The End of FUN

by Sean McGinty

  The reason my grandpa called me smart was because I helped him solve this puzzle he was working on. He was always working on these puzzle books, and most of them were way over my head, but this one he happened to be doing…for whatever reason the answer was just instantly obvious to me. I took the pencil and filled in the blanks. Grandpa looked at the puzzle and cocked his head and was like, “Not bad, kid. You’re smart.”

  After he told me that, I got it in my head that I was smart, and this was both good and bad. Good because after that, other than my anger issues, school was a breeze. School really is easy if you believe you’re smarter than it. Bad because I also ended up thinking I was a secret genius all the time, even when making—as I have thus far chronicled—some very what might be called questionable decisions.

  The reason my grandfather called me the stupidest person ever to walk the earth was because I left a shotgun out in the rain. He didn’t actually call me the stupidest person, but the way he said what he said, you could tell that’s exactly what he meant. And I felt it. Though, it’s funny that I would believe anything my grandpa said—he was pretty crazy.

  I really only have one summer to judge off of—that was the only time I ever spent any real time with him. It was the summer I was 10, the summer after the winter Mom left, which was also the winter I tried to kill myself, and the winter Dad started drinking again. I mean seriously drinking. By summer he needed some time to sort himself out. The plan was for me and Evie to stay with Grandpa, but at the last second I was betrayed. Evie had this friend, Sam Latham, whose family had invited her on a Mormon vacation to Moab.

  Well, no one ever said no to Evie. So then it was just me and Grandpa.

  He was a big, mean-looking man with a hawk nose, leather skin, and a cigarette forever in his hand. Seriously. You could have walked in on him in the middle of the night and I bet he’d be lying there with a cigarette, puffing away in his sleep. He smoked this weird store brand, Valiant 100s.

  I didn’t know much about him. Apparently he’d worked thirty years as a slot machine repairman, hating every minute of it, and when it all went digital he got laid off. But he never really talked about any of that. When he talked—if he talked—it was mainly about government conspiracies and other things I didn’t care about.

  Other than that, he mainly just did his puzzle books. Like all the time. He tried to get me interested, but I couldn’t get into them. They were either over my head or just plain boring. I mostly stayed in the spare bedroom and played video games. He gave it a try once—I let him be Player 2 on A Boy & His Robot. (YAY! Best. Console. Game. Ever.) But Gramps sucked. Every time it was his turn he’d take about two steps and run into a cactus or get eaten by a snatchplant or fall off a cliff—until finally I couldn’t take it anymore.

  I grabbed his controller and speedran the first level for him, but of course I couldn’t stop there, and pretty soon I was going all the way to Level 8, LavaLand, where even the most expert gamer is bound to die once or twice in a fire geyser. When at long last I finally succumbed to the flames, Grandpa only had this to say: “Know what that is? Nothing but a fancy slot machine.”

  He gave me a book to read, True Tales of Buried Treasure by Edward Rowe Snow. There was this weird chubby kid on the cover, and it looked unspeakably lame. I gathered he’d read it when he was a kid or something.

  And seriously: What tales, true or not—written in a book—could compete with a multilevel interdimensional quest to collect the lost fragments of Robotopia, destroy the evil Fester Cloud, and free all the Sparkles of Joy?

  But so then one day my grandpa showed up at the bedroom door with something else. Not a book. Not some crosswords. A gun. An actual, real-life gun.

  “Come on. Let’s go for a walk.”

  I pressed pause and followed him outside. His place was all by itself five miles out of town—a 90-acre rectangle of sagebrush and cheatgrass, with train tracks running along the southern end. It was a pretty desolate spread, all right. There was only one tree to speak of—a wilted, gnarly Russian olive out by the tracks. That’s where we ended up.

  There were all these birds in the tree, black shadows darting among the branches. For a long time my grandpa didn’t say anything. We just stood there under the rustle of birds. I was starting to get antsy. What were we going to do with the gun?

  “They want to cut it down, you know.”

  “The tree? Who does?”

  “Them.” He blew a cloud of smoke into the air. “Rats. Human rats. The same ones who built the power lines that gave your grandma cancer. The same ones who imported the birds. And this,” he said, “is a .410 shotgun. The only rule is never point it at a human being or anything else you don’t want killed. Got it?”

  He lit another cigarette, put the gun to his shoulder, aimed at the tree, and fired.

  BLAM!

  A dark cloud of birds shot up into the sky, wheeled around, circled us a couple times, then settled in the tree again.

  “Those are starlings. Intruders smuggled from Europe by human rats. I’ll give you a quarter for every one you kill. But see that bird there? That’s a blackbird. Do NOT kill any blackbirds.”

  This was before the Avis Mortem, of course, before people started wondering if we’d have any birds left at all—but even back then at age 10 it was like, Why would I want to kill a bird? What did it ever do to me? And for twenty-five cents a pop? Math will tell you that’s four birds per dollar. Math will tell you in order to make any real money I was going to have a literal bloodbath on my hands. There was this, too: What was the difference between starlings, which were black, and blackbirds, which were also black?

  I still wanted to shoot that gun, though.

  So when he handed it to me, I put the butt against my shoulder like he showed me, and I aimed above the tree, closed my eyes, and squeezed the trigger.

  BLAM!

  The kick was a lot harder than I expected, like being punched in the shoulder. When I opened my eyes, the birds were circling overhead.

  “Missed. You need to hold it tighter to your shoulder.”

  But this time the birds didn’t come back. The cloud drifted eastward like smoke in the sky, settling finally at the far end of his property.

  “Looks like you’re going to have to chase them.”

  My grandpa sent me off after the birds, and looking back on it now I have to question the wisdom of sending a 10-year-old—who had recently attempted suicide—alone into the brush with a loaded shotgun and a pocket full of shells. Talk about trust. But the truth is by that point I wasn’t interested in ending my life—or the life of any birds, either. Clouds were gathering for a thunderstorm, and the air had that kind of jumpy feel to it, like anything could happen.

  I ended up on the other side of the train tracks, in the hills beyond the property. The road led to this desert junk dump, the centerpiece of which was an ancient, rusted-out car with tail fins and round holes where the headlights used to be. Just a metal shell. Doors spattered with bullet holes. Broken glass everywhere. Like the aftermath of some terrible last stand. Perfect for target practice.

  BLAM!, reload, BLAM!, reload, BLAM!—I painted it in wide sprays of birdshot, adding my signature to the rest. But then, as I was aiming at a rust spot on the fender, something caught my eye.

  There was this bird. This little bird. Off to the side, perched on top of a sagebrush. Not a starling or a blackbird—something else. Like a sparrow maybe—but yellow. This little yellow bird, chirping its song into the afternoon. YAY! for the little yellow bird. Next thing I knew, I was looking at it down the barrel of the shotgun. I held it in my sights. Tiny yellow body hovering at the end of my barrel.

  And then, I couldn’t tell you why, I pulled the trigger.

  (BLAM!)

  When I opened my eyes, the bird had disappeared like some kind of magic trick. I walked over to where it had been. And then I saw it. Yellow fluttering in the brush. I’d winged it. I chased after the bird. What was I gonna do if I caugh
t it? How, in the middle of the desert with only a shotgun and a pocket full of shells, do you repair a broken wing? It didn’t matter. Every time I got close, the bird flopped just out of reach, throwing itself around like it was on fire.

  And then the bird gave up. It just stopped and sat there on the ground. I walked up to it. It didn’t move. It just sat there, looking up at me with a single dark eye. It was breathing real fast.

  I looked down at the bird.

  The bird looked up at me.

  And it’s hard to explain, but for a moment I was right there with the bird, lost in that dark tunnel between us…and it was just—darkness. Terrifying. The bird was dying. It was headed to the other side, and it knew it, and I knew it, too. I began to feel like if I looked at it any longer, that bird was going to reach out with its eye and pull me into the darkness, through the window of a bird’s eye into the world of the dead.

  And that’s why I ran. That, and it was really starting to rain. Just pouring down from the sky. I turned around and booked it.

  Grandpa was waiting for me on the porch.

  “You got soaked,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “How much I owe you?”

  “Nothing.”

  He eyed me, kind of curious, like he was trying to figure me out. “Where’s the gun?”

  Right. In my terror I’d completely forgotten about it.

  That’s when he looked at me like I was the stupidest person ever to walk the earth.

  “Never leave a shotgun out in the rain,” he said.

  So back I went.

  Already the storm was starting to pass. The sun had dropped below the clouds, and every sagebrush cast a long shadow, and it was beautiful, but all I could think about was that little yellow bird lying out there in the rain. It was nearly dark when I finally located the gun. As for the bird—I didn’t see it anywhere. Not in the brush, not on the ground, not anywhere.

  That bird was just gone.

  The train pulled into Antello a half hour early—a first for Amtrak in my experience. I was the only one who got off, and the station was empty. Not really a station. More like a bus stop, with a small Plexiglas awning, some warning signs, and a single plastic bench with a good view of the power lines. I sat down, waited for my sister to show, and started to twitch.

  One of the things they don’t tell you when you start having FUN® is the part about the twitches. What happens is you get so used to waving your hands around selecting bonuses or whatever that after a while your body starts to have these jerky nerve reactions. Like, you’ll just be sitting there and suddenly your hand will shoot up out of nowhere and start waving around.

  So I purchased a smókz™.

  YAY! for smókz™, cancer-free virtual soothing cigarettes, the best solution for the twitches. The only problem is they cost so much FUN®. But at least they give you something to do with your hands. And the exhale is worth it. The virtual smoke turns into a rainbow or a unicorn or an advertisement for new Hydroburst™ Fruit Bites or whatever, so that’s cool.

  I smoked my smókz™. It was freezing out there. Maybe my hands were just twitching because of the cold. When I exhaled, a cloud of miniature lambs appeared and mixed with the fog of my real breath and sang to me about new Lambsoft® acne concealer—and then Homie™ popped up.

  > what up original boy_2?

  u have 8 new message(s)!

  Eight? We’d passed through a no-signal zone outside Lovelock, and I’d missed them, all eight—one from my dad and the other seven from Evie.

  Here’s how they went:

  In the first message Evie said she was sick. She wasn’t sure what it was, but she felt like crap and she was afraid it might be contagious. In the second message she gave me the symptoms, which included nausea, congestion, fever, fatigue, and itchiness. In her third message she restated the main points of the first two messages, coughing now and again for effect, suggesting that instead of risking deadly infection at her place, maybe I should crash with Dad. In her fourth message she said she’d thought about it some more and she was sure that’s what I should do. In her fifth and sixth messages she told me to call her as soon as I got her message(s).

  In her seventh message she just coughed and hung up.

  Typical. First of all, my sister was and is a flaming hypochondriac. Autoimmune disorders, vitamin deficiencies, tropical diseases—you name it, she’s had it. And always at the most opportune times. Like how she got shingles from the German foreign exchange student during fitness week. Or the time she came down with the flu right in the middle of summer, just before swim lessons started.

  Second of all, she was always trying to play peacemaker between Dad and me. Maybe she’d set me up—because in his message, Dad told me Evie was sick and offered me a place to stay.

  So I sent a message to Evie:

  original boy_2: hey evie no prob i’m on my way to dads

  And then I sent the same thing to my dad, only with the names switched around.

  What I thought I’d do was crash with my friend Oso instead. But when I called him, no one answered. Straight to voice mail. So I left a message. And then I started walking.

  Maybe I’d get a room. Why not treat myself? I deserved it, right? But the train depot was conveniently located at the end of town, pretty much as far from any hotel as possible while still being within city limits. Homie™ suggested I head for the Western Inn by Walmart, but I checked it out on SleepHunt® and the price was ridiculous, so I headed downtown. Which is how I ended up at the King Cowboy hotel and casino (YAY!).

  Its glory days were long over, but the King Cowboy still had that crazy casino feel—a jangly labyrinth of lights, mirrors, and games. A thousand chances to win or lose. Grandpa told me that whenever a machine paid out too often or too much, it was his job to “fix” it. Tonight the casino was mostly empty, and no one was winning as far as I could see. As I wandered around looking for the reception desk, I had a funny thought: maybe he was still here in spirit, Grandpa, flitting from machine to machine like a bad luck fairy, dropping the odds by factors of 10.

  The price for a room was crazy cheap, so that was good, and they didn’t check my age, and that was good, too. The lady swiped my eyes, then gave me a key card and a paper map with room 308 circled on it. It was on the top floor, and I swear I was the only one up there. The room was small and smelly and appeared to have been furnished from items stolen from other motels…but the hot water worked, and for a4,999.98 what more could you expect?

  After the train ride and motel search I was ready to crash. But first I had to YAY! SleepHunt®, and after that I took a shower, and when I was done I realized how hungry I was. When was the last time I’d eaten? I got dressed and went down to the casino again. The coffee shop was closed for renovations, but there was a Mexican-themed restaurant/bar at the other end. (YAY! for Lucky Pedro’s.)

  The sign said SEAT YOURSELF, so I did. I took a seat on a padded barstool, lit a smókz™, and turned my attention to the wall behind the bar. It was one of those birthday walls, the ones where if it’s your birthday they come out with a big sombrero, plop it on your head, and take a picture. Everyone up there was smiling, having the time of their lives in their sombreros—almost everyone anyway. There were a few who you could tell weren’t too thrilled about the situation. Glaring at the camera like: Just take the effin’ picture already.

  Anyway, I was checking out the wall, and next thing you know, the bartender’s all in my face.

  “Hey, pal, I’m gonna need to see some ID.”

  “OK. Hold on.” I brought up my burner account, the one that says I’m 22.

  But the guy wasn’t having it.

  “Actual, legit, government-issued photo ID. None of this virtual BS. If I don’t see an ID, you don’t drink. Got it?”

  “What kind of place can’t check a virtual ID?”

  “This kind of place, buddy. And if you aren’t twenty-one, you can’t sit at the bar.”

  “But I am twent
y-one. Twenty-two, actually.”

  I gave him the rundown. I was Arnold Hamilton from Uniontown, PA. Age: 22. Birthday: August 1. Height 6′2″. Eyes: brown. Hair: brown. Willing to donate organs in case of death.

  The dude wasn’t having it.

  “You can sit at a table and drink a soda pop, Arnold.”

  So that’s what I did—but not after putting in an order for some nachos.

  “And easy on the onions,” I said, just to have the last word.

  I sat down at a table just as this girl walked in—or more like a woman. Like in her twenties, maybe.

  “Blake,” she said. “How long is the coffee shop closed for?”

  The bartender considered her for a long moment. “How should I know?” he said at last.

  “Because you work here.”

  “I work…here,” he said. “Lucky Pedro’s. I do not work at the coffee shop.”

  The woman adjusted the bag on her shoulder. She was wearing a long gray skirt and this puffy gray sweater with red stitching.

  “Do you or do you not serve coffee?” she said at last.

  “Yeah, we serve coffee.”

  “I will have one coffee, then. Thank you.”

  The woman sat at a table in the far corner to read a book. The bartender poured a cup of coffee and set it on the bar. He wasn’t gonna bring it to her. But the woman wasn’t gonna look up from her book, either. It was a Mexican standoff. Meanwhile, the coffee was just sitting there getting cold. And a little voice in my head was like, Dude, you should bring her that coffee. And another voice was like,

  > what up original boy_2?

  u r a FAIL!

  u seem maybe agitated?

  “Homie™,” I whispered, “what’s her username?”

  Homie™ blinked.