A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  Puppy tugged on his ear. Heard what.

  Frecklie’s eyebrows raised in deep surprise. He pointed. About you.

  • • • •

  THE THREE A14S in gray suits squished together on Kenuda’s cramped couch, finding pleasant expressions which didn’t match the wary glitter of their rotating eyes. The stares suddenly locked into place, covering Kenuda like a scanning device. Vile little ashcans, he smiled back politely. The middle one inched forward. They’d been silent for about five minutes.

  “Again, we stress how unfortunate it is that we’ve had to bother you, Third Cousin.” The robot motioned about the office at the balls and helmets and nets; Kenuda frowned at the subtle irony. “We’ve always enjoyed the fondest relationship.”

  Kenuda nodded agreeably. “Any problem in my department is my problem, Steward.”

  “I’m the Steward,” the robot on the left complained.

  “Sorry…”

  “I’m the Executive Director,” continued the middle one. He tapped the colleague to his right. “Our Coordinator. I appreciate we do look alike.”

  “Not at all.” Kenuda’s cheeks ached from smiling out of that trap. “How can I help you?”

  “It’s your baseball, sir.”

  “What baseball?”

  The robots exchanged mystified looks. “At Amazon Stadium.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” he snapped. “What about it?”

  “Members of the Little Extended Family were replaced, Third Cousin.”

  Kenuda tried to remember. “Was some hate law broken?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Not yet means it might be.” Elias hoped a glance at this watch would hurry them along. Nothing hurried along a ‘bot unless it was a bulldozer. Circuitous, maddening things that acted as if they could take a lifetime doing a small deed. Well, they could.

  “When the humans replaced the HGs,” the middle one began as if Kenuda were one of his leathered basketballs, “we lost three jobs.”

  “As I recall, you officially lost only that one position.” Kenuda twirled a football for effect. “Your colleagues then quit.”

  “They would’ve been next.”

  “Had you been threatened?”

  “We saw what happened,” the Steward blurted angrily. The Executive Director patted his arm.

  “Let’s say that the ‘bots who’d worked so long were aggrieved and reacted emotionally.” The metallic face indented at the cheeks. “But their fears were warranted. Seven new jobs have been added to the stadium staff. Jobs which are supposed to be earmarked for robots.”

  Elias twirled and stalled. No paperwork or requests came to mind. “What’re the jobs again? Baseball’s not exactly at the top of my list.”

  “The things we do best,” the Steward rasped.

  Kenuda’s smile frosted. “You do so much well.”

  The three robots bowed.

  “There were three maintenance positions, three at the food stands and someone is doing something with the grass. All positions guaranteed under the equal opportunity laws.”

  “Not exactly guaranteed. Robots are to be considered.”

  “They’ve gone to DVs. Thanks to that baseball historian.”

  Kenuda raised an eyebrow. The Executive Director regarded him with a shrewd smile.

  “You’re aware of this, aren’t you, Third Cousin?”

  “Yes, Executive Director. I’m aware of everything that happens in my area.”

  “And you approved…”

  “I approve everything, as I just said. Baseball’s given a little latitude considering it’s the final season.”

  “We don’t see how that matters,” the Executive Director said firmly. “We hold 82.4 percent of the stadium staffing positions at NFL games and 77.3 percent at NBA arenas. At the least, we expect that percentage to hold for any baseball jobs, whether it’s for one game or the whole season.”

  The robots simultaneously nudged back together, crossing their arms and staring at Kenuda with their damn insufferable rotating eyes. He couldn’t make his eyes go 360 degrees, but he could twirl a football pretty quickly. Eyes and football spun around for a few tense moments. Suddenly Kenuda fired the ball over the mini-goal post, where the tip stuck in the wall. Red lights flashed and a symphonic voice chanted “Touchdown.”

  “And as Sports Commissioner, I determine the percentages.”

  “What numbers are you suggesting?” the Executive Director asked.

  Kenuda wiped the couch clean with a fresh cloth after the robots left and then sat behind his desk, flipping the basketball from palm to palm. This started his morning wrong, but unless he made a hook shot from the doorway, it would constitute the most excitement of the day.

  Other than their clattering obsequious duplicity, that’s what really angered Elias Kenuda about this visit. Percentages of robots at football and basketball games had been fixed for years. He’d changed it once, by .04 percent after taking over five years ago, just to demonstrate some leadership. Besides that, what had he done? The sports already reigned supreme. Every game was a sell-out. Players were near perfect beyond getting an occasional speeding ticket. He could boast, as he did at Third Cousin meetings, that his players produced among the highest number of children of any profession. His P&L was priceless.

  Wind it up and watch it run. Elias Kenuda wanted more than making a basket with his eyes closed from fifteen feet. He’d been one of the youngest Third Cousins ever. He should’ve been First by now; at least Second. Now his temples grayed and occasionally his fingers ached. Probably from all the damn twirling; he angrily bounced a ball on two hops across the room into the net.

  Blue lights buzzed and a voice shrieked “Swish.”

  Kenuda smiled. It didn’t suit his face.

  • • • •

  FRIDAY WAS DATE night everywhere in America. Blue Shirts didn’t roam bars or restaurants or movie theaters, dragging away the solitary and lonely and pathetic. Nor would ruffians turn over your table or servers spit in your food. But if you were out, it was best to at least go through the pretense of acting as if you had someone in your life, fast tracking your way to an engagement and marriage and children and the rightful place in the Family.

  Pablo squeezed Puppy’s wrist again and made gentle clucking noises, batting his eyebrows.

  “Just once is enough,” Puppy said, moving Pablo’s strong fingers, but Zelda pressed both their hands back into the table cloth.

  “We don’t want anyone thinking you boys are having a spat and won’t produce cute little African-American/Latino/Caucasian children. Now Puppy, flutter those pretty green eyes longingly.”

  Puppy fluttered. The waitress laid down their Danielle’s Veg-Burg Delights with an approving smile.

  “So how many?” Zelda asked softly.

  Guessing who was like them trying to survive being single, and who really meant to squeeze and flutter was a long-time game.

  “Forty-seven people here,” Pablo said.

  “How can you count so fast?” Puppy asked.

  “Because I went to class in school. Twenty-three groups. Forty-seven, us being the odd number.”

  “I’ve been called worse.” Zelda grinned, sucking the juice off her pickle.

  “Along that far wall, we have, I’d estimate, nine couples, five of whom are smiling, three eating, one staring off. That makes five on dates.”

  “Do explain, Great One.” Zelda snatched Puppy’s pickle.

  “The staring is genuine, as would be the eating, but let’s leave something for problematic rotation and say three are comfortable eating and the fourth isn’t. Four are smiling because they genuinely mean it, one is putting on.”

  “Or just friends which mean they mean it more,” Zelda said.

  “Don’t confuse him with your cynicism,” Puppy scolded.

  “I’ve already factored that in,” the dentist said airily. “On that wall,” they swiveled like ‘bots toward the tables beneath the large vidmural of children picki
ng vegetables, “we have ten more couples. In the past couple minutes, three clinked glasses, a sure sign of a date.”

  Zelda clinked their glasses. Pablo scowled.

  “Two are holding hands with twisting fingers.”

  “Ah, the dead giveaway.” Zelda seductively ran her index finger up and down Pablo’s hand.

  “Stop. You’re our matron of honor.” Puppy laughed.

  Pablo continued as if they weren’t there. “And look at tables one and five.”

  “You numbered them?”

  “How else? Their looks of interest are genuine. Look at number four over there by the kitchen. One’s already snapped angrily, so that’s a date, probably the last, and I’ll say odds favor two of the remaining three also on dates. I haven’t gathered enough information. Wait.” He held up his hands. “Table two is sharing the menu instead of ‘I don’t care, order what you want.’ True love.”

  Puppy drumrolled with his palms. “And the number is?”

  “Twelve.”

  He looked for confirmation from Zelda, who shrugged and ordered another bottle of Indiana pinot noir.

  “I’m right,” Pablo insisted.

  “Who are we to question a Fifth Cousin?” Zelda laughed and Pablo nearly slid under the table. They ate quietly for a few minutes.

  “Now who’s this singer you insisted we had to see at Monroe’s?” Pablo sipped the wine.

  Zelda stuffed her face with fries so she wouldn’t smile. “Dara Dinton. She’s making her professional debut.”

  “An absolutely amazing voice,” Puppy added.

  Pablo’s eyes flitted between their grins. They always left him out of secrets because he could never quite get the joke. “I know there’s more.”

  Zelda dipped her fries in Pablo’s mustard, which she knew annoyed him. He slapped her hand away again.

  “It’s really Mooshie.”

  Pablo frowned deeper. “Who?”

  Puppy lowered his voice. “Mooshie Lopez.”

  “Mooshie Lopez?”

  “Yes,” Zelda and Puppy said together.

  “The Mooshie Lopez?”

  “Yes,” they chorused again.

  “Singing?”

  Another joint nod. The good doctor leaned back in his chair. “Uh-huh.”

  Puppy took this forward. “Remember the old guy with the strange teeth who you examined in your office…”

  “Keep it down…”

  “He’s not some wasted ass DV. They’re really Mickey Mantle and Ty Cobb. Now Mooshie’s come back, too.”

  “With bad teeth?”

  Zelda jumped in. “It’s really her, Pabby Boy. Wait until you hear.”

  Pablo waited a moment for the punchline. “You understand that’s not possible.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Totally,” Puppy agreed.

  “Then why do you persist in insisting it’s real?”

  Puppy sighed. “Because it is.”

  “Do you have proof?”

  “Once you meet her…”

  “I mean real, tangible proof which could be presented.”

  “Whoa, presented where?” Puppy asked.

  “Before the Science Commission.”

  “You’re reporting this?”

  Pablo laughed humorlessly. “Life beyond death would be something of a scientific breakthrough and might change a few ways we view the world.”

  “And help you.”

  Diaz leaned forward angrily. “You think I’d use this for myself?”

  “It would kind of clinch becoming a Fifth Cousin.”

  “How dare you.”

  “How dare you even suggest revealing something we told you in confidence.”

  Pablo struggled momentarily with that. “You’re right.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Lower your voices,” Zelda warned as a few diners turned.

  “Although I think this is absurd and impossible, I’m willing, as part of our friendship, to approach this scientifically.”

  “Thank you, my precious.”

  “I will conduct tests.”

  “You’re not going anywhere near Mooshie with one of your tongue depressors.”

  Pablo reddened. “I have a responsibility on several levels and yes, a candidate for Cousin is one of them, along with being a health officer. If this is nonsense, we’ll act as if it never happened.”

  “No.” Puppy shook his head back and forth.

  “Zel,” Pablo said wearily. “Make him listen.”

  She pushed away her plate. “I’m with him, honey.”

  Pablo rose sadly. “Okay. I’ll do you a favor and act like we didn’t talk.”

  “Good. How about acting like we don’t know each other.”

  “Puppy!” Zelda scolded.

  “I can do that, too.” Pablo stormed away.

  They finished their beers in silence. A young woman leaned over from the adjoining table.

  “We guessed you guys were just friends. Sorry we had you wrong.”

  By the time they got to Monroe’s, Puppy’s mood had shifted from rage to anxiety. Fridays at Monroe’s catered to the young, who had the energy to go out after a long work week, and the old, who weren’t bound by any niceties about dating, just getting out of the way. He’d told Mooshie that Friday was the wrong night. Mondays or Tuesdays were best with smaller, more attentive crowds; she’d slammed the door in his face and told him to get screwed under a goat.

  Behind the bar, Jimmy jerked his head angrily toward the line waiting to use one of the bathrooms.

  “She’s been in there thirty minutes,” he snarled.

  While Zelda secured a table, Puppy apologetically pushed to the front of the queue and rapped on the bathroom door.

  “It’s Puppy.”

  “Suck me.”

  He smiled sheepishly to the dozen or so irritated people with fading bladder control. “Let me in, Dara dear.”

  Mooshie yanked him inside by his belt buckle. She wore a beautiful tight black dress above knee-high black boots. He recognized them from Zelda’s pre-fat closet. Mooshie looked terrified. That terrified him, but now wasn’t the time for a contest.

  “You okay?” He sat on the toilet.

  “If you give me a pep talk about how it’s like the bottom of the ninth with the score tied I will cut your throat.”

  He mimed tearing up paper. She clenched her groin.

  “You still have the same amazing voice, Mooshie.”

  “Except it’s been dead and call me Dara, dimwit.” She searched for herself in the mirror, sighing at the cropped bleached hair and overdone eyes and lips.

  “You can cancel, Ms. Dinton.”

  Her dark eyes blazed. “That’d break your heart. This breaks your heart. Mooshie Lopez scared. I ain’t never been scared. Of anything.” She poked at the lipstick with her finger. “Too red, right?”

  “It’s perfect.”

  “Would you say if it wasn’t?”

  He shook and nodded his head simultaneously.

  “Get Zelda,” Mooshie shouted.

  “Why?” he asked, hurt.

  “Because she won’t bullshit me.”

  As Mooshie shoved Puppy out the door, Jimmy turned up his hands questioningly.

  “Next time get her a dressing room. She’s a star.”

  He slid next to Zelda and told her Mooshie’s request. With a squeal bordering on orgasmic, Zelda bounded like a pug toward the bathroom. Ty took the vacated chair; Mickey fell onto a spare seat, spilling their drinks.

  “Where’s the senorita?” Ty smirked.

  “Getting ready.”

  “Oh my, cue the music.”

  “Damn right. And her name’s Dara Dinton.” He glared at Mantle. “You drunk already?”

  “I don’t know. What’s it your business?”

  “Because I don’t want you falling on your ass tomorrow when I’m pitching. Aren’t you the manager? Do something.” He downed half of Ty’s beer.

  The bar rocked with
Mooshie’s nervous laugh as she headed toward the microphone in the corner.

  “Sing something in English,” Ty pleaded.

  “I’ll try, White Grampa.”

  Zelda grabbed a chair from another table and slipped back next to Puppy.

  “What’d you say?” he asked. She smiled meaningfully, suggesting he had a better chance of sleeping on Pluto tonight than understanding.

  More couples and would-be couples straggled in, panicking Puppy. Conversation centered on love and romance and sex, not Mooshie, talking over her shoulder to the piano player.

  “Will you make an announcement?” Puppy returned to the bar, where he wasn’t greeted with joy.

  “Why? They’ll hear.” Jimmy poured a beer.

  “And kill the vidnews sound,” Puppy yelled. He waved his arms for attention; getting little. “Evening, everyone. On behalf of Monroe’s, we want to welcome you to a special night of music from an amazing singer.”

  “Cut the crap, handsome,” Mooshie shouted into the microphone. “And let the people decide if I’m any good.”

  That earned the first applause of the evening. Mooshie nodded to the pianist, who played softly. Puppy shot her an encouraging smile. She sneered.

  “I’d like to start off with an oldie which my mother loved.” Her eyes twinkled impishly. “I bet you haven’t heard this one for a long while.”

  Mooshie jumped up and kicked the stool away.

  “Let the lovin’ in, baby.

  Let the lovin’ in.”

  Shit, she’s singing Lovin’ It, her number one hit from the first album, Lovin’ It All. Puppy and Zelda exchanged astonished looks.

  “If you got my beat,

  Then you’re getting a treat.

  ‘Cause you gotta let my lovin’ in.”

  Mooshie wailed a wild animalistic cry, delighting the crowd. She spun around, flinging out her arms and flipping her head from side to side. Unbound. Unleashed.

  Screw you and your tongue depressors, Pablo.

  “Because it’s date night, bitches.” Mooshie leaped out of the song with a wiggle of her butt. “Time for some baking and shaking in Grandma’s oven.”

  He and Zelda’s grins circled their heads at the line from Mooshie’s song Baking Babies.