The Potential of Zeroes

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The Potential of Zeroes Page 5

by Eric Mattys


  The violent act triggered screams of sorrow and anger from the children. One child yelled, “C’mon!” and without any other words, the children responded. They shrugged, and wriggled, and clawed, and bit their way out of their protective parents’ hold. With screaming faces and full-on child sprints, they attacked the security guards hauling Santa away.

  In the boredom of security guard duty, G. Thompson and H. Foster had once hypothesized about just how many sugar-addled ADHD kids they could successfully combat. They settled the debate by saying that all they would have to do is take a nightstick to just one little rugrat and make an example of him (it would have to be a boy) and that that would turn the rest of them away, hypothetically. However, a real cause for which the kids would risk getting hurt never entered their hypothesis. Plus, hitting a seven-year-old with a nightstick is easy, even humorous, in theory, but difficult in practice.

  The children tactically immobilized the guards by strapping themselves to the guards’ ankles and then knees. As soon as the guards reached down to push the kids off their legs, more kids grabbed onto their arms. If it had been a matter of life and death, the guards might have thrown children into other children to stop the flood, but they did not, as some very worried parents were already apologizing and attempting to remove their kid or kids from the guards, which only made movement for the guards more difficult.

  The children swarmed over the guards. They kicked. They bit. They clawed and poked and punched and Indian-rope burned. Some of them even knew pressure points, but most all of them knew the power of the crotch kick and utilized this attack most mercilessly, which drove the guards to finally release Max.

  Max got up and looked at his little emancipators who remained free of their parents’ less-than-watchful eye, sitting atop the writhing guards. “Merry Christmas, children! I thank you for your bravery! You saved Christmas! No matter what your parents say, you are all definitely on the good list this Christmas! Never forget that fighting for a cause can benefit you in the end! Now I must go! MERRY CHRISTMAS!” He signaled to Terese and Mew of his need to escape. Terese and Mew helped Max hobble out of the mall.

  “Pain inhibits only the irresolute,” stated Max on the way home. Those cracked ribs didn’t matter. It was a high score on the MMJS.

  7

  The Future is Now

  A middle-aged man in a long, white coat walks uncomfortably fast with a visibly muffled excitement. His heel plants and then all his weight shifts to the ball of his foot and finally to his toes so that each step is a scarcely successful effort to prevent an airborne leap. His method of movement appears time-tested because he does not fall on his face. The man inside the white jacket has eyes that bulge so much that his peripheral vision must be close to 300 degrees. The roundness of his eyes make the squareness of his head more pronounced. His glasses are perfectly circular, thin and black. They fit him perfectly, but he pushes them higher up on his nose out of habit. The only unexpected features on his face are his long and angled sideburns which come to a sharp point at the edges of his mouth.

  A pin above his coat pocket says, “DR. CALVERT,” which is his name and how he prefers to be addressed during the rare instances when he has sexual intercourse. The scarcity of his sexual dalliances do not come from any particularly hideous features of his physical being (aside from the sideburns, perhaps); his sexual camelism develops more from his impatience for anyone who does not understand him on the first try, an impatience of which he is unaware. He only knows that he already has one job, and any relationship that requires more work than that is not worth his time. As a result, he never experiences relationships worth his time. So, he makes his job his life. He loves his work. He never puts his love to words, but he knows it exists. His awkward-looking gait stems from his unspoken love.

  The white of his coat and skin and eyes make him feel like a permanent part of the white of the hospital and tiles and pills. He likes being a small part of a larger working system; he never considers what that might mean about himself.

  Dr. Calvert shares one characteristic with Doobie: they both fear for the continued existence of humankind. Dr. Calvert sees the end of the world in what he believes to be realistic terms. His horror comes in the form of a flu pandemic, global warming, or, perhaps worse, a worldwide energy shortage in which electricity stops running. The idea of not being able to turn on a light switch or check his email or charge his cell phone or even keep up with the outside world via the internet plagues his neural pathways in the last nebulous moments before slumber. What would his life be like without electricity? He pictures hordes of violent renegades roaring up to his house with guns and communicable diseases and with full beards that make his sideburns look effeminate, breaking down his door to plunder everything he owns. No cops to call. No grocery stores. No National Public Radio shows to listen to in his underwear and slippers on the weekend.

  But his fear lays as dormant and passive as he is. A dark-aged, dystopian future agitates him well beyond his realm of control. Sure, he has a year’s worth of food supplies in his cellar. Sure, he has a gun with a license. Sure, he has an electric generator hooked up to his exercise bike. But beyond that, he keeps to his job of helping the mentally distressed and not becoming one of the mentally distressed himself.

  Dr. Calvert reaches Doobie. “I’m glad to see you’ve decided to talk again.” So smug, and he delivers the words without any zest despite his genuine interest.

  “Hey!” Bright eyes and the long graying beard of Doobie turn ecstatically towards the coat. “You’re the sonofabitch with the drugs! Did I ever punch you in the face?” Definitely did. “I’m sorry if I did.” Not actually sorry. Only being polite. “Drugs’ll make you do crazy things.”

  “All is forgiven.” Dr. Calvert means it. Punches in the face are just another facet of his job. A punch outside the hospital or by a colleague would be a different story, forcing him to decide whether retaliation is necessary or futile, a decision he gives great thought to in theory but never needs to carry out in practice. His world outside the hospital is so very benign. In the hospital, a punch in the face is acceptable because it confirms the reason why he works. People need his help. “I must say,” Dr. Calvert purses his lips together in a near smile, “we’re pleased you’re talking again.” He never looks up from his clipboard.

  Doobie replies, “Well, I’m pleased that fire is not coming out of the sky and burning everything alive,” with the same contained excitement that mimics Dr. Calvert.

  Dr. Calvert smiles. “Okay. I need to ask you some questions.”

  “Question away. I’m glad to share some words finally.”

  “First off, what’s your name?”

  “Teiresias.”

  “Oh. How do you spell that?”

  “T… E-A-T-S-H-I-T.”

  Dr. Calvert pushes his glasses up on his nose. “Ah, haha, right. You are very funny. It would appear I’ve written ‘teatshit’ as your name on this form. Thankfully, I have another. What’s your real name?”

  “Doobie Hugh Lyte”

  “Doobie Light. Ah… I sense you are still joking.”

  “No. It is funny, though, isn’t it? That’s my parents. Funny people.”

  “Doobie. Is that with a ‘y’ or an ‘i-e’?”

  “‘I-e.’ I ran away from home when I was little.”

  “And Light… i-g-h-t or…”

  Doobie closes his eyes and says, “Dr. Calvert, I see you eating filet mignon by yourself on a patio with women in dresses made of snow that never melt. You keep yourself free of smoking a cigarette or weed or drinking absinthe or even looking up at the women. Instead, you sip a single-malt and you never break your eyes away from the meal in front of you. The only person you speak to the whole evening is the waitress to order food. No small talk. No pleasantries. Your sterile, blank life sickens me. Purity is for the cowards.” Dr. Calvert looks over his glasses at
Doobie with his pen still on the form in front of him as Doobie finally adds, “But it’s L-y-t-e.”

  “Hmmh. Thank you.”

  “You can’t even get indignant. What do you do when you get home from work?”

  “That’s really not important right now.”

  “C’mon. It’ll help me if you answer a few of my questions.”

  Dr. Calvert sighs. “Okay. I shower. I check my personal email. Fix myself dinner or go out. I grab a drink. Go to sleep.”

  “Are you satisfied with this?”

  Dr. Calvert smiles the professional smile that is his only defense. “What I do outside of work is not what satisfies me, but eating out is nice.”

  “Did you have filet mignon last night?”

  “Yes. It just so happens I did.”

  “Were you by yourself?”

  “Again, we’re not here to talk about my personal life.”

  “Is there anything that isn’t personal?”

  “Can I get your social security number?”

  Doobie’s ragged eyebrows bunch together to nearly form a single, frustrated caterpillar. “Are you going to try and bill me?”

  “Well, our services aren’t free, but…”

  Doobie shakes his head and sighs. “Look. Does food taste as good if you don’t have someone to explain the flavor to?”

  “I don’t know...”

  “Why? Why are you so static and gutless? There’s no chance that you’re going to end the world. Why would you keep to yourself if you didn’t have to? And when you walk, it looks like you want to skip. Why don’t you do that? Just skip down the hall instead of doing that weird speed-walker-on-mescaline thing you do. Just try it. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Interesting.” Dr. Calvert adds the word “avoidance” as a note on the side of the form. “Can I get your social security number?”

  “I really don’t have time for all this. You’re not listening, and I’m going to leave soon.”

  “Oh? Where are you planning on going?”

  “Right out that exit door.”

  “You’re not cleared to leave yet. You might be a threat to yourself. You understand that, right?”

  “Sure.” Doobie takes a deep breath. “All you need to know is that there are things I can see that you can’t, so…” He shrugs. “… yeah… I’m going to leave in a little while.” Doobie checks his wrist for a watch that isn’t there.

  “Fair enough, Mr. Lyte. We can get your information later, but I have to ask why you’ve been silent all these years.”

  “Why? Because I’ve seen how the stars crash, and the whole mess becomes disintegrating dust motes. I’ve opened my mouth and set in motion a vast, reactionary machine that may yet spell out the end. So while time is your guessing game, it’s my ménage a trois. Just watch. You’ll see… I’ve seen the end times, and my words may still cause the end. But now I figure, if fire rains down, fire rains down. I’m no savior. I’m done with silence and self-sacrifice, especially if it’s to save people like you. If the end is near, bring it on.”

  “Okay. Thanks for sharing that.” He continues taking notes, mostly because, as much as he loves his job, he hates not knowing what to do, and notes are something to do. “Mr. Lyte, I’m going to ask you not to make any attempts to leave the premises at this time.”

  “Well, thanks for asking.”

  “And we will talk more later.” Dr. Calvert gets up and walks through the “Staff Only” door.

  Doobie pretends to look out the barred window intently until a page comes for Dr. Calvert over the intercom. What good is his stupid white coat with his name on it? Maybe if it had some kind of chain mail inner lining or if it was bulletproof it might be worthwhile, but otherwise, you might as well just wear a nametag that says, “I think I know better than you.” He’s probably got the knowledge on prescription drugs and the body, but it’s not absolute. Doobie shakes his head and starts walking toward the exit whispering, “Here we go. Here we go. Here we go.”

  A rhinoceros of a patient named Lambert charges past Doobie at full speed toward the safety-glass exit door. Doobie does not flinch as the wind from the charging man makes his hospital garment push against the back of his calves. He feels the floor tremble as the giant strides past. A nurse glances up from her workstation behind a glass window, hoping the situation might fix itself without her attention. A second later she screams, “Lambert’s on the run again! Phil! Better get a doctor in there!” Phil, the nurse’s aid, zooms past Doobie, who continues to pace, watching each foot fit in single tile square after single tile square. Lambert rumbles five feet from the door and moves like a one-man buffalo stampede.

  “Godspeed,” Doobie whispers. Lambert runs like he might bust right through the door like a cartoon, leaving a hole in the shape of his body. He lowers his shoulder and a most horrific meat-compacting thud follows the slap of Lambert hitting the cold linoleum tile.

  Lambert lays entirely still. Doobie, still twenty feet away from the fallen Lambert, creeps closer to the exit without looking up from his calculated steps.

  “Doctor! Doctor! Get in there! He’s not moving!” shouts the nurse. Phil reaches Lambert first and checks for consciousness. Lambert does not respond. Dr. Calvert’s white coat glides in and swoops to a stop above Lambert. He mechanically takes up Lambert’s wrist in search of a pulse. Lambert’s hand awakens, rolls around in a flash, and jerks Dr. Calvert around into a chokehold with gorilla-like force. Dr. Calvert fears the end might be now. Lambert hoists himself and Dr. Calvert up by leaning up against the wall.

  Lambert locks his arm around the neck of the doctor. How disturbingly human they both look. Dr. Calvert’s normally expressionless face blooms into animation, losing condescension and supposed authority. His arms flail helplessly to grasp Lambert’s face, while his mouth gargles for words of any meaning. Lambert’s crimson face freezes emotionless to some invisible distance or deity, like a faithful monk in meditation. No thought poaches his mind. Lambert tightens his grip further, afraid to let go. His bloodshot eyes fix beyond the walls of the hospital, perhaps to some promised land unimaginable where violence is pure, righteous, and without second thought.

  Doobie dislikes such ugliness. He pretends not to notice as he reaches his destination next to the exit door.

  A nurse’s voice shouts, “Call security! Get them in here now! Lambert! Stop it! You’re hurting Dr. Calvert! Do you understand? Dr. Calvert can’t breathe with your arm around him like that! STOP IT!”

  The exit door buzzes and clicks open and two burly attendants rush the room. They take out their mace and start spraying it all over Lambert, moving to dislodge the doctor, who also feels the wrath of the mace. Lambert stands strong for a few seconds before collapsing, coughing and tearing up with the discovery of his misconception.

  With their mission accomplished, the attendants exchange dutiful looks, coughing a little from the spicy nutmeg particles still wafting around them while helping Dr. Calvert. They fail to notice Doobie exiting through the doorway like a dust mote floating over the floor. Mr. Doobie Hugh Lyte walks out of the psychiatric hospital, free to find the three individuals of his cataclysmic prediction.

  8

  Sunday School

  As a child, Gustave’s father baked and drank happily during most of his waking hours. Since his parents couldn’t afford daycare, Gustave stayed in the bakery and watched his father give away cookies to customers. When he asked his father why he did this, his father told him it made him feel good to make other people feel good, and giving people free cookies made them feel good, too. He never argued with free cookies until he went to the toy store one day.

  There was a miniature pinball machine that he thought would be the height and maybe the end of all his desire, the toy that would prevent him from wanting another toy ever again. He loved the flippers and little football players and bell
s and springs and lights that lit up and the scoreboard that rolled higher and higher as you hit more springs. With this toy, by his seven-year-old reasoning, the need for more toys would end. He explained this to his half-drunk father who told him he did not have the money to pay for the toy pinball machine.

  Determined, young Gustave approached the cashier, a well-groomed teen with a smiling face, and asked him, “Do you like feeling good?”

  The somewhat puzzled cashier responded with a nod.

  “Do you like making other people feel good?”

  Again, the cashier responded with a yes.

  “Do you feel good when other people feel good?”

  A final nod from the cashier brought a look of happy anticipation to the boy’s face. “Well, then maybe we can help each other out. You see, my dad doesn’t have the money to get me that pinball machine, but it’s the last toy I think I’ll ever want. So, do you think you could give me the pinball machine?”

  The cashier took a deep breath and pressed his lips together.

  Gustave continued, “Because you said you like making people feel good. This would make me feel really good, and you said that you feel good when other people feel good. So if you give me the pinball machine, both of us will feel good.”

  The cashier gave a half-hearted laugh and explained how he would like to give him the pinball machine because it would make him feel good, but that his boss would not like it at all. The cashier said that he would lose his job if he gave toys away. Young Gustave walked back to his dad and punched him in the knee. His father asked him why he did that, and he spewed, “Because you’re dumb and you give things away when other people don’t give things away.”

  Gustave stopped sharing after that. He did not care about what any of the Sesame Street characters said. He cared even less what his teachers and parents said good people do. If he had a ball or a prized pastry for a snack, it was his, and he would not share unless he could see what he would get in return.

 

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