The Potential of Zeroes

by Eric Mattys

  “If we can’t find it,” Zeke shrugs, “I guess I’m going to die.”

  “I think we’ve got a little bit of time.” They stopped pacing and kiss intensely. “We can dilute each other until death comes for us, or we can try to push death away with a plan.”

  “What’s your plan, Terese?”

  “I think we should just get rid of the plant that’s here. Your boss doesn’t know I ever had it, right?”

  Zeke smirks. “Good. That saves you, but it doesn’t save me.”

  “Is he really going to kill you over one marijuana plant? I mean, who does that?”

  “Gustave Tyner does that. They aren’t just any marijuana plants. It has a boosted THC content and some other hallucinogens with altered genes or something. It was developed especially for stomach cancer patients because it gives you extreme munchies. At least that’s what the guy, Moe or Moesuddha or whatever his name is, told Gustave. I don’t know if I believe all that, but I know he paid a boat load for each plant.”

  Terese pauses when Zeke says the name Moesuddha. Sounds familiar, but from where? She continues pacing. “So, you can’t just replace this stuff.”

  “Exactly.” He looks away and raises an eyebrow. “If someone were going to take the marijuana, why would they only take one plant when they could take two?”

  “Max.”

  “Max?”

  “One of my roommates. He only has one arm. He wouldn’t be able to take both plants.”

  “So, is he the entrepreneurial type? Does he know the people to sell it to, or is he the kind of pothead who will keep it hidden away somewhere?”

  “Let’s check his room.” Terese opens the door to Max and Mew’s room. “Oops. Sorry.” She closes the door, leaving it open a crack. “Didn’t know you had any guests, Mew.” Looks cramped in there with his tiny bed.

  “Hey Terese. We’re under the blankets. You can come in. I would like you to meet my friend Melissa.”

  Melissa extends an arm to Terese from under the blankets. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, too. This is my new friend Zeke.” Zeke throws up a hand from the doorway. “Look, I don’t mean to disturb you, but we have a problem that is rather serious.”

  Mew grins. “Serious like you and Zeke are seriously in need of some crazy four-way action?”

  Melissa slaps him playfully on the chest and whispers, “That’s gross. Don’t say that.”

  “No. Serious like those pot plants that were in the kitchen belong to Zeke’s boss who kills people and Zeke really needs them so his boss doesn’t kill him and us.”

  “Damn. Um. Max left with one of them. He left all fast and crazy. I didn’t know what his deal was.”

  Melissa’s face changes from disinterested to extremely distraught as Mew speaks. “You said Max, like Maximus?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How many arms does he have?”

  “One. Do you know him?”

  Melissa sits up out of bed. “Yes.”

  Mew wrinkles his eyebrows. “How well do you know him?”

  “Uh. Very well. We were friends from childhood until I was just out of college.”

  “Did you know him… intimately?” Mew gulps.

  “I guess it depends on what you mean by intimately.”

  Mew opens his mouth and bites his tongue. “Did you…?”

  “No. We didn’t have sex, but we were very… close.”

  “Mmmm. Okay. So you guys were childhood friends.” Mew looks to the side and shrugs. “That’s not a big deal, right?”

  Melissa pulls the blankets up close to her chin and raises her eyebrows.

  Mew breathes for a second and bites the side of his lower lip. Something is not good here. Did Max do something to her? She looks so uncomfortable. “Let’s discuss this more later after we find this life-threatening plant. Let’s get dressed.”

  Terese and Zeke close the door behind them.

  Melissa puts on her clothes she so carelessly took off the previous night. “So, that was Max that got up and did that little ‘I’m sleepwalking’ bit last night?”

  Mew looks blankly at the wall. “Yes, it was.”

  “I thought his voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place where I’d heard it.”

  Mew throws on his own shirt and pants and watches Melissa’s nonstop movements as she continues getting dressed. “I’m a little befuddled by this whole situation. I mean, are we not a thing now that Max is in the picture? Did he do something to you?”

  “No. Look. Has he ever told you why he only has one arm?”

  “Only a thousand different times, but none of them are ever real.”

  She zips up her pants and looks intently at Mew. “It was me. It’s my fault. Max lost his arm because of me. He didn’t hurt me at all. He saved me.”

  “Did it involve laundry?”

  “No.”

  “A shark and surfing in the Gulf of Mexico?”

  “Nope.”

  “A foiled bank heist?”

  “Not at all.”

  Mew sighs. “So where am I in all of this?”

  “I’m crazy into you. I really am. But I did Max a wrong I never made up, I thought I never could make up, and if Max has a marijuana plant, it’s up in smoke right now. That means we need to find him as soon as possible before he picks the whole plant clean or gets shot or something.”

  Mew clenches his jaw. “Agreed.” He opens the door.

  Zeke looks to Mew. “So where would this Max guy have taken the plant?”

  Melissa’s eyes brighten. “He always liked being outside whenever he got high. He used to say that there was a better chance of something interesting happening outside as opposed to inside.”

  “So a park of some kind. Does he have a car?”

  Terese shakes her head. “Nope.”

  “Well that narrows it down, right? He’s gotta be at a park within walking distance.”

  “This is Denver. There are tons of parks within walking distance. Plus, Max loves walking.”

  “Is he into dudes?”

  “What?”

  “You know, Cheeseman Park. If he likes guys and he wants something to happen…” He wobbles his head back and forth. “Cheeseman Park.”

  Terese closes one eye. “I think we can rule that out.”

  “What about that park with the two huge manmade lakes?”

  “Washington Park?”

  “Yeah.”

  Melissa shakes her head. “No. That place is covered in goose shit this time of year. He would never be able to handle that, especially if he were high.”

  “What about that park where the plants were yesterday? That place isn’t far from here.”

  “Let’s try it.”

  The four of them race out the door headed towards the Hungarian Freedom Uprising Memorial park when Zeke’s phone rings. Zeke makes his face expressionless.

  “Hey Gustave. … Your money, yes. Your plants, partially. … It means I have one of your plants. I’m currently tracking the second plant. I need to mention that none of this would have happened if Alonzo at the flower shop had half a brain. I recommend letting him go. … The issue is that the plants were not where you told me they would be because Alonzo moved them.” Zeke’s eyes widen. “Alonzo thought I was a cop. … No. Sir. I am not a— … Yes, sir. … We think it may be near the Hungarian Freedom Uprising Memorial Park. … Good. See you there.” Zeke ends the call and looks at Terese. “This could get ugly. We better get there first.”

  48

  End Times

  Max and Doobie sprawl across the grass, clouded and famished with the Queen of the Universe shaking her head and rolling her eyes. Max swallows some of his own saliva. Is the bark off of trees edible? “Doobie. Do you have any food? I’ve never been so starved in my li
fe. I just want to munch on something, ya know?”

  Doobie blinks. “Bodily nourishment eludes my clutches too often on this last day of days, but I undoubtedly empathize with your sudden hunger pangs.”

  Max claws at his stomach. “I feel like my stomach is a bear waking up from hibernation. Like, grrrraaaaahhhhaarrrr. Give me some damn food. Hey maybe this dude here has some food.”

  A man steps out of an all black Land Rover. As he walks, every step crushes the face of an imagined enemy twice—heel, toe, heel, toe. His Armani-suited arms do not carry any food.

  Max hollers out to him from his seat in the grass, incapacitated and ravenous. “Pardon me good sir, man. Do you think you could spare us some Cheetos? Because you look like a man who knows his Cheetos. If I had a regal ride such as yours, I’m sure I would keep it fully stocked with Cheetos.”

  “I do not have any fucking Cheetos, you piece of shit.”

  “Whoa, dude. Rude. You’re just lying to me because you think you can. You’re some kind of a Cheeto Baron. I know your type. I bet you have a whole vault full of Cheetos, and you just don’t feel like sharing, which is not a classy thing to do, man. I’m not asking for all your Cheetos, Mr. Cheeto Barron, I just want a couple handfuls.” Max sees the clean-cut, square-headed figure continuing his approach toward him. He must want to strike a deal.

  Doobie crawls up and walks away with the Queen of the Universe. This man looks like the friend of death.

  “Shut up. Where is my fucking plant?”

  “I don’t think this is your plant at all, man. I’m willing to share, but don’t start making claims that you can’t back up. No one owns the Earth or its creatures or its plants, okay.”

  “It’s my plant, you moron. My brother has cancer, and the thought of eating makes him lurch, and now you have stolen the only way I can offer some comfort to him.”

  “Don’t worry, it hasn’t gone to waste. If it makes you feel any better, I’m hurting, too.” Max’s squinty eyes deepen their gaze at Gustave Tyner. “This plant belongs to the Earth, and the Earth put it in my basement. I thought it was a gift from God or something. This plant found me is all I’m trying to say. These buds came to alleviate my pain. Please don’t add yourself to my list of them.” Gustave pulls out a gun and aims directly at Max’s head. Max smiles and crosses his eyes to look at the gun against his forehead and says under his breath, “No need to post on Craigslist. The firing squad found me.”

  Gustave looks down at Max. This human pestilence deserves to be dismantled. Not only is this filth lazy and clearly useless, but a thief as well. This blotch of weakness that believes in utter falsehoods needs removal from the human gene pool. Now. In broad daylight. “You steal from me...” Big, loud words like a chopped redwood tree hitting the ground, unexpected and making the Earth tremble. “... I steal from you.”

  Max listens and scrunches up one side of his face with the gun barrel still at his forehead, totally hackneyed. “Is that what you say to someone before you kill them? Because I know you can do better.” Talk faster. “Seriously. This could be the last time you get to kill someone; make it count. How about, ‘Taste the sweet taste of nothing you… muthafucka…’ or, you know, you can fill in the blank there because ‘muthafucker’ is fun to say and all, but it’s way overused. I can see by the look on your face that ‘sweet taste of nothing’ isn’t working for you, so we can still do better. How about, ‘don’t let infinity bite you in the ass’…?” Max shrugs. “Agreed. That’s lousy. Just a slight variation on a clichéd tune. Um. ‘Fall forever and may Fate’s phalanges fornicate ferocious in the sphincter of your specter.’ That one’s better, right...? Ahh Cheeto Barron.” Max shakes a single finger in the air. “You are a hard man to please. Here’s another. In the name of Me, God, Allah, the Mother, the Father, that ghost that’s holy, the Infinite Spirit, the Is, the Was, and the Will Be, Ra, that piece of wood, the water, the fire, the air, the Earth, the sky, the stars, the moon, the sun, the Magna and the Minutia, I command, demand, and mandate the exodus of all your remaining breaths, heartbeats, synaptic signals, muscle contractions, memories, imaginings, desires, and actions via my hands, my will, and my handheld projectile accelerator.” Max pauses for no more than a second. “It’s a little long… maybe a little too pompous? I mean, by the time you’re done sayin’ it, the person could be on the other enda’ town, and if any of your cronies are around, they’re apt to think you’re totally into dudes because it’s flowery as fuck, but only dumb people hate flowers, right? If they don’t understand something, they pin it on something else they don’t understand. We know better though, don’t we Cheeto Barron? So, I’ve given you some options here. You could totally mix and match that last one. Condense it to fit your personal belief system. But whatever you choose, you gotta say it from way down deep, like from your balls. Dig wa—”

  Zeke walks next to Gustave and looks down at Max. “Gustave. Let me take care of this guy. He’s my problem. My responsibility.” Zeke gets out his gun and points it at Max.

  Gustave turns to his left to see Zeke with a group of unarmed strangers—two of them women. Maybe the suit and the Cadillac were first steps toward some pimp aspirations. Who is the scrawny guy? Does he have a gun? Is Zeke undermining his authority? Does this need to be a double death situation? His look left blinds him to what approaches on his right: a wrinkled body heaving at an old-man full sprint.

  Mew sees Doobie sprinting. The veins in Doobie’s calves appear to be a pale blue, green blur. Mew’s mouth is agape. No plan. Precepts are useless when it comes to taking action. Disaster looms moments away, and why? Why did Max steal the marijuana instead of confronting him about Melissa? Either the guy with the gun will obliterate Max’s brain, or there will be a struggle in which the gun goes off, and stray bullets would splatter innocents and innards on the deadened grass of the park. Powerlessness feels like an immobility dream.

  Terese cracks a smile. The old man knows. His words triggered this moment. If he hadn’t spoken, how would it have been different? Was this his creation or was he just a messenger? Who cares. Zeke is here, with her. Love is probably real.

  Zeke sees Doobie approaching, but keeps his eyes on Max. If a bloodbath comes, be the body. Stop the bullets. Terese lives. That’s a noble death.

  Melissa peeks around Mew feeling responsible for all the current chaos. If the driver of the truck had turned just a little more gradually, if she never stood up in the back of that truck, if she never purchased the laced marijuana, if she had left Max laughing on the floor that night, if she never spent hours of her laborless youth with him, Max would still have two arms and no gun to his head. The cascade of “if”s were supposed to be over after cutting contact from Max after the accident. Here they come again. If she chose a different path for her spray paint trail, if the cops caught her, if she found Mew ugly instead of sweet, if she never landed the exhibition with DAM, if she had not pouted outside Mew’s room to let her sleep with him. Her anxiety builds to tears, trembling down her face.

  The Queen of the Universe runs. White people are extremely dumb when it comes to situations with guns in their general vicinity. Stars cannot stop bullets; no rotations can change that. She hides behind a parked car across the street from the park.

  Doobie sprints toward the man holding the gun. Feet feel like tiny rockets on fire, propelling forward. Hair feels like a jet exhaust trail waving in the breeze. The beard a wind screen. More aerodynamic. Each running leap makes the gut roll and wave in retaliation for so many atrophied years kept locked, quiet, and safe. The end of the world echoes through him with each bound. Run like a man welcoming the call to arms, a man welcoming death. Eyelids press together. No tears in these last moments. Black infinity is the fate of all creatures and the planet under throbbing feet. The endpoint is the reason for this existence.

  He dives fully extending his hands and takes the gun out of Gustave’s hand. He rolls and stands with the
gun. Dance! Dance for the age, the years of silence, the drugs, and all the muted inward joy deemed meaningless. He hustles and humps the air. He jigs and do-si-dos without a partner, then disco style; each time he points the hand with the gun in the air, he fires off a round straight up, making everyone jump and duck.

  Eyes widen and mouths hang open where inner tunnels of neuronal imbroglio botch their routes, crashing and misfiring in conflict with the input signals.

  Doobie screams, “This is my calamity! I’ve made you see. My words have brought this fire down on our ears, and like a cheating card player, I’ve come to collect my pot.” He picks up the sought-after pot plant beside Max who shakes with silent laughter, bursting in spates of “HA HA” before reverting back to silent shaking. Each passing second erodes the memory of why he laughs until he catches another glance of the bearded fellow named Doobie with a gun dancing and screaming about some incoherent vision.

  Doobie continues his rant. “What are you gonna say? What can you say? In the height of your baffles, will anyone else ever believe the same way you do? What good are you without your own confusion, without your own wild visions and measurements, your own baffling logicalities you can’t ignore? I have the answer.” He nods frantically. “Nothing. A black void unable to move forward locked up by self-imposed momentary regulations unenforceable—idle without a start.”

  Gustave grinds his teeth. Nonsense spews from this old man’s mouth. Time to end it. He reaches at his ankle and gets his Derringer. He removes it from the holster as Doobie carries on aimlessly. He points the gun at the madman and wails, “Drop the weapon! Nobody cares about your crazy words. Just give up the plant and the gun. No one has to get hurt right now.”

  Doobie shakes his head and looks down his nose at Gustave. “No. Someone is going to get hurt. There’s no way around this.”

  Gustave shouts, “It will be you!”

  Doobie looks down at the ground. “No. You’re the one who will be hurt in this particular situation.”