The Great Big One

by J. C. Geiger

  “They won’t find us,” Thomas said.

  “They will or they won’t, I suppose,” Simon said.

  “Did you start this whole thing?” Griff said.

  “I did,” Simon said. “I always liked the undertaking of big imaginings. Great big things, you know. Accomplishment!” He knocked his teacup into the saucer, stared with ferocious eyes. He laughed. But the ferocity was real.

  “You climbed mountains,” Griff said.

  “Plenty,” he said. “Mountains worked for a while. I tried to get a mountain. But you can’t get a mountain, is the problem. Can’t put it in your sack and carry it down with you. You climb a mountain a million times but the mountain is still the mountain and not much different from the climbing. And neither was I, at the end of the day. Adventure becomes routine. Chapters to check-boxes, you understand? So then—I chased the next great big imagining.”

  “The sea?” Thomas asked.

  “Whales,” Simon said. “I was fascinated. Worked fishing boats. Killed my way through thousands of fish. Literally thousands of little souls, you know? Working up to a whale.”

  Charity’s face was drawn. Simon’s, too.

  “So then you do,” his words even. “You kill a whale. You learn your hands can kill a thing so much bigger and more beautiful than you. It can be done. You can simmer it down. Steal its bones. You can reduce it to something small enough to smear on toast. That’s power, isn’t it? Then you’re sitting there eating your toast with a bit of blubber. And how different are you then? You can climb the biggest mountain. Swallow a whale on your toast. What is it, then, you’re seeking out there?”

  In silence, Griff considered the TOE Box. Diagrams and theories, files and maps.

  “Music?” Griff said.

  “Yes,” Simon said. “Maybe that.”

  “Will we get to see the Band?” Griff asked.

  “The Band,” Simon said, his voice deep. “Well. I have a secret.”

  “What?”

  He leaned forward. They leaned forward.

  “I’m in the Band,” Simon said.

  Thomas leapt out of his seat.

  “Oh my god,” he said. Griff and Charity exchanged looks—what now? Kneel? Request an autograph?

  “You’re, well, you’re amazing, I mean you, thank you—” Thomas stuttered.

  “No, no,” Simon said. “You’ll see it all tomorrow. Thank me then. For now, why don’t we find you a crew.”

  “So, we get to stay?” Griff asked.

  “Yes,” Simon said. “As long as you like.”

  Thomas slapped Griff’s back, hard, and the three of them pulled into a reflexive hug. Simon laughed and went to a map stuck with colorful pins and fabric swatches, dotted with names—the Springboard, the Velvet Den, Rapture Palace, the Slitherhound, Naughty Noodle, BrindleBurner, and every crew had their own campsite—the SandDogs, the Hydras, PooperScoopers, ReFuel, the Electrolytes, WeedWhackers, TrundleBunnies—

  Charity got a blue band for the Hydras, in charge of water/hydration, a red wristband for Thomas in Soundscaping, and Griff got a black one.

  “A crew so secret we can scarcely say its name,” Simon said. “Shhhh-curity.”

  He placed it on the opposite wrist from the paracord.

  Outside, an approaching engine. Lights flared through the window and Simon was suddenly rushing, gathering up glasses. They knocked together like gentle chimes—

  “Your ride! Almost forgot,” he said. “We must drink!”

  He poured four small golden goblets of a greenish, grassy-smelling liquid. They touched glasses and drank. It tasted like mowed lawns and dandelions and turpentine. He hugged each of them in turn, the same way he shook hands—strong, graceful. The moment of their embrace, it was there again—

  —the smell!

  It struck Griff that he’d been wrong. It was not his grandparents’ home. Just the way it had smelled one particular morning.

  Griff remembered him and Leo, eight years old and in pajamas, stepping onto the back patio with their father. Griff had been holding his dad’s warm hand, his dad, whispering—perfect timing. Perfect timing. Bracing air. Their breath, swirling vapor.

  Overnight, their grandparents’ lawn had become a fairy tale. A fence transformed to cloud-castle ramparts, lawn furniture to marshmallow sculptures. Hills glazed in sheets of twinkling stillness. An impossible scent, all the way out in the desert.

  Simon smelled like snow.

  SIXTY-ONE

  MALACHI DROVE THEM IN THE JEEP THEY’D SEEN EARLIER. DUST behind them caught the moonlight—a sturdy vapor trail in the sky. Thomas was in the backseat with Charity. Not kissing. Griff turned back. Still not kissing. Behind them, Simon’s tower pulsed a faint red.

  “What’s with the light?” Griff asked Malachi.

  “Didn’t Simon tell you?” Malachi said. He laughed. “He’s the Weatherman.”

  “What’s red mean?” Griff asked.

  “Means it’s gonna be hot,” Malachi said.

  In the distance, dreamy blue light rippled on the horizon. Umbrellas, tents, sunshades.

  “Is that the lagoon?” Charity asked.

  “Hydra Camp,” Malachi said. “Lagoon’s farther out.”

  Music, on the breeze. Gusts of guitar and fiddle.

  “Hear that?” Charity asked Griff.

  She squeezed his shoulder. A hot bolt raced through his blood and—YES—they could play again. But what kind of keyboard would they have, if any? No chance of a piano.

  “Your drone’s under the seat,” Malachi said.

  Griff tapped the body with his foot. “Oh great!” He took it out, examined the propellers. It would fly again.

  “Just make sure it’s not transmitting,” Malachi said.

  “No worries on transmissions, brother,” Thomas said. He reached into his own pack and pulled out the Jam Sandwich.

  “No thanks,” Malachi said. “I ate.”

  Thomas removed the top slice of bread. Circuitry.

  “Whoa hey,” Malachi said, slowing to a stop. He took a palm-sized device from his vest. Similar to the Bug Detector, but better. “How’d I miss that? This thing’s scared of its own reflection.”

  “Not a transmitter,” Thomas said. “It’s a jammer.”

  “Jam sandwich,” Malachi said. “Ha! Lithium-ion?”

  “Replaceable,” Thomas said. “Check it.”

  Thomas worked his fingers in, popped out a silver disk.

  Malachi’s detector squealed. A bright green spot leapt on-screen.

  BrreeeeeEEEEE!

  Griff froze.

  “Transmission!” Malachi said. He shifted to park. Yanked out the keys.

  “It’s off!” Thomas said, fumbling. “I turned it off, I can—let me—”

  Malachi leapt out of the jeep, trained the device on Thomas. Charity.

  “You.”

  Malachi pointed at Griff.

  “Me?”

  “Gimme that bag.”

  Griff handed over his green backpack. Malachi probed the underside and frowned. Retrieved needle-nose pliers from the jeep. He opened the metal jaws and plucked something from the fabric. A green hunk of metal, the size of a cocklebur.

  Griff’s skin went cold.

  “One of ours,” Thomas said. “Maybe you picked it up at the Rat’s Nest.”

  “Crush it,” Griff said.

  Malachi squeezed the pliers. Crunch.

  “Hope that’s not bad,” Malachi said.

  “It’s fine,” Thomas said.

  Maybe it was fine. A tiny green twinkle of data in the vastness of sky and stars. And a moon they somehow shared with Clade City. The blue light from Hydra Camp suddenly reminded him of the sea, and a long walk home. He could almost glimpse the distant figures of Slim and Jonesy.

  Griff squeezed Charity’s hand.

  But this was real, right now. Fingers in his, willing to squeeze back, warm, perfect fingers. He shut his eyes and smelled the air, felt the wind—remembered the most imp
ortant lesson from the Skip. Sing when you can sing. Dance when you can dance.

  You never know how long the song is going to last.

  SIXTY-TWO

  THE GROUP STOPPED PLAYING MUSIC WHEN THEIR CREW ARRIVED at Hydra Camp—just to greet them.

  “Thunderbirds!”

  No one had ever been so happy to see him. Hugs, everywhere. The joy felt real. Natural. Less and less hard to believe. Like the messages of love and welcome were part of a much older story, had been twisted deep in their DNA, inscribed in their bones. If joy was so natural—why not all the time? Like—why no make-out coves?

  Everyone seemed to play music.

  They went for their instruments. Rumblefish with a resonator guitar, Alea with a fiddle, Moondog with a little wooden cajón that looked hand-carved for his small butt. Thomas tested the acoustics and Charity carried her glowing gift in her chest but—nothing here with black and white keys. Not a Casio. Not even an accordion. Griff got a drink from a hand-mosaicked bar, relaxed into a beautiful plush sofa, and watched them play.

  The group covered some of the Band’s songs and played originals and Charity opened up her sweetest, deepest voice. As they played, the whole place felt buoyant. Rocking him back and forth. A smooth, hypnotic glide, and Rumblefish sidled up beside him like a wild pirate boarding his sweet, sleepy ship—

  “What do you play?” he asked.

  Griff sat up straight. “What?”

  “Instrument.”

  The music had stopped. They were looking at him. Smiling.

  “Piano,” Griff said.

  “Is that it?”

  “Yeah,” Griff said. “That’s really it.”

  “Piano,” Rumblefish told the group.

  The vibe changed. A tightening.

  “It’s okay,” Griff said. “I’m sure there’s not a piano in the desert.”

  “No,” Rumblefish said. “There’s one.”

  Rumblefish stood. Cinched up his backpack. “Are you prepared?”

  “Prepared?” Griff asked.

  “Like, how far are you willing to go?”

  “Wait, wait,” Stitch said. “I implore you, Rumble of the Fish, to apply reason. We are deep in the night. Our friends have traveled far and wide for tomorrow night’s show and could be in need of some rest. I’m pretty sure Charity was just sleeping with her eyes open.”

  Charity laughed.

  “So what then?” Rumblefish asked.

  “We Cuddlenap,” Stitch said. The idea seemed to take hold.

  “Pianooooo,” Rumblefish protested through a yawn.

  “Get your nighty-night drinks, people,” Stitch said. “Let’s rally.”

  Curtains opened, people vanished, and others clustered near the bar.

  Griff and Charity stood, staring at each other. Charity smiled.

  “What?” Charity asked.

  Griff beckoned her closer.

  “Did she say Cuddlenap?”

  Charity raised her eyebrows and grabbed his hand.

  SIXTY-THREE

  THE GROUP MADE A PILGRIMAGE TO THE BIG TENT.

  There were dunes in this distant spread of desert. Blue, still waves that sloped up slow and slippery. You lost your steps. Lost time. Like you’d been climbing this dune your whole life. Charity was beside him, sky dress, bright eyes. Her hand brushed his and locked with his fingers and—every time, her skin was a surprise. Every other hand stopped at flesh and bone. To hold hers was to somehow walk in the grasp of the whole sacred world.

  “You’re really here,” he said.

  “You too,” she said.

  How could they be alive here—the facts of their bodies in this place: swinging arms, moving legs, watching eyes, a million strands of hair, skin, teeth in mouths, fingers interlocked in the desert? It was true. His whole life could orbit this moment; a moment worth living a whole life to arrive at and worth living beyond to remember. Charity and the desert.

  The music had been here. Strangers who already felt like old friends. All this had been alive and out in the world the same day he’d considered knots and the strength of a cord to snap his neck.

  Out here, it felt foolish. And small.

  He squeezed her hand.

  “It’s a big world out there,” he said.

  “Even bigger than I thought,” Charity said. “I can’t imagine where this tent might be.”

  No one knew the exact route. Out here, it seemed, everything shifted in the sand, month to month. Night to night. Never the same place twice. Griff’s eyes got heavy. The group talked in a low, soft drone—he learned stories in scraps, pieces.

  Rumblefish claimed to have worked in grease pits from Cincinnati to San Louis Obispo with every breed of the Great North American Asshole. Stitch had run away from home two years ago. Indiana to California. Moondog lived in a trailer in Utah. Alea, San Francisco. They’d all climbed and scraped and fought their way to the desert. Some traveled back and forth, others stayed somehow—then Moondog howled at the top of the next dune.

  There it was.

  A big-top tent with twin white peaks.

  A wooden sign hung near the long, dark slit of an entrance:

  SNOOZEYLOVE

  At just the thought of sleep, the drag of the week settled into Griff’s bones and begged for some soft, quiet collapse. Charity was warm and close against him. Arm around his waist. The word nap drew him toward collapse, then the word cuddle woke him with little electric jolts, bringing him back. The words danced this way, in his brain.

  Cuddle cuddle, nap nap

  “Best part of the desert,” Rumblefish said. He yawned.

  They descended, then passed through the slit of the tent. The smell of straw and sunbaked wood. Lavender. Center poles tall as masts. The canvas turned the light a perfect, liquid blue. Blankets, pillow piles, people. Chests rose and fell. So many.

  The crew removed their shoes.

  Griff looked at the sleeping, breathing bodies. How would he join?

  “Follow me,” Stitch whispered.

  Again, she took him by the hand.

  Charity walked behind him. They worked their way into a gap on a wide, soft cushion. They all nuzzled in, Stitch and Moondog on one side of him, Charity on his other side. When his body found a place to rest, fatigue accumulated like droplets. A steady drip of images. Twirling Charity in the parking lot. His mother’s face. Sunrise in Reno, beside the wild river. The Joshua tree.

  Bodies shifted, making room. Faces softened by moonlight through canvas.

  Stitch moved a cushion beneath Griff’s head. Nuzzling his neck. Charity laid her left hand on his chest. He almost laughed, and didn’t know why. Were they doing this? Sleeping together? He stared at Charity’s hand. Beautiful fingers somehow wanted to touch him. Her leg hooked around his. His eyes, wide open. He’d never lain with another person this way.

  But it was not strange. It was normal and good.

  Like the most human thing he’d ever done.

  It struck him suddenly—that same feeling from the tent. As if they’d unlocked a great secret they’d carried quietly in their hearts since birth. All the minds and all the bodies. They fit together like a puzzle.

  Charity’s eyes closed. Moondog and Rumblefish. They looked young and perfect, like nothing had ever been bad for them. A sharp pang. Griff already missed this. Already not enough. It had just started and was already over too soon.

  He didn’t expect to cry. Or the words that came:

  This Aching Life.

  How to do this again? In his real life—always alone in the hallway, alone at a desk, the on and off buses, a lonely bed, the trapped behind glass, the side by side in cars, the bunker, the glass tower. In Clade City, the world of touch was so small. He could slap backs, fist bump, or fight; he could grab or grope, try something, but here and now—a whole brilliant cosmos of touch, where touch was its own goal. Where did this exist in his life?

  This Aching Life!

  Please don’t let this be over. Please don’t
let this be done. He was trembling. So thirsty for this. Wanting, the way cracked earth aches for rain. Could he still accept it? His body was shy, the way soil dry for too long becomes hydrophobic, forgets the taste of water and cannot drink—

  The tent hummed.

  Of course. Because the heart beats electric. The mind thinks electric. The whole body sings. We, the transmitters. We, the receivers.

  The reason a parent holds their child close. The head on the chest. The beat of the heart. The oldest poetry our bodies still remember. The song we all ache for:

  You are loved. You belong.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  HAMMERS.

  The ticktock woodpecker sound of nails being driven into wood. When Griff woke in the tent, the carnival was going up all around him. Charity was gone. Thomas was gone.

  Ticktock, ticktock, ticktock.

  Clusters of people under blankets. Tangles of threesomes and foursomes and twelvesomes but plenty of space to walk now. He found his shoes near the door. He pulled back the canvas flap to a sliver of sunlight. It fell across his face like a gentle thump.

  Hot.

  Griff stepped out to a rush of sound and dust. Bold blue sky, stark white ground. Tents speckled the alkali. Red, green, blue, orange, yellow. A motorcycle raced by, dragging dust. The driver in plumage, like a green parakeet. A shirtless team hauled an old, desiccated tree across the sand. A man on a tiny collapsible bicycle with massive tan legs. A small team in space suits. Everywhere, people were building. Knocking, drilling, stitching things together.

  He wanted to find Charity, Thomas, join in somehow—

  A fleet of dune buggies!

  Massive engines and shifters in steel skeletons, mechanical little cockroaches. Piloted by muscle-bound men with little clothing. Out front, a man in a cowboy hat hauling a flatbed trailer and on the flatbed, pouncing from the world of dust—

  “No,” Griff whispered.

  A grand piano. Red. Was that a Steinway? He squinted. Mashed his eyes and it was still there—traveling fast. He watched. Walked. Ran after it. The buggies were heading toward what looked like the Paths, hard to tell. He raced through people, sculptures. A two-story hourglass with a ladder and a bucket, a lion with the head of an eagle, and—fleeing piano! The white grit seemed to ignite in his lungs but he had to track the dust, the great, crushing wave pluming out behind the buggies—it looked like—