“I don't think we covered him. What did he do?”
“He had millions of people killed. Jewish people mostly. Anyone who wasn't a certain ideal type. He convinced everyone to help him do this with propaganda and charisma.”
I'm incredulous. “How could he get away with that? I can't imagine people allowing that to happen on such a large scale. Are you sure that's true?”
“I found it in the fiction section, but I'm pretty sure it's true. My grandfather mentioned him once, he said we weren't being taught things anymore, things we should know.”
I wonder about this. What weren't we taught? Growing up, our classes were rigorous and challenging. The majority of people in the country followed a mandated curriculum put together by the finest minds in education. Especially bright children entered a track geared towards advanced studies for predetermined jobs. Even though Dr. M is a bit older than me, I assume he was one of those bright children. I go through the subjects we learned, try to find something missing, but nothing seems amiss. Mathematics. Grammar. Music. Foreign Languages. Horticulture. Civics and Citizenry. Animals. Astronomy. Art. Fitness. World Religions. Geography and Geology. Evolution. Archaeology. Basic Computing. World Events and Wars. Biology. Literature. Vocabulary. I liked biology and art the most.
Each subject focused mostly on modern advances, up-to-date knowledge and current stories with the exception of biology, art and archaeology, which included evolution and prehistoric animal knowledge. I remember a boy in high school who once asked why we didn't learn more things from the past. I remember because it was such an odd question, something I had never thought of before. Some students listened alertly for the answer, and others goofed off. The teacher calmly told us that learning about modern thinking helped us learn best how to thrive in the modern world, that the past was too different from the present to learn anything from it.
“There was a resistance movement called The White Rose Resistance. I read about it last year. They refused to go along with him, even when they were jailed and tortured.”
I nod my head for him to continue.
“They were young students who told people that Hitler was wrong. And some of them were eventually killed.”
What did it feel like to go against the pack. I shudder. It's one thing to think thoughts others may not think or agree with, it's quite another to show that through your actions. How would I withstand that kind of pressure? How would Jamie stand under any kind of pressure. How does someone deal with turmoil when they've never encountered it before? Would he crack? Or would he take it in stride, like he always does? Is his foundation fragile.
It's hard to know what you're made of if you've never been forced to search for a resolve within yourself, that hardened, arctic land that refuses to give way. The truth and beauty of a delicate, white rose.
“It's all so sad...” My voice falters, leaving tenuous trails of unsaid observations hanging in the air. He looks off into the distance, lost in his own thoughts.
“Let's go to bed...” I say as I close the book in his hands. It's too somber for me to think of while in his warm, cozy arms. I only want to dream and float away into the nexus between us where it is safe and caring and soft. My haven from horrors. And I never want to let go.
“Why do you wear this mask?” I point to his mask, the old one that only covers his nose and mouth. Like mine.
“Why not?”
“You can afford a better one that covers your whole head.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Why not?”
“Well... why should I when the poor can't afford one. That's why I don't upgrade.”
I feel slightly defensive and wounded. I am poor. My family is. It's something I think lots about, but don't discuss with anyone. I don't like someone pointing out how the poor live.
And I'm shocked he would take his trip to the ghetto this far. Of course he doesn't know just how bad the dust is, but most rich people are extra cautious and do everything they can to minimize their exposure. Maybe they even have an inkling of how dangerous it really is. The poor purchase masks at their low price point as they're fed government lines about how the dust only affects the lungs of people who don't use a mask, that the eyes are protected because of its natural tears and mucus. That skin corrodes over long periods of time but minimal exposure is OK. And perhaps the poor even believe those lines because they don't have much control over their ability to purchase heavy-duty masks. Blind belief serves as a rationalization, a way to avoid fear. And to be honest, there's also the fact that a small group of us are just not very bright, they are easily duped, like animals led to slaughter.
“I don't know how to feel about that... I'm poor, my family is.”
He looks at me quizzically.
I continue, “I don't know if I should be happy you're trying to be one of us or mad that you're not buying a mask most of us would kill for.” Somehow it feels a tad insulting. Perhaps I'm too defensive, but it feels like I am a “type” and someone is trying to mimic my type. I'm confused, trapped sticky in the honey of self-consciousness, insecurity and unease. A mounting uneasy fear.
“I would think people would like someone from higher up sympathizing...”
“It's just that it feels like mimicking, no one likes to be mimicked. It doesn't feel real or true,” I pause. “Or maybe I'm just feeling insecure about it...”
“I have good intentions. I'm not trying to make anyone feel less than. Being poor isn't something to be ashamed about.”
“I'm not ashamed, it just feels odd... I don't know whether to feel proud you're with us or like you're being too extreme to your own detriment.”
He doesn't understand that it's not shame per se. That it's him looking down on us, changing himself to lower down to our level instead of being himself at our level. It's a small distinction that upon closer inspection reveals a chasm between us he'll never see or understand because he's never been lower than anyone in a real sense. He doesn't know what it feels like to carry heavy, make-or-break burdens, to never have that rarified gem within you see the light of day.
I'm a bit bothered, but I don't hold it against him. He just doesn't know, and maybe I'm a little too sensitive.
I lean in close and make him look at me to emphasize the importance of what I'm going to say. “Trust me on this, you need to get a good mask, one that is air-tight. Trust me on this. It's really important.” It's my way of telling him what I know without actually telling.
He's surprised by how serious I am, can't argue. “OK, I will.”
He has secrets. Behind all the light, there's a side I don't know. I know he cares for me so I assume it isn't anything hurtful to me, but I just have no idea.
Sometimes when we're together he receives a message or a call, and then he leaves soon after. I assume to meet or talk to whoever he spoke to. If we're at his place, he'll leave for an hour or so and I wait, occupy myself. And when he returns, we resume spending time together. He always says he had to do something for his family. He looks away, and it's as if the sun sets over his face. A solar eclipse. This ends the questioning. I don't push it because I want to give him space. I don't want to be the woman who pushes and tries to snake herself into every corner of a man's life. I want him to share his life with me because he wants to, not because I infested it with my presence. I also don't want to rock the boat, doing so could spill things over. It may be sad to say, but I've become... attached to him in the way love means you can't live without someone. I don't care that it might seem pathetic or unintelligent. It just is. We've created our own solar system, and I revolve around him. I don't know if he revolves around me too, we haven't said those words yet.
Could he be a drug dealer? Involved in some sort of illicit black market trade? Or is it really an errand for his parents? Who or what is he so devoted to? Am I some sort of naïve hopeful trying to hide from a world of pain? The one who ignores the red flags.
And there's the second bedroom. It's alw
ays closed when I visit. When he gave me a tour of the place he ignored that room. He mumbled that it was a storage room for his grandparents. I knew that was a lie because of how he blushed and looked past me when he said it. I said nothing.
The other day, I was drawn to the second bedroom's door when he was in the bathroom taking a shower. I admired the beauty of its markings, the white, elegant, triangular ridges repeating over and over its entire surface. The aged brass handle longer than my forearm signifying a certain level of grandeur. The elaborate, white moldings framing the door in a royal aesthetic. Of olden days when those things mattered, when passage through these doorways hallmarked a memorable entrance. I found myself a few inches from the door, examining the pyramids covering its moonscape, my fingers falling into each valley, feeling the bone-smooth, sanded surface. I tried to push the door open and found it locked. Pushed again when I heard him ask from behind, what are you doing?
I jumped back and my hand flew away as if it had touched a fiery branding iron. I didn't mean to, I stuttered. I was admiring the door when curiosity got the best of me, I'm sorry... I know that's private... You don't want me in there.
He sized me up as he stood with a fluffy, luxurious towel wrapped around his waist. Tried to see through me, find me. He saw something or came to a realization before turning to walk into the bedroom, leaving wet, pearly footprints on the polished wood floor. I froze, didn't know whether to follow him or stay where I was. I waited as I pondered, felt at a loss for words, wishing this were all a bad dream. Eventually, I entered the bedroom and told him I was sorry. He pulled on his shirt and said it was nothing. I said I had to go and take care of my mother so I would see him some other time. He understood, didn't fight me on that as I searched his face for clues of love or a likeness of it. I only found a certain distance, a moat of emotional space widening. A wall going up and his eyes dimming. My signals were refused entry. I slipped away, guilty for not respecting his boundaries, scared of losing our seeds of trust. I loathed myself for seeming like the sneaky, poor person.
DYING FISH THAT THRASH
This body is a young male in his twenties, Caucasian with a shaved head, lean yet muscular with a large frame. Like a gladiator, an athlete or a laborer.
The burned area on the left side of his face is blackened tar, the flesh underneath oozes with pus and remains supple. His death is fresh.
At first glance, he looks to be in good or decent health other than the burn. There are no other wounds on the exterior, however there is a small tattoo on the right hip area, in the shallow sinking near the hip bone. The wine-colored, triangle tattoo houses an abstract, geometric design with the number 21 in the center. What do these tattoos mean? Tattoos represent meaning and decoration. They tell stories about yourself, what you aspire to. But these are unreadable, an emblem or logo only known by certain people. Is it a secret allegiance to a group? What kind of group? And how did his face get burned? There are no singe marks on his hands, which is odd. Wouldn't you bring your hands to your face if your face were on fire? Unless his face was burned after his death, but why would that happen?
His hands and feet are baby skin soft so he must not have been a laborer. They are hands that have never known hard work, someone from a cushioned life, like Jamie.
When he's opened up, we see healthy, primed organs, muscles and innards. Nothing has been affected by our atmosphere. How did he die if everything about him is a perfect specimen? A perfect man any woman would be happy to settle down with, at least physically. Dr. M says he died of heart failure, and he also points out that the lungs are quite small. When I look closer, I notice it. The lungs are seventy five percent of the size they should be and when sliced I can see that its branches are quite fine, more than usual. This man must've had to catch his breath often. I imagine him jogging on a treadmill then having to stop when he's out of breath, hyperventilating to capture more air, like dying fish that thrash from side to side as they try to inhale water.
Dr. M has returned to his usual demeanor, distant and mysterious. Clinical. Should I reach out to him somehow without being seen by the video camera and whoever watches behind it? Perhaps I should find a way to say something. I could ask questions, the ones I ask myself as we dissect these bodies. Perhaps I could ask what 138 means. But I'm at a loss for what or how to say anything these days. To Dr. M and to Jamie. When mother asks how I am, I say I'm OK and I shut myself away while wishing I could spiral into a black hole. I've lost my voice... did I ever even have one? Dust has collected in my thoughts, overcome my clarity. Years ago, I used to know what to do all the time, the best way to handle and say things, but now everything floats homeless in my mind, a planet of the nebulous, shaded and polluted. My actions plod in slow-motion pantomimes.
Something catches my eye as I push the blue button for the body to be taken away. The man's profile is prominent, distinctive. It's like a million faces I've seen before, but then again not. He's handsome in his own way. The high, chiseled cheekbones make him haughty and elitist. Someone you like to watch. Someone who has a secret about how the world works. That is all. I watch as the table is pulled away by an automated pulley, as he glides into the black, to the next dock.
PULSE
I reach for his face in the dim room, feel his soft stubble and rounded cheek in the curve of my palm. The light behind him crowns his head, making his shadowed face undefinable.
“I'm sorry,” I say, laying back on his couch.
He takes my hand and kisses the knuckles, then the inside of my thin wrist. It's been a few weeks, but it feels like an eternity. I drink in the sensation through my skin, through my drought.
“I won't do it again, I shouldn't have...” It's all I have to offer.
He draws me in, comes close to my face. “Listen,” he says quietly, “I understand. I'm not telling you everything and you want to know. I saw you standing there and I knew I had to tell you if I wanted to keep you. But it has to wait. There are reasons I don't want to involve you. I have my reasons. I'm asking you to trust me.” He looks deeply into my eyes, unblinking, straight as an arrow into me.
I nod my head as I weigh what he's said. In truth, I would wait forever.
I begin quietly, “I need to know something... Or I need to tell you something... I don't want to be used. I don't want to be the one you slum around with before you go back to your parent's life. So, if you're just having fun, I'd rather it not be with me,” I pause and rethink what I've said before continuing. “I don't mean to say that this is forever or anything, just that I don't want to be used because it's fun to be with someone your family wouldn't necessarily want for you.” That's my stance. The red line I've drawn to denote the boundaries of my self-respect.
“It's never been about that,” he says with a pained grimace. And I realize this fear of mine may have been projected onto him. That maybe I haven't seen him with one hundred percent clarity as he has me. The filters of prestige and elitism mixed with my insecurities over my poor family were unfairly applied to him.
I search the landscape of his face and find that subterranean, settled knowing in the tunnel of his blue eyes. I feel that centered resolve I wondered about. And I know he's all true.
A breath and another.
I breathe him in.
I look down and hold.
I hug him close and we kiss as the world spins round and round, as if we were the axis of a crazed world ready to topple over. That veritable core. He leads me by the hand to the bedroom and I follow, my heart pounding, nerves ready to fray in a split second. We search for each other in the black room, through touch, through the night and unspoken. The blind leading the blind through a wormhole. His body smells of salt and pepper, water and wind. His touch and kisses alternate, tentative and gentle then hungry. Tender and consuming. I want, want, want. Fall deeper and deeper into a fever dream swimming with everything and nothing, all thought obliterating, burning into a red-hot pulse.
LIKE AN ANIMAL
We board
the sleek, reflective ship hand in hand. When I asked Dr. M for two days off, he hesitated, raised an eye and finally nodded his consent. I know he wondered what I would do.
I've never been to a pod, have only read about them, a dream floating high in the sky. Jamie vacations there once a year with his parents so he's excited to show it to me. From what I've read, there isn't much to do on the pods due to their small size. It's just a relaxing place to vacation. The ship rises slowly, then hovers for a few seconds before zooming off into the heavens. Under dim lights, we lie on our backs on shallow, white beds, me on one level and him on the level below me. Soothing music with harps and calming synth melodies plays softly. We are to sleep or rest during the five-hour trip. Towards the end, the overhead lights dawn ever so slowly, and a soft voice overhead tells us we are approaching. It is all so effortless, so pleasant. It is the true meaning of luxury, no struggle whatsoever involved. I think there would be riots if the masses knew how lovely it was. We've been told that while the pods are bountiful with beautiful resorts, the trip there is bothersome and the flights are bumpy and fearsome. I don't know anyone who's been to the pod. No one in the lower and middle classes do. Even the upper middle classes and the rich. It's astronomically expensive, reserved for the ultra-rich, and thus a mystique surrounds it. I believe the ultra-rich tell people how uncomfortable and dangerous the trip is to keep the peace. Everyone struggles so much to just survive.
We are driven to our hotel, which is a tropical bungalow with a thatched roof sitting next to the man-made sea. Emerald green palms surround the bungalow, swaying and rustling quietly in the breeze. I throw open the windows to view the wide expanse of blue water and endless sky, breathe in the salty air laced with hints of seaweed. My eyes tear as I think of my mother, how she would've loved to smell this. It is her favorite scent to buy. My heart sinks, fills with an awful sense of guilt at leaving her behind for the weekend. She shooed me away when I told her I wouldn't go. She made me promise to go, packed a bag for me, told me to tell her stories when I returned. A sadness balloons in my gut. She may never see the sea again in her lifetime.
Free Beast Page 5