Blip’s voice-mail service answered again, and to my great surprise and relief, the recording had been changed. He now spoke with a great absence of effort, disregarding any impulse to hide his profound amusement, and I could hear Sophia’s hysterical laughter snorting occasionally in the background.
“Ho there, O wanderer of the wasteland,” Blip spoke loud and brazen, as if he were a medieval wisenheimer guarding the portal to some magical forest. “Do you want your questions answered or your answers questioned? What’s going on is the question. What’s going on is the answer. An answerable question yields a questionable answer. Such is the state of things, good friend. Feel no distress for my condition; forgiveness is as assured as sunrise. Your only penance is this: Write down what has happened. Leave a record of the past. It is no more, and deserves a last hurrah. And don’t break up the festivities, man. History is spent. Peace and absurdity, old friend. If I don’t see you soon, I’ll see you soon after that.”
Puzzled by his apparent glee, I didn’t leave a message, but instead called back immediately to listen again, this time jotting down what he said on some toilet paper. Just as I finished, a sharp rap came at the door, followed by the sharper voice of General Kiljoy.
“Hey Fountain! Shit or get off the pot, you know?”
Startled but not panicked, I coughed loudly, simultaneously disconnecting the phone and shutting off the water in the sink. “Just a minute,” I answered delicately, echoing the standard alibi of toilet tête-à-tête.
“Did you fall in?” General Kiljoy tossed another bathroom banality at me.
“No,” I called out needlessly, pocketing the phone, pen, and paper, and scanning around for any other evidence. Satisfied, I boldly opened the door to greet him.
“False alarm?” he asked, a demented grin on his face.
“Excuse me?”
“This bathroom affords little privacy, I’m afraid. The pipes run past the lounge, and they carry sound very well, so we can hear toilet sounds through them. Miss Mary refuses to even use the bathroom, and was going to have the plumbing rerouted next week, but who knows now, right?”
I nodded noncommittally, and he continued: “You’ve been to the bathroom twice since we got back down here.”
“Alcohol,” I reminded him, feeling my eyelid twitch in panicky guilt.
“Doubtful.” His hands strayed to his pockets. “And you don’t have any prostrate problems. I’ve read your file.”
“I don’t understand,” I replied, surprised that one of my glands had turned up in conversation.
“That was a powerfully pathetic excuse for a piss just now, wasn’t it? We all heard it. Who do you think you’re kidding?”
“I didn’t realize I had an audience.”
“The Armed Forces Code of Conduct requires that you begin planning an escape the moment you are captured.” Deranged dimples collapsed into his cheeks like sinkholes over a landfill. “This situation is not interested in the sound of your urination.” He drew close to me, his breath smelling like a recent shot of whiskey. “This situation is only concerned about your safety. This situation can’t take any chances with you.” He paused and leaned in closer. “You’ve got the look, Fountain. I’ve seen it before.”
“You think I’m trying to escape in the bathroom?”
“Suicide.” He stood upright and cracked his knuckles. “I told you I read faces. If you try it, I guarantee I’ll save your life, just so I can cut off every one of your fingers and toes.”
“I’m not suicidal,” I assured him and my digits.
“Maybe not, but something’s suspicious.” He eyed me and winked, then slapped me on the shoulder. “You jackin’ off in there?”
“What?” I recoiled, then thought better of it and pushed past him.
He laughed loudly from the bathroom behind me. “I’d rather you jack yourself off than off yourself, Jack!”
105 In my absence, Tynee had located emergency food rations consisting of peanut butter that tasted like sawdust paste and cheese product that looked like frozen phlegm. The provisions were several years old, I was informed after I’d tasted some peanut butter. Hungry as I was, I declined a sample of the cheese.
“Doctor, do you have any cigarettes?” Miss Mary addressed me from the sofa, where she sat rummaging through her handbag.
“Sorry,” I replied. This agitated her greatly, and she dumped the contents of her bag on the cushions next to her.
“Tibor, are there cigarettes in the emergency supplies?” she asked as she picked through her possessions.
“Not likely,” he responded. Before Miss Mary could react, the crash of General Kiljoy flinging open the bathroom door echoed from the side hallway.
“Fountain!” he snarled as he stormed into the room. “The hand dryer!”
I faced him in silence, figuring it was best to keep my mouth shut until I knew what was happening. Tynee, Miss Mary, and the dogs looked back and forth from him to me in bewilderment.
General Kiljoy forced my hand. “Tell me about the hand dryer.”
“I didn’t vandalize it,” I answered, feeling like I was bluffing.
“That’s not the issue.” General Kiljoy poured himself another shot.
“What’s happened to the hand dryer?” Tynee asked.
“Not the point,” he croaked after taking his shot. “You never used the hand dryer. I never heard it. I heard the faucet running, I heard it running a long time, but no hand dryer. Don’t you think that’s a little curious?” He put his hands in his pockets, satisfied with his detective work, and began twirling his tamale.
“I wiped my hands on my pants,” I attempted.
“Maybe.” He crossed the room in one stride and before I knew what was happening he was manhandling the front of my trousers, giving me monkey bites all over my thighs and causing Meeko to bark at him. “Doesn’t feel like it, though.” He spoke over Meeko’s show of ferocity, standing square in front of me. “Why were you running the faucet so long?”
I backed away and massaged my smarting quadriceps. I felt Miss Mary’s remote control in my pocket, and could not believe General Kiljoy hadn’t noticed it.
“What the hell is going on, General?” Tynee demanded.
“Our good doctor was whackin’ off in the bathroom, isn’t that right?”
“No,” I responded instinctively as I tried to calm Meeko.
“I didn’t think so.” General Kiljoy paused, eyeing me malevolently as he wandered over to the sofa where the contents of Miss Mary’s handbag were strewn about. “Where’s your remote control?” he asked her offhandedly while flipping his flounder.
Miss Mary looked over her belongings. She let loose a belligerent cry like the cork off a bottle of cheap champagne, unsealing my secret and flinging it about the room like a tipsy bridesmaid at a rowdy wedding, splashing it all over the ears of everyone present. “My remote is gone!” A drunken best man hijacked my destiny for a beer run, and was now swerving across the double yellow line on a mountain highway. Anything bad became possible, anything bad and nothing good. Further forks in my fate could only be choices between rancid and rotten.
“Say, Fountain.” General Kiljoy turned to me, plucking his pecker all the while. “Is that a remote control in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”
106 Thus it came to pass that I became known as a threat to national security. General Kiljoy pronounced me this as soon as he reached into my hip pocket and pulled out Miss Mary’s remote control.
“Congratulations.” He pulled his handgun out of his shoulder holster and leveled it at my head. “You’re now a threat to national security. That means I have the authority to kill you.”
Since this was a considerable threat to my security, I was quite upset with the matter. I was somewhat comforted by the fact that I was not the only one. Tynee hollered at General Kiljoy in my defense, but only insofar as I existed as “an asset to the situation.”
General Kiljoy lowered his pistol, then clicked
on the phone. “Let’s see who our threat was calling, shall we?” He hit the redial button, dialing Blip’s voice mail.
“Who is it?” Tynee and Miss Mary asked in unison.
General Kiljoy frowned, raising his gun to my head once again. He clicked off the phone. “Error message. ‘The number you have dialed cannot be reached.’ Who were you calling?”
“I didn’t call anyone,” I lied without hesitation.
Tynee interrupted. “I’m getting the same response on my phone.” He dialed another number and put the receiver to his ear. “Same thing.”
General Kiljoy set Miss Mary’s remote control on the bar and pulled his own out of his pocket. He dialed a number, and apparently got the error message again. “The electronic communication system is breaking down, just as expected with a Pied Piper outbreak,” he said with a certain satisfaction. “Soon we won’t even get a dial tone. If this were a field test, we could pronounce it a tentative success.”
Miss Mary picked her phone up off the bar and tried a few of her own numbers, with the same result. Tynee watched her anxiously. “We’re cut off from any lines of communication?” he asked.
“Cellular towers have probably lost power, as they would in the absence of human coordination and communication. But we also have a direct satellite link between this compound and the Pentagon, designed to withstand nuclear attack.” He raised his gun to me once again. “Quite a situation, eh?”
“I didn’t call anyone,” I lied again.
“Maybe not, but I have no way of knowing how long the cell tower has been out of commission. Either way, there’s still criminal intent. What were you doing with Miss Mary’s remote control?”
“She gave it to me,” I said, gushing with honesty. “She was afraid to check the limousine.”
This information rendered General Kiljoy silent, for it was the first he had heard of it. Miss Mary filled in the explanation with, “The chauffeur was frozen.”
“What are you talking about?” General Kiljoy demanded.
Hence followed a lengthy explanation of the vault door being open and the consequent disinfection of the garage and Volt as well, from which the limousine was apparently protected. This information infuriated General Kiljoy, for the vault door was not supposed to open in the first place. He declared us fools for risking exposure to the virus, which could have been inside the limousine. I blamed Miss Mary. She shrugged and sneered that we obviously weren’t exposed in any case, for it had been over an hour and a half already. Then she searched her handbag again for a cigarette.
Meanwhile, perpetually oblivious to the desperate human drama unfolding around him, Meeko strolled over and sat at General Kiljoy’s feet, panting. “What about Agent Orange?” General Kiljoy continued to interrogate me. “Did you see her body anywhere?”
“No.”
This information made General Kiljoy pause. “I don’t understand,” he muttered, rubbing the panicky spasms bouncing around his brow. He looked down at Meeko. “Hey boy!” he said, suddenly enthusiastic, bringing Meeko to his feet and setting a wag to his tail. He patted Meeko and glared at me. “Enough bullshit, Fountain. You still haven’t answered my question.” He lowered his gun from me and pointed it at Meeko. “Bang!” he shouted, and Meeko joyously threw himself down on the floor as if shot. “Bang! Bang!” Meeko yelped and convulsed happily. “Bang! Who did you call?” He spoke over Meeko’s gleeful yips and yelps. “Bang!”
“I called Dr. Korterly,” I blurted, choosing, you see, between rancid and rotten.
General Kiljoy nodded, then, as suddenly as I say it, shot my dog. It was an explosion of sound, much, much more than a bang, and everyone jumped except Meeko, who whimpered feebly and ceased all movement. Stunned beyond horror, I could only scratch him behind his ears as my dog exhaled that which had animated his form.
107 Accomplishments are wastes of time. Dogs accomplish nothing. They have no ambition, for ambition only makes a virtue out of perpetual dissatisfaction. Dogs may chase their tail, but they give it up quickly enough and move on to other curiosities. Perhaps they recognize its futility and inherent limitations, or maybe they become bored with focusing all their energy on just one thing when there is so much else to do and see. They may be on to something. We modern humans live impatient lives chasing our dreams instead of living them, chasing the tail end of our lives, chasing the end of our tragic tale, ever eager for the future and our own demise.
Dogs are happier than humans. Hence, just as we strove to imitate birds for their ability to soar through heaven, so should we imitate dogs for their easygoing vibe, their ticklish personalities of whimsical caprice. Is this not desirable? Is this not heavenly? Dogs live life wagging their tails and getting excited about every little thing. The life of a hound is a runner’s high, panting and goofy but rhythmic as a heartbeat. They run high and free, unaware of any race, uncaring of any leash, running for the run, running because it’s fun, our canine counterparts, our kinder better parts, helpers in the hunt, protectors of the plate, living and accomplishing nothing but infinite frolic and limitless levity, no lines on a résumé, no citations on a curriculum vitae.
How to eulogize a dog? What accomplishments can I list, what achievements can I enumerate? He learned to do dumb tricks at my command. He learned to hold it until I walked him, or should I say, until he walked me. I would have never taken walks if it were not for him. But to list such accomplishments is akin to saying he was as constipated and unintelligent as a modern human, which he was not. He learned to live within human parameters, to be sure, like any child who learns to go to bed before they’re tired so they can get up before they’re awake. But unlike children, dogs learn our rules, sit pretty, deal with our crap, and go on wagging their tails. The playful puppy is always present in a dog, but the innocent child has run away from the adult. Dogs are trained; only people are brainwashed.
Children grow up, become boring and bored, responsible and rational, as loath to play as Meeko was to orange peels. Dogs, on the other hand, will cavort as long as their bones allow, sprinting after sticks, performing all their tricks, and delighting in every scent from pumpkin pies to cow pies. Every scent, once again, except orange peels, as I established one dismal day watching Meeko sniff at an orange rind in my hand. Out of great nastiness or lethargy, I squeezed the peel, causing a mist of orange peel spritz to coat his sensitive nose and sending him into a fit of sneezing as intense as any hilarity, but without the fun. I possessed the amusement, and for as long as he sneezed, I did nothing but laugh. He existed in a world of sneeze, and I existed in a world of laughter. After that day, he avoided every form of citrus.
Meeko did not like it when I did that to him, but he had forgiven me within minutes. Dogs aren’t man’s best friend, what a diminutive statement! Dogs are our guardians. They comfort our loneliness and put up with the accomplishments of our egos. Meeko taught me that I enjoy taking care of beings other than myself, and though he howled at fire engines rather than the full moon, his mournful, piteous cries echo through the black hills of my imagination. My dog accomplished nothing, I’m proud to say. He was a mutt, a bastard son of a bitch in the finest sense of the words.
PART THREE:
PRANCE OF THE PIED PIPER
108 Every day is a day of reckoning, as any accountant worth his business card will tell you. If you’re going to stay on top of your life, you have to be aware of what’s coming in and what’s going out. Come tax time at the end of time, some say, all accounts must be settled, and unaccountable actions tarnish your credit record. On your audit bed, it is said that your entire life flashes before your eyes, a comprehensive snapshot of your existence, every moment contained in an instant briefer than the moment of conception. All actions are examined, all decisions dissected, and ultimately you are alone, left to find your way out of the labyrinthine lies you have constructed to convince yourself that you exist separate from everything else.
The day I have been describing, the most eventful day of my
life, a day that began with Agent Orange waking me before dawn at the country retreat of Valhalla Acres and ended with the murder of my dog, with the outbreak of the Pied Piper virus somewhere in the middle, was just another day of reckoning. As I pen my penance, I cannot be certain how my actions will be evaluated, but please keep in mind that I am but a pawn. It’s a lame excuse, I know. Even pawns can decide a game. Act or be acted upon? Patience, please. That’s like saying kill or be killed. As Sophia once told me, “There are always other options. Tickling, for instance.”
This is my penance, my act of contrition, my day of atonement. You are eavesdropping on a confessional. This is, however, different from my childhood experiences with Catholic confessions, where, because I couldn’t think of any decent sins, I often made up some impressive mischief and misbehavior on the spot, and then proceeded to confess that I had lied a few times as well. Unlike those occasions, I have striven to be honest here, although slight exaggeration is to be expected in any story worth ten Hail Marys.
The most eventful day of my life concluded with my confinement in the small adjoining room where I had earlier talked with Blip. It was a symbolic gesture. After all, I was already imprisoned, though there seems to be no boundaries to the amount of freedom society can force you to sacrifice, no limit to the levies on life.
109 Animals sustain themselves by consuming other forms of life. While plants draw their energy from the sun, animals consume plants and each other. Life feeds off itself down through the levels of predator and prey. Hungry? Have some life. Rocks won’t do, nor plastic, though shoe leather may keep you going in a toe jam. The best sustenance is the freshest, that which was most recently alive, still a source of life and not yet decaying. Sadly, the food stored as emergency rations was all but rotten, leftover government surplus forever preserved in a suspended state of decomposition, providing just enough flabby nourishment to keep us breathing. It was never actually intended to be eaten.
Just a Couple of Days Page 23