The Potential of Zeroes

by Eric Mattys

  “Hey, Armand. You’re behind on the neighborhood insurance!” Zeke fails to notice his face boiling red as his voice shatters the peace of the market back room. First visits are usually calm, cordial with whispering threats. Zeke wails beastly, “Gustave needs his money. Now!” Zeke’s raging mouth catapults spittle onto Armand.

  Zeke hears the quivering voice spray out, “P-Please. I h-have your money.” How to combat an internal betrayal. Can’t walk away. Can’t surgically remove what’s been seen. She has the plants, too, making the situation inoperable.

  “Don’t make me break a sweat. Give it here!” Zeke snatches the wad of bills from Armand. She might consume his insides. Zeke walks out of Armand’s Market expressionless and with $1,500 more than when he entered. He marches towards his light blue Cadillac and drives toward the beautiful death that might welcome him. He arrives at Terese’s basement apartment shortly after seven.

  The doorbell rings and Terese hops off the couch to answer it. Terese mentally runs through her checklist for the evening: mace, in case he is harmful, fake cell phone to receive a fake emergency call in case he is an idiot, and a condom in case she is unable to wait. She checks her hair one more time and opens the door for Zeke.

  His jaw shifts open and then forms into a smile. “You’re a dream.” The blue dress gripping the healthy curves of her body floods his system. “I don’t know if I’ll ever wake up.”

  “Thanks I think? Am I a good dream or a bad dream?”

  Zeke nods. “Good. Real good.”

  Terese flashes her bottom teeth. “Are you sure. Dreams can get weird.” Terese raises one eyebrow and back-peddles into the apartment. “You can come in for a second if you want. I have to grab my purse.” Zeke follows her in. “Dreams leave you wanting more,” she says over her shoulder.

  “Yeah. I guess I coulda just said you look pretty, but I figure you hear that pretty often.” He gives his best smile even though she isn’t looking and holds his breath as he gazes at Gustave’s plants down the hall in the kitchen.

  “Well, thanks.” She returns to the tiny living room with her purse. “Are you ready to go eat some food?”

  Zeke nods. They walk to the Cadillac, where Zeke opens the door for her. After Zeke starts the car, she asks, “So, what did you do this afternoon?”

  Zeke inhales deeply. “I took some money from a store owner by threatening him with a gun.” Zeke’s serrated knuckles protrude from the steering wheel. He resists the urge to glance at Terese to see her reaction.

  Terese’s heart rate jumps. Calm and slow she asks, “What does that mean?” Eyes forward. If you can’t see the gun, it’s not aimed at you. She puts her hand on the mace inside her purse.

  “It means that he had money that didn’t belong to him.” Zeke smiles. Everybody likes somebody who can break the rules. He shrugs. “So I took it.”

  Terese laughs as if stuttering. It’s a joke. A very odd joke. “Seriously. What did you do this afternoon?

  “I’m tellin’ you the truth.” He chuckles. All or nothing.

  “Are we planning on any other heists before dinner?” She cracks a half smile. He probably doesn’t have a gun. Just acting like a bad boy to get attention.

  “I wasn’t planning on it, but I’m all ears if you have any ideas.”

  “I don’t.” Seven seconds of silence before Terese asks, “So you take things from people?”

  “Somebody’s gotta do it, right?” No way that will land. She’s not trustworthy if she doesn’t care. Truth might cut away this beautiful tumor.

  Nine seconds of silence before Terese asks, “How much did you get from this store owner?”

  “About fifteen-hundred bucks. I didn’t clean him out and I didn’t hurt him, but I wasn’t nice about it, either. Rich people don’t get rich by bein’ nice.”

  Resignation seems foolish. He seemed so sweet a minute ago. This is not a drill. This could be a real danger situation. “Are you rich?”

  “Fifteen hundred bucks in my pocket doesn’t feel poor.”

  “So then you’re not nice.”

  “Probably not.”

  Terese stares blankly at the passing cityscape along Speer Boulevard. “And this money, it doesn’t belong to you, right?”

  “No. It doesn’t.”

  “So, can I take it?” Her eyes remain locked ahead of her. Is this captivity?

  “You could. Sure. Do you need it? Because I can get cash from somewhere else.”

  “I don’t actually want it, Zeke. I’m trying to make a point.”

  “What point is that?”

  “To whom does money belong, the person who earns it or the person who takes it?”

  “It doesn’t matter who it belongs to. Nobody’s going to keep it. All that matters is that there is money and how I’m going to get some of it.”

  Four seconds of silence. Terese finally looks at him. No gun looks back. “I want to know the rules under which you operate. I’m concerned with what other things you might take at gunpoint.”

  Zeke blinks slowly. Enough with the self-amused attitude. She could become an enemy in an instant. “Look. Terese, I think you’re beautiful and fragile and I would never do anything to hurt you.”

  “I’m not fragile. I’m no more fragile than you, and how do you know I’m beautiful if we just met?”

  “All I’m saying is that I’m capable of treating you in a gentle way. You’re outside of my world… and… I would like to join you there. I’m not proud of what I did to get this money, but it’s what I know. There’s absolutely no reason for you to feel unsafe around me. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s protect you and keep you safe.” Is this gonna work? “I want you to see all of me. I’ve been trained to be forceful, but it’s not all of who I am. You’re beauty is dangerous to me because you might be able to take me apart, unravel what I know which is that I’m a soldier in peacetime without a lot of options.”

  Terese shakes her head and puts a hand up. “Wait. How did we come to this conversation? You don’t know me, and you’re already talking about being a part of my world and protecting me and keeping me safe? Is there a fucking priest in your backseat? Where’s my wedding ring? I haven’t even known you for twenty minutes and you’re already my protector?”

  “What, you want me to make small talk with you? You want me to complain about a boring middle-class life and tell you about my favorite stupid TV shows and what my parents did for a living and my childhood? My life isn’t boring. I don’t own a TV. I didn’t know my parents and my childhood was… unpleasant. Alright? I just figured I would tell you the truth and you would either handle it or you wouldn’t.”

  “Oh.”

  “And as for protection, everybody could use it. There are people trying to help who do harm, and there are people trying to do harm that do harm, and there are people looking out for themselves who do harm, and there are people who just want to make the next day’s dollar who do harm, but I don’t want any harm coming to you. I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable, but it’s the truth.”

  Terese sits still for a long while in the hum of the car her palms resting uncomfortably on her thighs. Serendipity is shit. The homeless guy was probably super high. The Queen of the Universe was a pickpocket who lost her mind. This guy’s a thief and probably a liar. Everyone’s in it for themselves. She turns to Zeke. “Do you have a gun right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “If it will make you feel more comfortable, sure.”

  Terese nods and holds out her hands for the instrument.

  Zeke takes out his gun from the sidearm holster. “But be careful because it is loaded.”

  Terese holds the gun in her hands. “I don’t like guns, Zeke.”

  “Why not?”

  “Guns are designed to end life.” She studies the sharp edges of t
he gun. It fits so comfortably. It’s frightening how easy it could permanently dismantle a life... to do so much damage in such a short period of time with so little effort and no way to restore it—no take-backs.

  Zeke glances at her while keeping an eye on the road. “I like guns. They level the playing field. You could take me out right now even though I’m twice your size. Doesn’t that make you feel safe?”

  “Life has unpredictable and infinite potential. Taking away that potential,” Terese closes one eye and peers past the sight at the opposite end of the gun pointing at the dashboard, “is the most horrific thing a person can do. A gun makes it effortless to take away that potential.”

  “Guns stop threats. That’s why I carry one.”

  “Guns create threats.” Terese clicks a lever on the side of the gun labeled safety and points the gun at Zeke.

  Zeke keeps both hands on the wheel. “Please be careful.” Be cool. The Cadillac has one of the finest suspension systems of all cars produced. There’s no way a bump in the road could jar a passenger holding a gun enough to cause the weapon to fire and splatter brains across the leather interior. Zeke opens his mouth and lets out several quick breaths.

  Terese cocks her head. “Are you a threat, Zeke?” It’s exhilarating seeing him this vulnerable. He’s human and fragile like everybody else. Usually men only look like this when they’re naked and being straddled. It’s better this way. No giving or taking of the body. Less commitment.

  “I’m no threat to you. I’d feel a lot better if you did not have that gun pointed at me.”

  Terese clicks the safety back on. “I’d feel a lot better if you didn’t rob people for a living.” Terese stares out the window at the sidewalk passing by. “I’m keeping this.” She stores the gun away in her purse without looking at Zeke. “So where are we eating, Mr. Gangster Man?”

  “You don’t need to call me that. I’m not just a gangster.”

  “What are you then? A thug? A hoodlum? A low-life? A crony?” She pauses after each moniker. Squinted eyes act as tiny icicles hurtling toward Zeke.

  Zeke’s brows wrinkle as he exhales slowly. “I don’t want to be any of those names, and I’m not… right now… with you. I take… I have taken what I can… like a hungry fool. I am… I was good at taking. But I’m tired of taking… I’m tired of being this good fool of bad deeds.” He takes his eyes off the road only to see her disinterested gaze.

  “I’d like to believe you, Zeke, but I don’t.” Terese rests her head on the window and lets her mind leave the car, watching the surface of the passing street blur to gray. “No one is made of words.”

  Zeke takes a deep breath. She’s getting away, ready to give up. Do nothing and it will be a long, pointless dinner. Death would be better. Zeke frowns. “Then shoot me. Shoot me in the head right now if you think I’ll be cold forever. Shoot me if you think I’m full of lies. Take away all the harm you think I’ll do in the future.” Zeke stops the car.

  Terese turns to him motionless except for her quickening breath. She examines his pleading face exposed, unthreatening. He is ready to die.

  Zeke looks at her somberly and completely controlled. “Take the gun out. Click the safety off. I know you know how. End the threat that is me.” Zeke moves closer to Terese, reaches into her purse, and retrieves the gun. He places it in her hands and moves her hands so that the gun barrel rests directly against his temple. “Because if you can’t see any good in me…” Terese leans in toward Zeke moving the gun away from his head until their faces are inches apart. “…there never will be.” Terese cups the back of Zeke’s head, and Zeke leans in as soft and as slow as an eclipse and grazes her lips with his.

  40

  Nothing on the Other Side

  Max comes home from work after eight to find the whole apartment empty. He starts making a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. When he gets to the kitchen for the peanut butter, he notices two potted plants. Smells like a blurry time, the way only marijuana can. Terese has never been a major league smoker, but these plants said otherwise. Maybe Mew? Nah he’s always near broke. “Hunh.” Ask tomorrow. Looks delicious, though.

  Max starts eating the sandwich. Thirty-three prosthetic devices—not even one being an arm or a leg. Not bad. He finishes his sandwich in the cold, silent kitchen and goes to bed.

  Sleep eludes him and his mind drifts. How are magnets different from gravity? They both seem to fall into each other. I wonder if they fall into each other at the same rate? One’s attraction is based on close proximity and the other distance doesn’t seem to matter. Are objects actually attracted to each other? Physicists say yes, but what if they’re wrong?

  Maybe people are like magnets—attracting, repelling—or atoms, sharing electrons or taking electrons depending on position or proximity. Wouldn’t it be nice if sex organs had magnetic interlocking ability? Hands-free insertion. That woman on the street was so ugly. Wonder if her vagina was as crooked as her face? Probably not. Probably the most perfect vagina. Straight-lipped. Perfectly trimmed. Oh the irony. Blah. Perfection. Eyes of the beholder.

  What if the Earth is a big magnet, a super magnet that attaches to every single thing? Nah. That’s stupid. Magnets have parts that push away from each other. Gravity doesn’t work like that. If people were magnets, then she was a super magnet, because anything from life could attach back to her: music, wardrobe choice, losing an arm, all the explanations for the missing arm. Wonder what she’s up to these days? All the memories go back to her. What fundamental force or particle are memories in this game? Photons maybe? Gotta find a new super magnet. Max drifts into sleep.

  Max hears Mew open the door and whisper to someone, so he feigns sleep. It’d be terrible to ruin things for Mew. A feminine whisper pouts slightly as Mew retorts with something involving the words, “my roommate,” followed by more light pouting. The whispering pauses. Max hears Mew whisper back, “Alright, but we have to be quiet.”

  “Can I take off my shirt?” whispers the woman.

  Mew replies. “Umm, yeah. You sure can.”

  Max almost hears Mew smiling.

  She asks barely audible, “Can I take my pants off, too?”

  Mew whispers something about the shirt being lonely on the floor.

  Max recognizes the sound of unzipping pants and raises one eyelid to see what he can see in the dark. A glint of porch light from the window above Mew’s bed creates a silhouette of the woman. Max cracks open his other eyelid. Would any woman appear as angelic as a silhouette in the middle of the night?

  Rustling sheets and giggles simmer from Mew’s bed. Max feels a division in the room. It’s like being a penguin in the zoo watching a couple on their first date, the only penguin in a habitat designed for a flock. Silence. Soundproof glass separates the penguin and the couple. Momentary unconsciousness. The soft clapping of lips and tongues pulls Max back to consciousness. The glass disappears, but the penguin cannot escape. Mew needs this.

  Max rolls over and clamps his pillow and blanket under his good arm before announcing, “Holy excrement. I’m sleepwalking. This is so strange. It’s like a strange dream where I can’t see or hear the people across the room who want to have sex. In this strange sleepwalking dream, all I want to do is sleep on the couch so they can break the bonds of sexual repression that strangle so many people in this puritan land.” Max closes the door behind him before yelling over his shoulder, “Be safe. I don’t want any kids running around here.”

  Max sets his pillow, blanket, and self on the couch. Talking like that might’ve ruined the mood. Max hears heavy breathing a few moments later. Time for a song to block out the faint moaning coming from the other side of the wall:

  There’s nothing nothing nothing

  On the other side of this wall wall wall.

  No people getting it on on on

  No love for them to fall fall fall

  The song
fails to block the noise of heavy panting, so he switches to counting penguins in his mind instead. One single penguin walking by itself, unstable and cold. Two very awkward looking penguins discovering the edge of their man-made environment. He hears Mew’s moan through the wall, “Ooh. That feels so good.” Three penguins curiously testing the wall with their beaks. Would a penguin prefer warm weather to cold weather? He imagines a sitcom TV show with a penguin living in San Diego called Tropical Penguin: Bird of Prey or Bird of Seduction. Is San Diego considered a tropical climate? Bedsprings coil and recoil rhythmically.

  There is no fourth penguin, because at that moment he hears her voice aloud for the first time. She says so ecstatically, “Say my name. Tell me, Bartholomew… tell me who’s the hotness.” Max is a penguin frozen in ice lodged in the mouth of a killer whale: alive and still aware of the doom on the way because he knows her name before Mew can say it. The whisper or the silhouette could’ve been anyone, but he knows the voice. How did a killer whale get into the penguin habitat? He knows the voice very well. Max closes his eyes tight and tries to wish away the words coming next.

  “You, Melissa. You’re the hotness!” Mew’s helpless voice pants. Max hears the words reverberate a million times in a second. Oh jaws of the killer whale, please crush this penguin quick. Stop reverberating that panting name. Melissa. Again and again in his brain. Melissa. He loses touch with reality. Nuke the penguin exhibit, and the couple, and the Zoo, and the pilot sitcom, and San Diego, and the killer whale because, now, the past is present.

  41

  Invincibility

  Max used to have two arms. He used to be able to smoke a joint with one hand and drink a beer with the other, a common occurrence from age nineteen to twenty-three.

  It was another night full of beer in one hand and home-rolled smokes in the other at some party that Max would normally not remember. He was in the midst of a drinking contest with some long-haired hedonist with a beard creeping up close to his eyes. Max smiled and threw back another shot of Jack Daniels. He did his best to look his opponent square in the eyes, but his hairy opponent wanted to spin along with the rest of the room. He placed his shot glass on the table, and the crowd cheered. His opponent let out a smile that somehow showed through his jungle of a face. The beard took his shot and made a face that looked like splinters lodged themselves in his throat all the way down. The crowd once again roared. The bearded man wobbled. Max knew he had him beat. Max grabbed his next shot and took it with ease, smiling the smile that identified his entire personality: exuberant in every forgotten second. Everyone chanted incoherently, like ancient tribesmen to a deity. The bearded man hushed them as he took his next shot. Max felt as if he was the only stationary thing in the room, as if the whole party revolved around him. No one seemed to notice the spinning. He put a finger on his nose in an attempt to center himself. “This is the center, the eye of the storm.” He crossed his eyes to look at his nose and took his next shot. Laughter and aimless cheers boomed from the onlookers. The bearded man took his next shot, and vomited. Beard plus vomit equals not pretty.