The Potential of Zeroes

by Eric Mattys

  The woman half laughs. “That’s like asking a prisoner what they’re in for, kind of, isn’t it. Except that we didn’t really do anything wrong.” She half laughs again. “At least, I didn’t.” She pauses and looks down before looking back up at Terese. “I lost my job. I couldn’t pay rent. I went through all the money I saved. My family disowned me because I’m gay. I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I’m not starting a class war. It’s hard finding a job without a place of residence.”

  Mew says, “I’m really sorry. That sounds hard. What kind of work did you do before?”

  The woman takes a small bite from her brownie. “I worked in accounts payable. They went to an automated system. My job just disappeared. Company made a profit from it.”

  Mew asks her, “Wouldn’t it be nice to stick it to them?”

  “Sure. How?”

  “Class war. Empty bellies are what bring real revolutions, right? There’s a plethora of empty bellies here.”

  The woman shrugs. “Um. My belly’s not really empty. I got breakfast earlier. This brownie is delicious. Things could be worse. That’s why I’m not actually interested in some class war. War would destroy the thing that lets me have a job in the first place, that lets me move out of my parents’ crazy house of rules.”

  Terese looks the woman in the eyes. “That’s good to hear. I’m sorry that I can’t do more to help you.”

  She smiles. “Just talking is nice. Usually people don’t even have time to listen. They make up their own reasons why a person is homeless and don’t have time to hear the ones that are real. And I get it. It’s hard to hear or listen to real desperation. People are busy. I’m trying, though, and some people are helping.”

  Mew takes one more brownie out of the tray and places it on a napkin held by hands of dirt, callouses, labor, liquor, burnt Marlboro lights, meat and bone attached to arms with an indecipherable tattoo that may have been a dragon, or a snake, or flames on a day in the past, covered partially by a faded green army surplus jacket with someone’s name on the chest, which contains a body with ribs protruding from a stained undershirt and liver slightly swollen from years of trying to feel better about being on the bottom, all attached to a neck coated with prickly, thick hairs that only become thicker as the neck grows into a jaw and a chin with skin to match the hands and hazelnut eyes piercing but downtrodden.

  Mew says, “Here,” to complete the transfer of the brownie to the man in the green army surplus jacket. The piercing eyes blink and the head nods, a gesture saying “thanks” before looking back down. Mew feels a pressure on the back of his neck through his deep-sea suit. Not enough to crush him, but enough not to ignore. Asking the man in the surplus army jacket for his story would lead to a vulnerability, would expose a prejudice. To ask is to care; to care is to show up consistently. There is no knowing the man in the army surplus jacket without following him beyond a brownie handout. But to follow someone unknown would break a rule he set for himself, a rule intended to prevent the world from crushing him. (For more on these rules see Appendix A: Mew’s Precepts.)

  17

  IED

  April 15, 2009

  Hey Bro,

  I wanted to give you an update on where Im at. Dont know the name of drugs they have on me but feeling good now which is nice. Hands still recovering from the burns so my buddy OBrien is typing for me. Im alright though. Make sure mom doesnt worry. I know you guys dont talk these days, but if you do talk to her just calm her down. Spoke with her yesterday she wouldnt believe when I told her my injuries werent bad. She was just crying and angry and cussing things. My legs and arms and brains are still in one piece. Let her know. She was kinda crazy.

  Anyway OBrien was there too when the IED went off. He had the protection of the door of our armored vehicle. I was outside the vehicle because I didnt even know there was a damn IED. Few minutes passed since we took down this building we thought had bad guys in it. When we heard this kid under the rubble. We wanted to haul ass out of there but the kid kept saying help in English in a awful way. We should of let him die alone.

  Hoffhauer and Henderson rushed over to help the guy. I was covering them while they worked. Fucking hate those neighborhoods. Theres two dozen places gunfire can come from windows, rooftops, balconies, doorways. Im looking for any place where a sniper might pop up working the perimeter for Hoffhauer and Henderson. When I turn round for a second to tell them to hurry the fuck up I see a flash and it feels like a baseball bat hit me in the chest. Im able to pull myself up and I see Hoffhauer and Henderson literally in pieces. Both Hoffhauers hands were blown to shit. I mean not even there. His face was fucked up. I couldnt hear anything because my ear drums were blown out, but I can still see Hoffhuaers skin all peeled off his face and half of his lower jaw just trying to jabber away. Im glad I couldnt hear because I can only imagine the sounds coming out of him. Grabbed him by his body armor without thinking and threw him in the vehicle. Thats how I got the burns on my hands. Hoffhauer and his vest were smoking hot. Martinez grabbed what was left of Henderson and we got the fuck out.

  Hoffhauer and Henderson died on the way. I didnt notice cuz I had some pretty nasty shrapnel wounds. Did you know that the nastiest kind of shrapnel is bone fragment? When it blows up it splinters. It turns out I caught a piece of Hoffhauer or Henderson or that cocksucker with the bomb in my thigh. It just missed the femoral otherwise they say I wouldve bled out before we made it back to base. Pretty fucking crazy. Dont tell mom that part. So I get a good month or so off. There not going to send me home though. This place is a real mess. I cant wait to get out of here. Three more months and I wont have to take orders from some dull tool.

  I hope the “car dealership” is going well. And you better have a job for me when I get back. Maybe you can hook up OBrien too. I dont know what else Im going do once Im stateside.

  Best,

  Corbin Tyner

  PS OBrien wants a suit and Cadillac when he gets back to the states. Do you know anybody who can get a good deal?

  ________________________________________

  PFC Corbin Tyner USMC

  18

  Urban Quests

  “Make the future, rain the fire. Be the suture of desire. Say the words they will require to make the future, rain the fire. Be the suture of desire. Say the words they will require to make the future, rain the fire. Be the suture of desire. Say the words they will require...” Doobie looks up still repeating the words under his breath and sees them from across the room dispensing brownies. Doobie lets the crowd clear.

  The other people here must think the goods are gone because they’ve cleared out. Doobie catches a glimpse of Terese. Skin reflects light as if made of stars. Contrasting black hair occasionally curls. Blue eyes whisper unintelligible secrets. She exudes a faith that her body is not her sole essence. She’s right. Doobie Lyte approaches, calculating each step to fit in single tile square after single tile square.

  Max looks at the man. “I think we’re all out of brownies, sir.”

  “Sir…” Doobie looks down and shakes his head before looking back up. “‘Sir’ is what you call people who don’t know. Geezers. Someone with googly eyes that can’t see or walk straight, thanks to the degradation of age. ‘Sir’… It wasn’t always like that you know. It used to be that age meant wisdom. Days of yore when cultures were one or two trick ponies, hunters, gatherers, and the elders knew the tricks best. Now the tricks go changing every couple years and age doesn’t mean respect; it means you’re out of it. ‘Sorry, sir, we don’t have a payphone.’ ‘No, sir. That’s where you put the credit card.’ ‘Do you need help crossing the street, sir?’ I think you,” Doobie points to Max, “should pay closer attention, sir.” Doobie points to the back corner of the bottom tray. Max takes the lid off the tray and sees one last brownie sitting in the tray.

  Max hands him the last brownie. “I stand corrected.”


  “I’m not entirely out of touch. I know not to ignore everything everyone else fails to see. I see the hair on your head migrating slowly into your ears and how close you are to the age of ‘sir’ yourself.” The old man bites into the brownie with crooked teeth. “Mmm. This brownie is pure. Almost too pure. The three of you gotta mix it up. You need to toil and roll in the hay and boil your brains away and bubble and birth yourselves complete a bit. Especially you, Bartholomew!”

  Mew blinks and rears his head back. “How do you know my name?”

  The old man replies, “You three bear the mark of outsiders,” poking the sticker on Mew’s shirt that reads, “Hello my name is… Bart.” The old man lets out a wheezing laugh and quits just as quickly as he starts. He closes his eyes and allows a long swath of air into his lungs before proclaiming:

  “Here’s a story that ought provide you with

  The caldron of thought which potential brews.

  In Universe’s laws that guide the pith

  With rules, seasons, and math’matical stews.

  Steams of madness and inconsistency

  Confound and splinter all the world in two;

  The thoughts of man’s contrived periphery

  And physics bland augur that gives preview.

  Them both I have and I will pass along

  To you the trinity who tend the steams

  Of God’s whisper. You whisper back, the song

  Of sweet nothings, condens’ed forms pith’s beams.

  Don’t let my ancient form distort your face.

  I only mean to put the fire in place.”

  Terese’s eyes widen like graffitied full moons. Max’s eyebrows squeeze together as if the closer they come the more sense the words might make. Mew looks over his shoulder in fear of pickpockets who might profit from distraction. Before being able to react, Doobie addresses Terese:

  “Precipices build a man sharp like blades

  Who holds his point against the weaker-thans

  For hire. Green blooms you’ll buy while value fades

  Transcend his wrath to divert colder plans.”

  Doobie slaps Mew in the face, grabs his chin and says:

  “Magnificent flames of delight await

  As perking lips that read your secret wish

  To stumble from your lonesome ideal state.

  Fall with the girl whose flames might demolish.”

  Doobie grabs Max by the shoulder:

  “Us two will look down darkest dells of dead-

  Giver’s demon, handheld controlled and froze.

  Pleased we will be with thoughts forgot instead

  Of calculations, afterlife and woes.

  “Dear sirs of no choice, tomorrow requests

  Your full rejoice in these your urban quests.”

  Terese, Max, and Mew stand motionless in disbelief. Doobie waves his hand in front of them. “Okay… that’s the whole thing. Go ahead and ah… get… get going. You’ve got your ah… quests now. Get to it.” Doobie makes a shooing motion with the backs of his hands.

  19

  MacDonald’s Slide

  Twenty blocks away, a man in a light blue suit steps out of his light blue Grand Royal Cadillac. The suit, pristine and wrinkle-free, has a tag on the inside which reads, “100% Polyester.” A thin gold chain rests atop the light blue suit. He hates the Bee-Gees, but knows his look fits their music. Disco is garbage, but the suit, not at all. Can’t take it back either. He bites his upper and lower lips at the same time, pulling his skin tighter around his face which, under the right circumstances, could itself become a weapon. He lost most of the hair on his head in his late twenties. So why bother with any at all. Every third day, he shaves it. He walks into a building with a dingy sign over it that reads, “Dom’s Flower Shop.” What a shithole. Hardly any flowers and the ones here are dying. A short man wearing a tight pink, red, and yellow flower print shirt with slicked, black hair and a thin line of a mustache stands behind the cash register counter. A small nametag on his shirt reads “Alonzo”.

  The man in the light blue suit walks up to Alonzo, glances over his shoulder, and asks, “You got the plants?”

  Alonzo gives an artificial smile touched with the fake politeness that comes with working a service job for too long. “Why yes. We have all sorts of plants.”

  “I’m here to pick up a specific kind of plant that you and your boys in the back have been workin’ on.”

  “Well, do you know the name of the plant? Because this is a flower shop. We have a lot of different plants here.” Alonzo’s fake smile stinks almost to the point of disrespect.

  The man in the light blue suit bites the inside of his lips. “Look. What I know is that my boss sent me here and he told me to ask for the plants and that you would know exactly what I was talkin’ about.”

  “Maybe you should go back to your boss,” Alonzo puts up little finger quotes around the word boss, “and ask him what kind of plant it is he wants. Okie-doke?”

  The man in the light blue suit speaks as if to a child, smiling to match his fakeness. “Do I look like a guy who buys flowers?” He drops the smile. “Huh? I’m talkin’ about the plants. Maybe you got a separate greenhouse or somethin’ for people like me who don’t get into the intricacies of flowers. I’m lookin’ for plants that do somethin’ more than look pretty. Plants that have a certain medicinal value? Do you understand me now?”

  Alonzo’s face morphs into a look of sarcastic concern. “Sir, this is a legal flower shop, not a drug store. If you need drugs, I suggest asking anyone not associated with this very legal business place.”

  The man in the light blue suit balls his hands into fists. “No. This is the place. He said you boys had been cookin’ up somethin’ real nice for him. Now where are they?”

  Alonzo shakes his head and shrugs, “Maybe you have the wrong address.”

  “Who do you think you’re dealing with?” The man in the light blue suit grabs Alonzo’s name tag and rips it off his shirt to read it more closely. “Alonzo.”

  “Hey, that’s my name tag. I’m supposed to wear it.”

  “Well, you can wear it over there.” He throws the nametag across the room. Alonzo moves to fetch the name tag, but the man in the light blue suit stops him by grabbing him by the collar. “This is the last time I’m going to ask you politely. Where are the plants?”

  “Maybe I should call my mana—”

  “That’s it. I didn’t want to have to do it this way, but you give me no choice. My boss told me specifically to ask for Alonzo. You’re him and you’re hiding something. We’re going for a little ride.”

  “What, where are we going?”

  “I’m feelin’ like a little bit of McDonald’s this afternoon. We’re gonna pay good ol’ Ronnie Mac a visit.”

  Alonzo scrunches up his nose. “I’m not really up for McDonald’s. I ate earlier. I’m watching my carbs.” He pats his tummy.

  The man in the light blue suit smiles, puts his elbow on the counter, rests his chin on his hand, and says, “I’d like to make your nose an inny instead of outty. My boss says I have anger management problems. That’s why we’re going to go to McDonald’s instead.” The man in the light blue suit opens up his jacket and reveals his gun. “Let’s go.”

  “Fine.”

  The two men walk out to the light blue Cadillac where the trunk pops open.

  The man in the light blue suit points to the trunk. “Get in.”

  “No, man. I’m not going to ride in the trunk.”

  “I’M not you’re fuckin’ CHAUFFEUR! Get in!”

  Alonzo yells back. “Alright! I’ll get in!” He climbs in looking indignantly at the man in the blue suit who slams the trunk closed before Alonzo can settle below clearance. The trunk hitting Alonzo’s head makes a dull clunk sound.

  “You�
��re too slow, Alonzo!” He slams the trunk a second time and this time it closes. When the man in the light blue suit opens the trunk again, Alonzo sees the golden arches of McDonald’s towering into the sky. The man in the light blue suit grabs Alonzo by the collar and asks, “You like playgrounds?”

  “I can’t remember. Your trunk rearranged part of my memory.”

  “I’m gonna refresh your memory, Alonzo.” The two men walk into the McDonald’s. The man in the light blue suit makes a single head nod to the teenaged manager behind the counter who nods back. The manager walks into the playground area and announces that the playground needs to close for cleaning. Herds of disappointed children and numb parents clear out of the playground area. The manager connects a car battery to a collection of wires hanging from the slide, and then lets the two men into the playground area, locking the doors behind him. The teenaged manager stands with his arms crossed in front of the entryway to the playground. He puffs out his chest and rolls his shoulders forward to try to compensate for his lack of build.

  The man in the light blue suit looks at Alonzo. “I kinda like this place when it’s quiet and no kids are screamin’. Now we’re gonna climb to the top of this playground, alright?”

  “Really?”

  A curious child notices the two climbing up the children’s playground and asks, “Daddy? What are those two men doing playing on the slide?”

  Without looking up from his freedom fries he answers, “They’re probably cleaning.”

  “Why?”

  “Some kid puked in it or something.”

  “Why does that cleaning man look scared?”

  “Mmm… Cleaning vomit is scary stuff, honey.”

  The child stops to think as she continues watching the two men in the playground. “Yeah… I think maybe they’re playing cops and robbers or something because it looks like that guy’s got a gun.”