Swallowing a Donkey's Eye

by Paul Tremblay

  The group pow-wow is still over by the windows, and I hear, “We apologize for that,” then, “Turning down the volume is the best we could do.”

  I shrug.

  Padre says, “See, I told you he’s a perv like me. He doesn’t care.”

  I grab a bottle of distilled water and meet them over by the window. I get a panoramic view of the Zone. The surging crowd is enclosed by towering brick and concrete structures, their giant neon-signed holding pen.

  I say, “So what’s the story here?”

  “It’s simple,” then, “The Mayor grows weary,” then, “A bout of ennui,” then, “He wants some competition,” then, “To get the old political juices squirting again,” then, “So per his request: an election,” then, “He needs an opposing candidate,” then, “We’d like that candidate to be you.”

  I watch and damn it, those suits talk so fast I still can’t figure out when one is talking or not talking. Really, they’re pissing me off and I’m thinking about Farm again, how these two soulless freaks are the engineered animals now and there are some hidden speakers somewhere in this room speaking for them. That said, if they’re the animals, I’m not sure what that makes me.

  I say, “You, and I mean all of you,” and I glare at dear old Dad, “have to know I don’t believe any of this, or trust any of you, and the only thing I’m confident about is me ending up dead somewhere while people sing Hail to the Chief.”

  “We’re giving you the straight scoop,” then, “No funny stuff here,” then, “Of course, we can’t guarantee your safety,” then, “Just as we can’t guarantee our own safety,” then, “Exactly, on our way home we could get hit by a taxi,” then, “Or a bus,” then, “Probably a Pier Wagon,” then, “My goodness, maybe we should stay here,” then, “Ha ha,” then, “Ha ha.”

  I say, “Father Dad, are tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee telling the truth here?” which is probably a tweedle-dumber thing for me to say. The more prudent act would be to wrangle Father ESP away to a quiet corner and ask him about what vibes he’s getting from the manic duo. Prudent schmudent. I want to make things difficult. I want to make everyone in the room, especially him, squirm. I might be their patsy, but I ain’t easy.

  There’s a delicious silence, then Dad says, “I cannot tell a lie. They’re feeding it, whatever it is they’re feeding you, to ya straight.”

  He’s lying. He’s telling the truth. I have no clue. I can’t read him. I don’t know him well enough to read him, and he hasn’t taken off his night-vision glasses yet so I can’t see his eyes.

  He adds, “I’ll leave you folks to chat it up. I’ll be over on the couch, serveilling the surveillance if anyone needs a priest.” He pats me on the shoulder oh so fatherly-like and smiles as if to say, if you gonna play games with me I got your checkmate right here, dumbass.

  The suits chime in. “We understand your position,” then, “This all seems so strange,” then, “Counter-intuitive,” then, “Logic defying,” then, “But rest assured, there is a plan,” then, “And it’s a solid plan,” then, “Been worked on and honed,” then, “And fine tuned,” then, “For months.”

  I say, “I haven’t been a wanted Farm-escapee for months.”

  “No,” then, “You haven’t,” then, “But we’ve been searching for a candidate now for months,” then, “You’re the right one,” then, “You’re perfect.”

  I look back to the couch, to my father-the-father, and goddamn me I want him to save me now.

  He isn’t even looking over at us. He’s reclined on the sofa, arms spread apart, whistling and talking about someone’s ta-tas.

  They say in unison, “Read this letter from the Mayor.”

  They stick an envelope in my hand, my name in calligraphy, wax sealing the flap. I open it.

  30

  A LETTER ABOUT A FRIDGE

  The letter, dated yesterday, written in an olde English style, complete with random ink blots and stains:

  Dear Possible, Future, Mr. Mayor.

  How does that strike you? Probably as wild fantasy given your current societal position as a wanted terrorist. By the by, I’ve seen bootleg footage of your escape, thrilling stuff. It should hit the streets any hour now, which will make things that much more unpleasant for you, but ah, that’s life in the big City. Nevertheless, you becoming Mayor is still a possibility, made more so by my insisting that my top two political strategists head your campaign. All I ask is that you fight to the end.

  Do note, I am asking you to fight. I expect you and your campaign managers to try and win this election. Take the high road, low road, mudsling, whatever you need to do to defeat me. I can take it, and I will be fighting back just as hard. I fear the lack of political competition through these most recent years has made me staid, stagnant, complacent. A hotly contested election is what City and myself need. The press and interwebbers will eat it up. Not to mention campaign donations and tee shirt production and the like. We’ll be a boon to the economy, regardless of outcome! Democracy! It’ll be beautiful. I hope you’re as excited as I am.

  Of course, I expect to crush you like a bug, however, if you simply fall down on your sword before me, I’ll ensure you experience the fate that usually befalls a terrorist, a la your chicken-suited ally.

  Before I wish you luck, let me tell you a story. When I was a boy (yes, this old warhorse was a boy once), there was an old woman living in the South End projects who had a refrigerator that kept her food cold despite the motor having burnt out years prior. The little light bulb inside didn’t work, but she didn’t care because her food stayed cold. Gossip and grapevine led hundreds of neighbours, local hangers-on, and even a selectman or two to her humble apartment and into her dingy kitchen to see the miracle fridge, and she always kept a visitors’ supply of hot-dog finger sandwiches in that fridge, despite her dire financial situation. As word got out, more and more people came. Some people threw their loose change inside the fridge, like it was some kind of wishing well or one of those fountains in the mall where children foolishly throw their coins. Others took pictures with the old woman and the fridge. Others brought their own magnets to leave on the metal doors, the magnets inscribed with missing loved ones’ names or little prayers. Others called her a fraud and a sham and searched for evidence of battery power or alternate fuel sources, and when finding none they claimed the air inside the fridge was no colder than the air in the apartment. A group of University scientists examined the fridge and found the temperature at a constant 39.4675 degrees Fahrenheit, then spouted all sorts of theories about electromagnetism, quantum physics, and environmental conditions they couldn’t prove, yet they still proclaimed another victory for science. At last count our esteemed City University Press has published thirty-six scholarly articles on the refrigerator. Then there were the various religious leaders proclaiming the wonder appliance as proof of the mystery of God.

  Regardless of who made the pilgrimage to her refrigerator, she let everybody in to see for themselves, and they all asked her what she thought about her miracle appliance. Her response was always the same, “Don’t know and don’t care. Keeps my food cold.”

  Isn’t that a wonderful story? All true! Why tell it? I told it because this story relates to your newborn campaign. You may think you have no shot as a Mayoral candidate because of the terrorist and Farm-escapee stuff. But never underestimate the power of the public to see what they want to see, either in their political candidates or their kitchen appliances.

  For what it’s worth, City officials eventually confiscated the refrigerator in order to run more tests. The results of which are classified. But if you do defeat me and become Mayor, I’ll take you to see the fridge myself. That daffy machine still works like a charm. In fact, I might have to put a bottle of City’s best champagne in there for the election’s victor!

  Good luck and may the best man win.

  Yours in Mayorality,

  A. S. Solomon

 
31

  SHIT END OF THE STICK

  Solomon has been Mayor of City for as long as I’ve been alive and I can’t remember who was the previous Mayor or when that was. He’s always been there. Heck, I don’t remember the last time we’ve even had a Mayoral election that wasn’t uncontested. And now I know that Mayor Solomon is unquestionably out of his mind.

  I fold the letter back up but can’t force the stupid parchment back into the waxed envelope. “Um, this guy is nuts.”

  “He told you the fridge story,” then, “Yes, of course he did,” then, “Ha ha,” then, “Ha ha.”

  My father is still sitting on the couch, enjoying his peep and porn shows.

  I say, “Yeah, he told me about the magic refrigerator.”

  “That’s our Mayor,” then, “You gotta love him.”

  Still can’t get the letter in the envelope, so I throw it on the floor. “Let’s pretend any of this is legit for a second. How is it you guys can whip up a new election like this?”

  “Recall election,” then, “It’ll be announced tonight,” then, “Along with your candidacy,” then, “In two weeks there’ll be ballot questions,” then, “One will decide whether or not to continue subsidizing no-kill animal shelters,” then, “Another question will relate to decreasing transaction taxes in the Zone,” then, “Another ballot question asks to revoke the 100 foot Ad Walker-free buffer around schools and churches,” then, “And the final question will ask if there should be a recall election,” then, “If the voters choose yes, they will then have two choices for Mayor,” then, “You and Mayor Solomon,” then, “You’ll be labeled as an independent,” then, “We didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “Oh, I get it. This isn’t ennui on the part of the Mayor. He’s done something wrong and is being recalled and you guys are here to set up a patsy to lose. I’m your perfect candidate because there’s no way I’ll win.”

  “No, no,” then, “No, no,” then, “This is all by decree of Mayor Solomon,” then, “Sure we bent his ear,” then, “Did some persuasion,” then, “Some convincing,” then, “But the important thing is,” then, “He believes it’s all his idea,” then, “He’ll explain to the citizens tonight,” then, “We’re going to make you a legit candidate,” then, “Spin your soon-to-be infamy into celebrity,” then, “A true politician,” then, “A folk-hero,” then, “Someone who could actually win.”

  I can’t say I ever expected or wanted to be part of a conversation like this. My suitably intelligent and all-encompassing emotional response is: “Yeah, right.”

  “Really,” then, “Most view Mayor Solomon as imperial and God-like,” then, “But the numbers show he’s too God-like,” then, “Out of touch with the common man,” then, “Grapes of Wrath sort of thing,” then, “Yup, losing his humanness factor,” then, “All the polls say so,” then, “We can take advantage of that,” then they say in unison, “We have a plan.”

  They lead me to a table and sit me down. There are stacks of contracts and papers, and if they were talking at me fast before, they’ve gone into warp-drive. Their voices drone along with the classical music and the hooting and laughter of my father on the couch, but I don’t hear any of it. Life was so much easier at Farm.

  “Hold it!” I yell. They stop talking and stare at me. For a crazy moment, it even seems the writhing naked flesh on all those screens stops. “What if I decline your candidacy nomination?”

  “You walk out of here,” then, “Public enemy number one.”

  “I only escaped Farm to look for my missing mother.”

  They both shrug, looking bored, like I’d asked them the simplest, plainest question possible, like I’d told them something utterly ridiculous. “Become Mayor,” then, “Then you can find anyone you want,” then, “You’re not going to find her from jail,” then, “You’re not going to find her if you’re dead.”

  My father shouts from the couches, “You’re being conscripted! What an honour!”

  I get up and walk over to him and say, “Can’t you grant me asylum or something in your church?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I want to stab myself in the pancreas for begging him for help.

  He shakes his head and says, “Nope. My church hasn’t been allowed to grant asylum for decades. Us Catholics get the shit end of the stick in this town.”

  In the end, there really is no decision, is there? I’ve spent the last three-plus Farm years as an automaton taking orders, what’s a few more weeks? So I spend the next hour signing contracts and pretending to listen to their coffee-on-speed speeches and directives. They have me read and sign off on my official platform, my campaign promises, which are very vague and speak only to the nebulous idea of sweeping change and the common person’s perspectives, to get an outsider in City Hall, and similar kinds of bullshit.

  A youngish Asian woman with a hand-held vid-cam enters the room. Her black hair is tied up beneath a black, logo-less baseball hat. She says nothing and takes stills and vid of me sitting and standing in different positions, then shoots some vid of me walking. My father heckles me the whole time, saying shit like my, what a pretty pony. Everyone but me laughs with him. My campaign managers (I’ll call them the CM from now on) tell me that they’ll be able to make ads from this simple footage. They tell me about all the holo-board space they have and the elite team of seven Ad Walkers ready to go. They record me saying that I approved this message, whatever this message is, whatever the message they want it to be. Yeah, I’m the voiceless animal now, with the CM fixing to pump in the fake sounds.

  A few more shots, a few more smiles, a few more ponderous and solemn leader-type facial expressions into the camera and the CM say, “That’s a wrap,” then, “Very good, very good,” then, “We’re on the path to victory now,” then, “No one can stop us.”

  I say, “Yeah, great, I’ll be sure to save a spot on my cabinet for you folks.”

  They laugh, but then flip through three-hundred pages of contract to show me where I already promised such positions of power in the event that I do win the election. And oddly, I find this comforting. I mean, I don’t find the monstrous, what-did-I-actually-sign contract comforting as I’m sure somewhere in there they now have legal claim to my spleen and kidneys, but it does make me feel better that these two parasites have something to gain from my success. Man, I’m as phony as they are.

  I say, “So what now?”

  They tell me. To be safe, I still need to go into hiding. No telling what whackos might do to me when the Farm escape vid is released. I’m to go with my father-the-father under City, down into the Pier, more specifically to his charity, simply called Home, set up adjacent to the old Dump; a fabled mountain of refuse that suddenly isn’t so fabled. Melissa Madsen—the intrepid cameraperson—is to accompany us and document my helping the discarded for the TV show.

  I say, “What TV show?”

  The CM say, “This is the best part,” then, “Our secret weapon in this campaign,” then, “The Mayor doesn’t even know about it,” then, “He’s going to flip when he finds out,” then, “Yes, this will scare him,” then, “This is our coup,” then, “The major network,” then, “City Broadcasting Company,” then, “Is giving us a nightly one-hour show for these two campaign weeks,” then, “Reality TV, of course,” then, “Called ‘The Candidate,’” then, “They’re excited,” then, “Given who you are and where you’ll be it’ll be the highest rated show of the season,” then, “Maybe the decade,” then, “And for us we’ll get all that free air time,” then, “All that free publicity,” then, “You can’t buy exposure like that.”

  My father gets up off the couch and slaps me on the back, hard enough to force the air out of my lungs. He says, “My son, the TV-star-Mayor guy. I’m so goddamn proud, I could just shit.”

  Then, there’s that crashing elevator sound again, an explosion (I’m fast becoming an expert on explosions, aren’t I?) outside of the Boutique. This sound is
muzzled a bit, but still snaps hard against the almost-sound-proof bay windows. The screens on the wall shake and tremble and go fuzzy for a second. But the people on those screens keep fucking.

  We all step toward the window to look out into the Zone. There’s billowing smoke and a column of fire near the Zone’s entrance. Twisting and projected bodies and body parts splatter into windows two or three stories up. The mass of people squeezes around the fire column and presses up against the assorted storefronts, looking for cover. A significant percentage of the crowd pull little white gas masks over their mouths and noses. The gas mask contingent don’t seem to be panicking, but rather waiting out whatever it is they’re waiting out. About a half-dozen of the shops dropped their automated metal gates over their entrances to keep people from rushing inside. Some people try to scale the gates but they fall quickly, shaking their hands in pain. The gates must be electrified. Makes sense to me. The smoke rises and spreads, and flashing lights poke through the cloud. Other than the faint sound of sirens, I hear only the classical music still playing in the room.

  I say, “What is going on?”

  The CM say, “Terrorists,” then, “Which group?” then, “Who knows?” then, “Though nothing out of the norm,” then, “This happens in the Zone every two weeks,” then, “Like clockwork,” then, “Melissa’s partner was killed a few months ago,” then, “So unfortunate,” then, “But nothing for you to worry about,” then, “We have a private car for you out back in the loading dock.”

  I look at Melissa. She nods, acknowledging something. The CM don’t look at me while speaking, but outside at the smoke and damage and death. They have bemused smiles on their faces. They could be watching a child putting silly things in her mouth. They could be watching a neutered dog humping people’s legs.