Meet Me in the Moon Room

by Ray Vukcevich

  Okay, I’ve snapped. That’s the way it is, and if that’s the way it is, maybe I’ll go out and do something daring, maybe do something a little foolish, maybe do something that will show what I’m made of.

  Maybe I’ll go down into the streets and kill myself a car.

  Or die trying.

  Be a hero.

  Get slapped on the butt by the guys.

  Listen to the crowd roar.

  Get the girl back.

  Be happy.

  Sure.

  A Holiday Junket

  So we teleport for the holidays to a world where everyone is required to carry a huge fishbowl all of the time. It takes both hands to hold the heavy bowl, and once you’re holding it, there’s no way to let go. The fish in the bowl is a barking goldfish. It likes to eat spiders. The so-called kamikaze spider is as big as a basketball, and it always goes for your face. Once you have a spider trying to suck out your eyes, you have very little time to perform the only course of action open to you. What you must do is plunge your head into the bowl so your barking goldfish can eat the kamikaze spider. None of this was explained in the brochure.

  Also big news to us is the fact that this is a world where the dimension necessary for long distance telepathy is missing. Just as sound cannot cross a vacuum, here thoughts do not travel in the ether. I could beam my intentions at her until I was blue in the face, and it wouldn’t do any good.

  What we must do is somehow touch heads. If we can touch heads I can ask her if maybe we shouldn’t get out of here. If she agrees, and I can’t imagine that she won’t, we can hotfoot it through the forest and across the creek to the exit portal which if I’m not mistaken I can actually see from here. Touching heads, however, is going to be a big problem, since we’re both holding these really big fishbowls.

  The sky is sea green, and the puffy pink clouds racing across it move too quickly to really be clouds, not that I thought there were clouds in the first place, since we came to know everything we needed to know about this world as soon as we popped into existence here. None of it makes me feel like singing Christmas carols.

  I suppose I could just take off running. Would she get the idea and follow? Or would she misunderstand and think that I’d known what this world was like all along and that I’d lured her here to abandon her?

  I cluck my tongue at her trying to get her attention so she’ll come over here so maybe we can touch heads, but she’s looking around fearfully like something might jump out of the feather duster trees and grab her, and the look on her face would be funny and adorable, oh you silly goose, if it were not the case that her fears are entirely justified. Even the little bugs on this world are as big as your feet.

  She finally sees me making faces at her and comes over and our fishbowls clink together as we try to go head to head. Our fish thrash around barking like crazy and snapping at each other through the glass. Whenever we lean in to touch, the fish leap up out of the water and nip at our chins. Boy, if I ever do manage to get a thought in edgewise what I’ll think is maybe we should have opted for a more traditional holiday with growling mall crowds and a rented uncle albert singing drunken sailor songs and fruit cake and santa clauses and colored lights and disappointed children and eggnog.

  I walk around her hoping we can touch from the rear, but as it turns out, and this is not something I’d realized earlier, our butts are almost perfectly matched height-wise. And the bowls are so heavy. I can’t lean far enough back to touch my head to hers without spilling water out of my fishbowl, and if I spilled too much water and the fish got stressed and became maybe moody and lethargic, who would eat the kamikaze spider surely even now tensing for a leap at my face?

  I feel a sudden flash of irritation, and I’m glad we didn’t connect just then. Otherwise we might have exchanged unkind remarks about our respective butts.

  I move to her side but no matter how we arrange ourselves we cannot connect. Front to back? No good. All we do is produce a clinking clanking splashing and barking cacophony of goldfish.

  Our struggle to re-establish the connection we have always had suddenly becomes desperate as I realize, and I can see it in her eyes that it has dawned upon her too, that we may never hook up again. We could be stranded and alone like this forever. We spend a couple of minutes jumping around making hopeless and helpless hooting sounds, grunts and cries, whimpers and finally barks not too different from the barks of our goldfish.

  Then there is a quiet moment. The eye of the storm. And then we panic. I can’t see her fishbowl; I can only see her. She fills my vision, and nothing matters as much as our reunion. I cannot rationally appraise the danger we face as we rush together and meet like belly-bumping cowboys and our bowls shatter and our fish fall into the high grass, and she wet, slippery and shivering rushes into my arms.

  There is a momentary riot of chewing sounds from the grass, and then the worldwide bug symphony that I’d scarcely noticed before stops absolutely. The pink non-clouds gather above us like a fastforward weather report. Those black drops dropping will probably be spiders.

  I pull her in close and we touch heads, and in an explosion of color and big bands, jungle orchids and satin cat feet up and down my spine, it’s like a big part of your mind has just wondered off whistling, and now it’s back and all the pieces snap into place, a cosmic ah ha and she me we spiral down and down to a perfect state of not quite seamless sameness, the two of us, the one of us. You can phone your congressperson, and you can write a letter to the editor. You can curse your luck, and you can shake your fist at the sky. You can drop to your knees in an eleventh hour appeal to magic. But in the end there is really only this.

  We make a dash for it.

  Giant Step

  Gregory figured the young policeman would hit him tonight, because at some deep level the policeman knew that, but for the grace of God and the fact that people still paid taxes for prisons and the personnel to put and keep other people in prisons, he might be homeless and living in a space suit just like Gregory. Just a paycheck away and frightened, with pale blue angry eyes and a goofy cowlick, he probably had a pretty young wife who sent him off to work with a kiss and a tuna fish sandwich wrapped in waxed paper, maybe the same waxed paper that blew across the rainbow oil slick in the gutter puddle by Gregory’s feet.

  In a sudden flash of inspiration, Gregory knew what to say to him. “Well, Officer,” he shouted through his helmet, “we can’t move along, because all motion is impossible. Zeno proved that thousands of years ago.”

  Nancy, also suited and sitting on the sidewalk beside Gregory, touched helmets with him. “Is that logic I smell?”

  Her seven-year-old granddaughter Kim stood behind her. Kim’s parents had died years ago in the food riots. Like the god of Amos, the government still guaranteed the people clean teeth. Kim hung out with Nancy and didn’t talk much these days. She wore a silvery suit sized down for the temporally challenged, and tonight she tapped the side of her helmet with a white plastic spoon and stared up into the sky.

  Silver-suited figures of all sizes moved in and out of the street shadows, dodging sluggish honking cars and trucks, and flickering with neon when they passed under the signs of surviving merchants. The suits had toilet functions, heating and cooling units, rechargeable batteries, water bottles, and air tanks, all the comforts of home. Best of all, supporters of the plan privately claimed, once you sealed a wino up in a space suit, you couldn’t smell him. At curfew you could pile the people up like cordwood. But hey, skeptics had cried, surely there can’t be enough space suits for what amounts to maybe a third of the population. No problem. We make more suits, put all those guys who lost their jobs when we canceled the space program back to work.

  The young policeman squatted down in front of Gregory. He unhooked his big flashlight and shined it in Gregory’s face for a few moments. Then he put the flash
light away. Maybe he had more curiosity than most, Gregory thought, maybe if the universities had still been funded, he could have been a passable student. Maybe he wouldn’t hit Gregory, after all.

  “So what’s the story on this Zeno guy, Professor?”

  “Yes, tell us, Oh Wise One,” Nancy said. “How is it that all motion is impossible?” Nancy was an out-of-work English professor and tended to scoff at all things scientific. She pulled Kim around and down on her lap and wrapped an arm around the child. There weren’t many stars to see through the smoggy city lights, but at least one of them captured Kim’s attention. She settled back and stared up at the night sky.

  “Well, suppose you want to move from here to, say, Mr. Wilson’s store.” Gregory pointed at the small grocery occupying the bottom floor of an otherwise gutted building at the end of the block. “To do that, surely you’ll admit you’d have to go through a point that is halfway between here and there. Say, that big pile of steaming garbage in front of the gun shop. Where the dogs are?”

  “Yeah. So?” the policeman said.

  “Well, to get to the pile of steaming garbage, Officer, surely you can see you’d first have to go through some point that is halfway between here and the garbage, say that broken fire hydrant.”

  “Yeah, okay, first I walk to the fire hydrant, then I walk to the garbage, then I walk to Wilson’s store. So what’s the problem?”

  “But to get to the fire hydrant, you’d have to walk through a point that is halfway between here and the fire hydrant. Right?”

  “I suppose.”

  “But to get to that point, you’d have to walk to a point that’s halfway between those two points, and to get to that point you’d have to walk to a point that was halfway between those two points, and so on and so on.”

  The policeman didn’t look happy, and Gregory thought maybe he’d made a big mistake talking about Zeno. What if paradoxes pissed off the police? Gregory pushed on anyway. What else could he do? Just go silent?

  “No matter how small the distance, Officer, you still have to first move through the halfway point. So, not only can you not move from here to Mr. Wilson’s store, you can’t move away from here at all. And that’s why we can’t move along.”

  “I think maybe I’ll bonk you with my stick, Professor,” the policeman said.

  “But it wouldn’t be a real bonk, would it, Officer?” Nancy asked. She reached out and patted the policeman’s knee. Nancy, tough as nails in the old days, a deconstructor of Brontës and cooker of fiery curries, had nonetheless taken instruction from the streets and could now do a respectable grandmother whenever the occasion demanded.

  “What do you mean, Nancy?” Gregory sounded nervous and he kept an eye on the policeman’s nightstick.

  “Well,” Nancy said, still smiling at the young policeman, “if motion is impossible, yet we still perceive motion, it must mean that we are deceived. What we see is an illusion. If the officer hits you with his stick, you’ll only think it hurts.”

  “Idealism,” Gregory said, making the word sound like another name for utter nonsense.

  “Exactly,” Nancy said. “And since all material matters are illusions, we can, in fact, move along as this nice young man has suggested we do by simply imagining ourselves elsewhere.”

  “You are at least half right,” Gregory said. “There is a way out of this conundrum. The answer requires no mysticism, however. It’s just simple materialism. Imagine we’ve cut our distance down until it is very very small.” Gregory took a nail from his utility pouch and scratched a line in the sidewalk.

  X___________Y___________Z

  “The space between X and Z is the first tiny, tiny distance you must move before you can move on through the rest of the halves and finally get from here to Mr. Wilson’s store,” Gregory said.

  “Seems pretty big to me,” the policeman said.

  “It’s a diagram!” Gregory heard the irritation in his voice and added in a softer tone, “It’s blown up.”

  “Oh,” the policeman said. “I suppose you’ll say we have to move through Y to get to Z, and you’ll start this whole stupid business all over again.”

  “No,” Gregory said. “That’s my point. At some very small scale, there is a point where we move from X to Z in one discrete step without going through Y. That’s what makes motion possible. We move in tiny little steps. We sort of putt-putt along through, well, hyperspace, for lack of a better word.”

  “I’m sure glad you got rid of the mysticism, Gregory,” Nancy said, “but your putt-putting along will be a little slow for the officer, I think. In my scheme, we can move long distances very quickly.”

  “I don’t see why, in principle, we cannot move long distances in my scheme, too,” Gregory said. “If you can move a small discrete step without passing through any intermediate points, I don’t see why you can’t move a large distance in a single step.”

  “Look out!” Kim cried.

  Nancy grabbed his hand, and Gregory looked up in time to see the policeman’s nightstick coming down at his face.

  Before the stick could crack his faceplate, the policeman disappeared. In fact, the whole street disappeared. Gregory, Nancy, and Kim popped back into existence overlooking a dry red river valley. The empty red rolling vista went on and on forever. Red sand beneath their boots. Red dust blowing everywhere. Funny-looking daytime sky. No bushes. No birds.

  “So much room!” Kim stretched out her arms and skipped around in a circle.

  “Where are we?” Nancy shouted through her helmet.

  “Mars, I think,” Gregory said. “Well, I hope the implosion at least knocked the cop over.”

  “Maybe you convinced him,” Nancy said. “Maybe he’s realized that all motion is impossible and he’s just sitting there with that silly stick of his. In any case, you can see I was right. Idealism wins the day.”

  “Materialism,” Gregory said. “The evidence is clear.”

  “You’re both wrong,” Kim cried. “I did it!”

  Gregory grabbed her shoulders and stopped her dancing. He bent over her and touched his faceplate to hers.

  Nancy leaned in, helmet to helmet, too. “And just how did you do that, young lady?”

  “Yes, tell us,” Gregory said.

  “I wish I may, I wish I might,” Kim said.

  Quite Contrary

  In those days, I was a big, bearded, bald guy with an ax, grinding down the boulevard in my ’57 Chevy, looking for something pretty to chop.

  These days, a woman who calls me Mary feeds me chocolate chip cookies as I snuggle on the lap of the man who calls me Kitten. The man has his hand on my thigh. We watch TV. I know I’ve got a milk mustache. I know it looks cute. It’s Howdy Doody time.

  Back then Alfonso says to me, “Louie.” He says, “Louie.” He says, “Louie Lew Eye, you wanna go looking for pussy?”

  I say I sure do, and Alfonso’s so happy he crushes his beer can on his forehead. We pile into the Chevy and cruise the dark dream city, through the canyons of slick black towers, whistling at the chocolate chicks, the valley vanilla in hot pants, going oh baby, oh mama, have I got something for you. Whoop, whoop.

  These people, these Capeks, Mommy and Daddy. She knows he’s got his hand on my thigh, but she’s pretending she doesn’t, rushing in with the cookies, talking too loud, pushing at her goofy boo font hair do, looking everywhere but down at my leg and his hand, rushing out again to bang some pots and pans together, coming back. He knows she knows, and that’s what gets him off. The way he never takes his hard eyes off her as she moves, the sweat beading on his naked upper lip, his whole body whispering look look just look at what I’m doing I dare you to look. I’ve decided it doesn’t have much to do with me. I bet if I lifted my hip a little and gave him a good squeeze between the legs, he’d toss me right into
Buffalo Bob’s face.

  That night, me and Alfonso see this Sally Capek chick he knows from the office where he sweeps up. What’s she doing down here this time of night? He doesn’t know. I don’t care. I got beer and I got my ax and it’s summertime and the living is easy. She’s got long legs, and I love the way she marches into the parking lot, looking neither left nor right, hugging her purse to her breasts. Nervous, yes. I like that. She gets into a white Oldsmobile, and I hang back a little so she won’t know I’m on her tail.

  She’s back again. “More milk? More milk?”

  The man does a thing he’s been doing a lot lately. He takes my chin in his hand and turns my head so he can study my face closely like he’s cataloging all the ways I don’t look like him. He only does that when she’s there to see it.

  I remember Mama.

  Alfonso’s sitting on the ground with his back to the left front tire of her Oldsmobile, my ax in his head, his crotch all dark where he’s pissed himself. Crazy Alfonso. He should have known that when I say me first, I mean me first. I’m done now and he could have taken his turn before I let my ax have her, but, no, he’s got to give me lip. I look down at the Capek chick where she’s whimpering and sniffling, all white ass and crouched in the back seat, and she leaps into my face with something bright, something sharp, and I’m standing in my room, dolls and stuffed animals and pink walls, pink bed, pink light from a pink lamp on a tiny pink dressing table covered with pink bottles. It’s like the inside of Barbie’s snatch. I smell like I just got out of a bubble bath. What’s this? What’s this? I run my hands down my boyish chest and finger my tight little twat. So strange.

  I look and I listen. I creep around at night after they’ve tucked me in and kissed me on the nose. I know what they do. I know what they say. They don’t know that I know. They say stupid stuff like “Little pitchers have big ears.” Shush, shush.