The Potential of Zeroes

by Eric Mattys

  35

  Shuddering

  It’s called shuddering and it establishes a sound foundation of self. It involves shaking until the shaking can’t be controlled. When Terese started shuddering, she thought she had control over it. It was frightening to discover she couldn’t stop.

  An empty bottle of Stolichnaya slept restlessly on its side, flashing its label and its lack of contents as it rolled over the kitchen table. As Terese shuddered, the table, her chair, the lamp, the walls of the kitchen, and the rest of reality shuddered with her. There must be an explanation for this. She listened to her body. No response. There was always a response. Why not now? There must be something wrong. When will the thoughtless caress of slumber drown the shuddering?

  A bulb in the fixture above her dining room table flashed out of existence. So dark. Still no response from the body. Time for a cigarette from the longstanding supply in the freezer. Smoking was so rare, the tobacco had to be preserved. The flame of her lighter, more often employed for candles, found the end of the unsteady cigarette. Inhaling, Terese thought of the tar anesthetizing the tiny natural filters in her lungs like a black snow falling inward. She laughed darkly, bringing the instrument of death to her lips again, unsteady, pondering her disinterested procrastination; why make death wait? Bartholomew would have objected to a lit cigarette in his living space, but this was before she met Max or Mew.

  That night started at her favorite café that prided itself in creating zero waste and a menu purely organic. A man she loved unconditionally and sexually was at the bar of the café with a woman not greater than or equal to Terese. The other woman pulled back glass after glass of wine as if the contents might tauten up her sagging jowls and wipe away the creases in her skin that gave away her age. What good was the hate? But also, what good was the other woman with the man she loved unconditionally and sexually? Such a paradox; sex is a condition. She played it off by talking with all of the friends she accrued. She was free. He, named Sal, was free.

  As a chef of organic expertise, Sal concocted organic meals with the touch of home and fine cuisine for which people paid extra. Terese fell for Sal because she saw the best things he could be: a traveler, a rebel, a creator, a talker, and a phenomenal lover. His strong hands healed and released her tension, preventing all kinds of shuddering. His magical touch removed hurt and insecurity. In addition to healer, he was a medicine man because he sold marijuana that Terese occasionally dabbled with purely for its healing properties of uninhibited laughter and inner exploration.

  There was no such thing as a secret for Terese when it came to whom and how she loved. Orgasms per day, obscenities shouted mid-climax, the way bodies communicated, and the depth of true soul connections made newer acquaintances slightly uncomfortable. At her knitting club, she gleefully divulged how the up, over, and through motion of knitting reminded her of sexual intercourse. Pushing comfort zones created friendships.

  Despite sharing the details of intimacy, the status of Sal and Terese’s relationship remained a nebulous arena. Terese deflected her friends’ concerns like a devout cult member saying things like: They saw each other as important people in their lives. They existed outside the realms of traditional definitions of relationships like boyfriend-girlfriend, or dating, or committed, or going steady, or fuck buddies. The labels were limiting factors. Why should love have any limits?

  Externally, she made no notice of Sal and his other woman. She told herself Sal would acknowledge her with a “hello” and a visit to her table. When he did not, Terese began drinking, and laughing, and dancing louder than anyone else. She desperately did not want to be wrong. The only way that she could be wrong was if she felt hurt by Sal and this new woman. What good is feeling hurt? Love is free and limitless. Sal definitely didn’t use her for sex and then ignore her. To be free includes the freedom to explore. She used him for sex. She told herself that she was not in love with Sal but in love with every molecule of every living thing and gulped extra hard when she said she did not expect anyone to fully understand this kind of love. When she said it, she shrugged to emphasize how well she could handle the mass of her loneliness and feelings of betrayal.

  After she made her show of how little she could feel, she left her favorite café and went home to finish the bottle of the Stolichnaya in her freezer next to the cigarettes. It’s not the alcohol or the cigarettes that cause the shuddering. It’s the voiceless understanding that the reality she knitted with Sal proved not as strong as she thought. Pure, unconditional love might not be the cure-all in which she invested herself so thoroughly. The embers from her cigarette wavered in near darkness until the hot ashes fell and rested on the top of her thigh. She winced, still shuddering, but made no attempt to remove them.

  36

  Eating Alone

  Can unconditional love and sexual love converge on this stranger? Terese looks at his suit again. The anachronistic style really works. He has his own sense of self, but he does need guidance.

  Zeke leans his head to one side and pleads, “Come on. Do you know what it’s like to eat at a restaurant by yourself? I’ve seen people eat in their car just to avoid that kind of discomfort. You got people starin’ at you wonderin’ what kind of freak has to eat alone.” Zeke imitates the voice of an old woman from New Jersey. “‘Maybe he has some kind of social anxiety disorder. Or maybe he just doesn’t like people. In any case, I’m going to sit as far away as possible.’ You laugh, but I’ve heard this.”

  Terese squints. “You don’t strike me as the self-conscious type.”

  Zeke sighs. “Food doesn’t taste as good when you have no one to talk about it with.”

  Terese remembers the words from the man at the homeless shelter. A man sharp like blades. Is this the guy? Who has the guts to ask out a stranger anymore? Oogle. Hoot. Holler randomly on the street, sure. But to be seriously asked out? It’s kind of cute. “What did you say your name was again?”

  “Zeke O’Brien.”

  “Well, Zeke O’Brien, my name is Terese Flannigan.” As Terese extends her hand, Zeke reaches out and meets hers gently. “And I’ll eat some food with you tonight. What time would you like to eat?”

  “Seven?”

  “I’ll see you at seven then, and let’s make it something healthy, Zeke O’Brien. I don’t want death’s knock to come in the form of a heart attack due to a fatty diet.”

  As Terese closes the door, Zeke sees the plants for which Gustave, his boss and war buddy’s brother, paid top dollar. He raises his eyebrows. “You got that right.”

  37

  Stencils and Cops

  Mew wonders if the pendant, which reads, “Sexy,” on her necklace is irony or self-projection. It would be easy to make fun of her, but she does look sexy. Her rolled-up, pinstripe dress pants show the curve of her smooth, bare calves. The curve of each pinstripe clings to the tops of her hips. Her silk-looking, kelley green shirt is tucked and matches the handkerchief serving as a headband with the knot on top of her head. Her hair is braided back loosely enough so that strands of her red hair blow in the breeze. He looks back down and sprays another yellow stencil of Melissa’s unique name.

  “Are those cops?” Melissa asks.

  Mew turns around, looks up from his painting, and sees a cop car.

  Melissa shakes her head. “No. Don’t stare at them.”

  “What does it matter? You have a permit right?”

  “…Yeah, but… it makes life easier if we don’t have to deal with them. I mean we’re just getting on a roll.”

  Mew finishes his stencil and looks, covertly this time, at the cop car. “They’re parking.”

  “Mmm…” Melissa starts to put her paint away in her purse.

  Mew asks, “What does ‘mmm’ mean?”

  “‘Mmm’ means put the cap back on your paint and give it to me.”

  Mew gives her the paint and asks, “Should we
run?”

  “No. Running will make them chase us.”

  Mew suggests, “Maybe they’re stopping for some other reason.”

  Melissa shakes her head and says, “Nope. They’re headed this way. Get up and walk with me.” Melissa stands up and starts walking. “Do not look back at them.”

  Mew smiles and shakes his head. “You don’t have a permit, do you.”

  Melissa raises her eyebrows and responds, “Not exactly. I have a permit for the major works, but not for these stencils.”

  Mew smiles and says, “I didn’t think you did. The spray paint is permanent, isn’t it.”

  “… relatively. I mean, it’ll wash off eventually. Nothing lasts forever.”

  Mew shakes his head. “Where are we walking?

  She blinks and looks him in the eyes. “Does it matter?”

  38

  Agents Everywhere

  While Terese waits for Zeke, her cell phone rings. “Hello?”

  “May I please speak with Terese Flannigan?”

  “This is Terese Flannigan.”

  “I’m calling on behalf of Oprah Enterprises. We recently came across some of your brownies and we were wondering what your recipe is.”

  Terese blinks three times in succession and rears her head back. “Wow… I’m honored, but… my recipe is a secret of the trade.”

  The man on the other end of the line is all business. “We agree, and that’s why we’re willing to pay for your marvelous recipe.”

  “Really?” Terese paces over the hard, gray carpet, balancing the ball of her foot on the metal floor piece that divides the kitchen from the living room each time she passes it.

  “Yes.”

  “Wait.” She stops her pacing to rest at the mini-bar in the corner of the living room. “Is this Max? Did Max pay you to do this? Because this smells like Max’s doing.”

  “I don’t know any Max.”

  “Good.”

  “But I do know Oprah, and she is putting out a cookbook. That’s why I’m calling.”

  Terese scratches the back of her neck. Her rise to success and her willingness to help others is admirable, but she shills saccharine products and sentimental, spiritual books to hormone-pumped, prescription-drugged, middle-class women. Terese raises her eyebrows and responds, “I don’t think I want to give up my recipe. I’ve thought about putting together a cookbook of my own someday.”

  “We’ll pay you five thousand dollars and you can be a guest on the show.”

  Terese pauses and wrinkles her brow. But why is it wrong for women to buy products that bring them happiness? It’s not the happiness that’s wrong, it’s the implied happiness of a product. A product offers a short-lived substitute for what brings real happiness—human interaction. “How did you find out about my brownies.”

  “Oprah has agents everywhere.” Silence. “That’s mostly a joke. A few of us were at the homeless shelter the other day for another piece we’re doing this week, and we heard about your brownies. We like them, and we think America will like them, and we would like to include your recipe.”

  Oprah is the height of feminism in a capitalistic society. She is a woman dictating what it means to be a woman and what products women should buy. Maybe it’s just jealousy, though. Who wouldn’t want to live on a pedestal of admiration and wealth and have her own image on the cover of her own magazine each month? Terese replies, “Oh… I heard a rumor that Oprah was in town. I guess you confirmed it.”

  “Yeah. Officially, she’s here for a few environmental organizations. They’re doing some things up in Aspen and in the Rocky Mountain National Forest. Unofficially, she’s also trying to patch things up a little with the American Cattle Ranchers Association. But that’s neither here nor there. We like to have local guests when we do a city visit like this.”

  “Hmm.” Terese resumes pacing with oversized steps, more like lunges, in excitement. “If I did sell my recipe to you and Oprah Enterprises, would my name still be on the recipe?”

  “Well, we will mention you in the write up with the background on the recipe, but your name probably won’t be associated with the recipe title itself. We’ll probably rename the recipe to something like ‘Homeless Folks Brownies’ or ‘Brownies for the Poor’ or ‘Sweetest Service Brownies,’ something like that, that incorporates the sweet tooth with service to the less fortunate. The whole book is a kind of call to arms for women to help others. That’s the other sweet part of the deal for you. We would like for you to come on the show this week since we’re in Denver. We’ll also do a short feature on you and your recipe in the Oprah magazine. Plus, we’ll even throw in a lifetime subscription.”

  Terese looks up and to the left for a moment. The image of Oprah’s smiling, airbrushed face on the cover of O magazine, gives Terese a shiver of excitement. How great would it be to hide Oprah magazines in all of Max’s and Mew’s stuff every month, forever? Who puts their own image on the cover of every magazine like that? She pictures Oprah’s out-reached hand and smiling face. How many women still prefer inanimate, material affection over the riskier affection of a human being. “What is it that Oprah gets out of all this?”

  “Oprah is the eyes, ears, and mouth of the middle-class American woman. She lives off of bringing the stories of women to the rest of the country.”

  Terese closes her eyes. “Not interested in the PR spin. How do the numbers break down?”

  “We figure twenty stories at $5K each plus overhead expenses comes out to $300K. If we sell the book at $15 a copy, which is a low estimate, especially if we go with a hardcover, all we have to do is sell 20,000 copies to cover costs, and most books with Oprah’s name and sponsorship on it sell at least 100,000 copies right off the bat. This doesn’t even include corporate sponsorships within the book itself. We’re betting that between Betty Crocker, Tupperware, and American Dairy Farmers, in-literature promotions alone will cover the overhead.”

  Terese rolls her eyes and grimaces. “Fuck Betty Crocker in her ear. I use all local organic ingredients.” Terese hears the voice on the other end chuckle as if humoring a child. She cringes. Like, it’s a joke to actually resist corporate influences. So gross.

  “That’s fine. We won’t put any corporate stuff around your recipe. We want to make your section more mountain-mama, mother-earthy. Really catch the Colorado brand of being a healthy part of nature. We’ll probably mention that you use all organics from local markets as a backdrop for the story. The goal is to create a book that embodies as much of America as possible. The Rocky Mountains capture people’s imaginations and health-consciousness hits a big demographic, too.”

  “I guess.”

  “So what do you think? Will you give us your recipe and a little bit of your time so that we can make this book a success?”

  Terese frowns and shrugs. “Why not make it $10,000 instead of $5,000? It sounds like you’re going to be making a very healthy profit off of this venture.”

  “$5,000 is the maximum I’m allowed to give out before the book goes to market, but if you have a non-profit organization we can set it up so that organization gets a percentage of the profit.”

  “I guess I’m going to start a non-profit organization? I don’t mean to be rude. I am very excited by your offer, but my recipes are a major part of me, and I don’t know if I want Oprah’s name all over them.”

  “I’ll tell you what. Whether or not you decide to sell your recipe, we would like to have you on the show tomorrow, if not as a special guest, then as a member of the audience. If there’s time, we may have you on the pre- or post- show.”

  “Really? What would you plan on talking to me about?”

  “When you brought your brownies to the local homeless shelter, how it felt to give them to the less fortunate, your perspective on Denver’s homeless population as a resident, etcetera. Then, perhaps, after the show, we can neg
otiate the possible sale of your recipe.”

  “I can’t say I have anything against a possible TV appearance. Is there anything I should bring?”

  “Wear what you feel most comfortable in and, of course, some of the brownies.”

  “Okay.”

  “We’ll see you tomorrow at three o’clock at the Denver Performing Arts Center. Let me get your email and I’ll send you all the specifics.”

  “Right. My email is terese.flannigan@gmail.com.”

  “Oh, and please be prompt because it is a live show tomorrow.”

  “Ok. Will do. Bye.”

  39

  A Real Threat

  Two simple tasks remain: Gustave’s plants, which Terese has in her kitchen, and the money Armand owes. Zeke storms into a tiny corner grocery store with big letters painted on the side that read “Armand’s Market.”

  Eyes are curses because they caught her image. This Terese. Composure, discernment, and punishment. These are the lane lines disrupted by her image. Might be better to twist and burn out these seeing contraptions that bring this weakness. Her beauty is a tender tumor, growing and never-ending the more it’s viewed, always consuming more. How else to escape this beauty and prevent the tumor from proving frail his body? Damn the seeing tools.

  Overcompensating his exterior movements to conceal his interior mental mechanizations, he rolls robotic through the grocery store with no intention of buying anything. Disregarding the ‘Employees Only’ sign on a door towards the back of the store, he bursts into an office with his gun drawn.