by Eric Mattys
Gustave applies pressure to the trigger of the little Derringer pointed at Doobie.
Doobie closes one eye as if he expects a loud noise, gazing at Gustave with the open eye. When the noise doesn’t come, Doobie slowly places the gun on the ground. Wrong again? A loud cracking thump emanates from Gustave’s body. Gustave’s Derringer falls out of his hand as he collapses. He lands next to Max, face up on his back, staring at the sky.
Max smiles and forgets about the guns, the dancing, and the shooting until he sees blood leaking from Gustave’s head, forming a puddle in the grass. He moves away and to his feet.
Doobie looks up at the sky. He runs into the street because he recognizes it. He whips his arms in circles at varying angles, aimless while spinning his torso out of control and kicking the air in a dance with no origin. Looking up, he sees the ripping black clouds, the inverse lightning, the luminescent falling stars, and white-hot eternity exploding out of every atom. He lets his eyelids turn it all black, as everything becomes a charred abyss in an infinitely condensed space.
49
Aftermath
Max rolls on the ground, laughing like a child, wavering into high pitches. “Did you see the way his body was moving? I didn’t think it was possible for an old person’s body to do that. It was like each limb was having its own centrifugal seizure and his torso was chasing each limb at once but couldn’t catch any of them. I hope I can move like that when I’m old.”
Mew says, “I think he’s dead, Max.”
Terese looks quizzically at Gustave’s body. “What happened?”
Zeke bobs his hand up and down while pointing. “I think… I think when the old guy was doing that disco dance thing and firing rounds off into the air, he must’ve shot the gun off nearly perfectly straight up. And then the bullets came back down. One of the bullets got the old guy, too,” Zeke stares over Gustave’s body and the blood exiting his head.
“Well, what do we do now?” asks Melissa. “Do we call the cops?”
Max waves from his spot on the grass. “Oh hi Melissa!”
Melissa wipes the tears off her face. “Hi Max.”
Max makes a little megaphone with his hands. “How was the sexo last night with my best compadre, Bartholomew?”
Melissa closes her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
Mew straightens his back, turns his head, and blinks several times looking at Melissa.
Melissa puts a hand up and rests it on Mew’s shoulder. “I’m not sorry for you. I’m sorry for Max.”
Max looks down and back up again. “Why didn’t you ever talk to me after the accident?”
“I thought you would hate me. I saw you fall out of that truck and lose your arm because of me.”
“Do you not remember our kiss before that? I know it was memorable for me.”
“I do, I did, but I didn’t feel… the same, which… made visiting you in the hospital all the more impossible for me.”
“AWWWESSSSSSSSSOOOOOOOOOMMMME!” Max tilts his head toward the sky. “I lost my arm for someone who wouldn’t even say ‘thanks.’ Great. I guess that was a superb decision on my part. Have fun with that one, Mew. She’s all yours. May I recommend not giving up your arm for her.”
“I’m truly sorry. I didn’t want to see you with one arm.”
“I didn’t want to see me with one arm, either. Let me just get one thing straight, though. I saved you, didn’t I? I didn’t just imagine that you were about to fall out of the back of that truck. I pushed you back into the truck and because I saved you, I fell out of the truck. Right?”
“Yes. You did.”
Max sighs with a growl and looks at the space between his pointer finger and thumb. Maybe two centimeters of distance. “That makes me feel about this much better. Not a whole arm’s worth better.” He shrugs his stump estimating where his arm would end if he still had it. “Not this much better.”
“I wish there was something I could do.”
“Yeah. You know, I’m craving Cheetos in a most fierce way. If you have anything, anything at all, it would make me super happy right now. Forgiveness is several horizons away, and I can’t say I feel like moving, but Cheetos would be a major step in the right direction.”
The Queen of the Universe wails over the dead body of Doobie. “O stars! Why would you rotate dis man out of existence? You make me tink you feast on da souls of da deceased. I curse you and da five-course meal you’ve made of my friend to impress your mistress, and I curse da romance in your eyes and da love you’ll make and da offspring of souls you’ll spew just as indiscriminately, all to overcome your simplistic boredom. Your harvesting habits make me ill to da core!”
Terese’s eyes light up. “Damn it. Brownies and Oprah at three o’clock!”
“Two people are dead, Terese,” says Mew. “I think Oprah will have to wait.”
“Oprah waits for no one.”
“Brownies. Yeah.” Max smiles and nods. “Brownies’ll work. I will totally get up for some brownies.”
50
Live Audience
“Mmmm-hmmm. These brownies are a blessing.”
Terese blinks twice. Oprah just called her brownies a blessing in front of several million Americans. Terese beams a smile.
“Thank you so much for bringing them.”
Terese nods to Oprah’s television smile.
“Terese Flannigan and her all natural brownies for the homeless will be featured in my new book Oprah Cooks for the Community in bookstores November fifteenth. We’ll be right back after these messages.”
Someone standing near the camera yells, “And we’re clear.”
Oprah wrinkles her brow still smiling. “These have some kind of earthier flavor I’m not used to.”
Terese smiles. “All natural ingredients.”
“I’m so glad you decided to come. It’s such a rare thing that a booked guest falls through.”
“I’m glad I made it, too. Who did you say the next guest is?” asks Terese as her stomach feels somewhat warmer than normal.
“He’s a cancer patient who can’t pay his medical bills.” A woman with a headset touches up Oprah’s makeup.
A loud voice booms across the stage, “We’re back in three, two…”
“My next guest is Corbin Tyner, formerly Private First Class Tyner. And you will find his brave story of survival heartbreaking. Let’s give a warm welcome to Corbin Tyner.” The audience claps on command as a gurney is wheeled on stage carrying a young man with a buzz cut. Terese claps along. The gurney stops next to Oprah’s chair, and the clapping subsides.
“Tell us Corbin, how long did you serve in the Marines?”
“I was in the Marines for a four-year commitment.”
“And where did you serve during that time?”
“I spent one tour in Afghanistan and two tours in Iraq.”
“Tell us about your experience in your last tour in Iraq.”
“Um. It was hot.” He pauses and smiles. “I mean, it was a lot of being bored and then a lot of trying not to die, all while being very hot.”
“What made you join the Marines?”
“I was broke and hated it. I was working two jobs, one as a gardener and another as a pizza delivery guy. I felt like neither job got much respect. I could never find the woman who wanted be with the pizza delivery guy. Plus, I didn’t have any kind of benefits. I thought the Marines would be an answer for both of those problems. It’s respectable, and they take care of their own.”
“There was one day in which you truly exemplified that idea of taking care of your own, wasn’t there? Can you tell us about the incident which led to you receiving the Purple Heart?”
“I don’t like to talk about it too much because I always feel guilty, like I could’ve done more. That’s… um… the hard part.” Corbin half laughs. “Pl
us getting an award when one of your buddies is dead.”
Oprah gives him her most heartfelt, concerned look. “If it’s not a story you want to relive—“
“No. I’ll tell it.” He closes his eyes. “I’ll tell it because I want people to know how brave Hoffhauer and Henderson were. Basically, there was an enemy who went down in an urban area. We thought he was dead, but we had to get a closer look and make sure the threat was neutralized and maybe get the guy medical attention if it was at all possible. We now think the guy was still alive and just waiting for people to come near him to set off an IED he had attached to himself. I can hardly imagine why a person would do that, you know? I mean, if I were shot and dying, I would be reaching for help or trying to hang on until help could arrive, not playing possum in the hopes of trying to kill a few more people. They really try and push that questioning part of you out when you’re a Marine. Ours is not to question why; ours is but to do or die. Anyway, Hoffhauer and Henderson were approaching with guns drawn. They were standing right over him and starting to give him medical help when there was a flash, and I couldn’t hear anything. I saw Hoffhauer and remembered how he liked to throw pretty much any kind of food way up in the air and catch it in his mouth. His hands were gone and it looked like his mouth was trying to chew the air. I just picked him up by his vest and carried him to the hummer. My hands were burning because his vest was smoking hot, and the explosion sent shrapnel all over into my legs.”
“But that’s not why you’re talking to us from a hospital bed right now, is it?”
“No, ma’am. My feet still work.” He waved his feet at the audience and again tries to smile. “The reason why I’m here is because I have stomach cancer and I’m trying to raise money for the American Cancer Society and the Iraqi Veterans Fund. While the Marines’ll patch you up when you’re still one of them, once you’re out, they don’t always care for you so much.”
“When I got your letter, I just thought it was such a shame. There you were risking your life and limb for a fellow soldier, and then when you’re life is in danger, there’s no one there for you. That’s why I’m going to pay for your experimental surgery along with a $250,000 dollar donation to the Iraqi Veterans Fund.” The audience applauds. “And I encourage,” she puts a hand up as the crowd continues clapping, “I encourage everyone at home to make any kind of donation that you can for the Iraqi Veterans Fund. We’re now going to open it up to our audience for further questions.”
Oprah looks to one of the microphones set up in the audience. A pale, stout woman with boyishly-short white hair steps up to the microphone. “I just want to say God bless you for your service to this country and for your courage in the face of such a painful disease.”
Corbin smiles at the woman and says, “Thank you ma’am, but I don’t believe in God.”
Oprah’s eyes widen. “Oh. That was… honest.”
Terese laughs a little.
Oprah stares at the camera with a confused look and stammers, “Uhhh… Maybe… Maybe it’s not about God so much… Maybe… it’s about love versus… fear. My hands feel funny. I have to say, my hands feel really funny talking about this kind of thing, but there are so… so many ways to reach enlightenment. There are so many ways to do good… and… maybe uhh… maybe Corbin has found one of them.”
A woman steps up to the microphone wearing a white turtleneck with tiny, pink and white flowers printed on it. “The Bible says that Jesus is the only way, the only way to get to Heaven, and if you say there’s another way, then you’re leading people down the path to Hell.”
“So, you’re telling me…” She blinks slowly and looks at her hands. “My hands feel really really strange, people… it seems hot in here. Am I getting hot flashes?” She laughs. “Mmm. Hot flashes… You’re saying that the remote tribe people in Africa or South America or wherever… have no chance of reaching Heaven just because they don’t know Jesus?”
The woman at the microphone replies, “Scripture says that Jesus will not return until His teachings have reached the four corners of the Earth.”
“Well. I don’t want to have a religious discussion with you because you’re entitled to believe what you want. We’re here to talk about… Corgan’s… I’m sorry, Corbin’s experience. Right?” Oprah looks to someone behind the camera as if she needs confirmation.
Terese stands up from her chair. “I have some input on this.” Terese feels her heart rate increase. It’s nerves on account of speaking her own truth to millions of people. “The problem with your scripture is that the Earth doesn’t have four corners so… either we’ll be waiting for the Earth to change shape before the second coming of Christ or maybe your scripture was written in a time when the Earth was still thought to be flat with corners.” Feels so pure. This is a message that must be made clear. Moments ago self-consciousness ruled, but now is the time to continue talking. “The Earth is round and ever-evolving; if you don’t see it that way, enjoy your bliss in the next world, but don’t legislate in this one.” Her body tingles. She looks at her hands as if they were not hers. “All I know is that I’m not Satan. I am not being controlled by Satan. I want to help people in no one’s name. If that means I’m baking brownies by myself and taking them to the homeless shelter alone, so be it. My faith is in myself, not a hokey new-age book that Oprah’s pushing or a widespread old-age Bible.” She makes a confused face. What was that last sentence? Part of the audience starts clapping while other parts boo.
Oprah forgets the audience entirely. “Corbin. You’re cute. I gotta say it. You’re real cute.” The entire audience hears every word. “What are you up to after the show?”
Corbin smiles at Oprah and then smiles at the camera. “I’ll be going back to the hospital.”
“Well. I want to see you, and what Oprah wants…” She leans over on Corbin’s bed and put her finger on his lips. “… Oprah gets.” Someone next to one of the cameras snaps their fingers. “Who’s snappin’ their fingers at me? I’ll snap my fingers right back at you.” She snaps her fingers. “Your finger-snapping is of no consequence to me.” Oprah glances at the teleprompter and very clearly reads off the words. “I… am not… feeling wel—no. I’m feeling fine, you snappy teleprompter. Just fine. What were we just talking about? Corbin, Corbin the Godless soldier who I’m giving $250,000 to. Your godlessness was a surprise I wasn’t ready for, Mr. Marine.”
Terese stops listening to Oprah for a second. This feels like being stoned. The brownies. It must have been the brownies. Max must have made them magic. Why else would he be so insistent on chopping and sautéing the walnuts? Who sautés walnuts? She sighs and laughs. There could be legal troubles with all of this.
Oprah continues her intoxicated tirade. “… All I’m saying is that maybe Corbin is right. Maybe God doesn’t exist. I’ve never seen Him for sure. Maybe we’re all delusionary whispers fading in and out of broadcasting range, consuming each other with and for no answers. I like saying that word… ‘delusionary.’ Say it with me. Delusionary…” People behind the camera stare and gulp as Oprah and the audience repeats with her in unison, “Delusionary.”
Terese reaches over to her tray of brownies and offers one to Corbin as a big glob falls on her pants. “Oops. I got some brownie on my pants.” She laughs at Oprah, and the audience, and the brownie on her pants, and the faithless and the faithful who caught bullets with their heads all the same, and the trickery of Maximus, and the shyness of Bartholomew, and the aimlessness of love. Then she forgets why she laughs, but she keeps laughing all the same.
Appendix A:
Mew’s Precepts
Do not hurt other people. (Especially punching people in the face.)
Do not make women into sexual objects.
Do not settle for the mundane.
Do not follow someone you do not know.
Do not buy useless items.
Do not pay more than absolutely n
ecessary for useful items.
Do not cry.
Do not fail.
Do not say things you cannot prove.
Do not take more than you need.
Do not let anyone else dictate your needs to you.
If he had to live by a set of rules, he wanted the rules to be his. Eleven made him feel like he one-upped the ancient book he wanted to outgrow.
To break these precepts could fragment the interwoven mesh of people; if he broke his own moral code, then everyone else could break theirs, too. Maybe all of humankind lived millimeters away from destroying their neighbor and taking someone else’s partner and someone else’s car on a leviathanic orgy without consideration of consequence. What if everyone decided to break their precepts at the same time?
By adhering to a determined set of moral principles, he donned a deep-sea suit protecting him from everything that could turn him into an absolutely cynical asshole: the wars, the suffering, the famine, the catastrophes, the eyes begging for help, global warming, the death, the waste, the future, the self-interest, the shame, the slavery, the reality TV, the TV evangelists, the debt, the wealth of knowledge he lacked, the women he could never impress, the massive inequalities between the people that have wealth without labor and the people who would labor all their lives and never achieve a fraction of wealth, the associations of people with the same culture and their isolation from anybody else and their resulting fear and their resulting hatred and their resulting violence and their resulting pain, the loneliness and the most alarmingly obvious fact that his time will run out and he may miss out on something grand.
Maybe there was a way to overcome these unignorable pressures by adhering to his own precepts and maintaining the idea that everyone else could, too. Of course, he would never say all this aloud because of precept number nine; do not say things you cannot prove.
The thought of escaping his precepts made him feel vulnerable because if he faltered from these precepts, he believed his existence would become a maelstrom crushing him under the weight of the juxtapositions and inequalities and declined values whirling around him at all times. So long as he had precepts to cling to, he believed he could stave off the pressures.