “Right here we were conquerors.” As he took in the view, the heat flushed his eyes. It looked like he might cry.

  I didn’t like seeing him like that. This time I touched him. A small nudge on his elbow.

  “You want a drink or something?” I said. “I got beer at the store.” I took it from the back seat and met him at the front of the car. We sat on the hood with our feet on the bumper. I was afraid to look at him so I looked at the fort. The staves looked like rotten teeth pushing up from the ground.