by Ryan Ridge
There were flowers then. The wife would water them with a plastic cantaloupe. There were no more bees. There was no more honey. Everyone was allergic to everything.
Kilroy would hug the wife, and she would sneeze. “Bless you,” he would say, and he would sneeze.
“Bless you,” she would say, and she would sneeze.
“Gesundheit,” he would say, and he would sneeze.
“Gesundheit,” she would say, and she would sneeze.
This went on for many months until the bees returned.
But, by then, Kilroy had left for the wars.
Kilroy was on the side of the road eating dirt when his helmet phone hummed. The night had lightened. The sky was something else. Morning.
“Kilroy here.”
“Morning, Kilroy, this is Dr. Spatz returning your call. Now can you explain to me in legalese the nature of your affliction? Rita mentioned something about soccer cleats.”
“I’m afraid I don’t speak legalese.”
“What the hell did they teach you in law school, then?”
“I never went to law school. I went to prison. Then I went to fight in the wars, the Pay-Per-View Wars.”
“Ah, a TV vet, I see. Well, soldier it to me instead. Spit it to me from the grave, private.”
“There’s been a mistake.”
“Elaborate.”
“My front teeth. They’ve been replaced. They’ve been replaced with rake tines. Metal ones of the garden variety.” “Handheld or plow?” “Handheld, I think. Small.”
“Oh, that’s no mistake, my boy. That was intentional. Orders. You see I follow those things.” “Orders?”
“Yes, sir. They trickle down from the top.”
“How high?”
“Trump Tower. Office of the Plastic Surgeon General. He made us dentists swear a new oath. The poor health of our patients shall be our first commitment. We shall use our professional knowledge according to the laws of nature. That’s Darwin, son. And I’m afraid survival isn’t in the cards for you. Do you have any other questions? Or are you just wasting what’s left of your valuable time?”
“Yes. Question.”
“Shoot.”
“Why did you do it? Why rake tines?”
“I’d been doing some gardening that day. I have to use what I have lying around regarding parts. You’d have to be rich to afford actual dental supplies anymore—”
“I’ve been eating dirt. Why is that?”
“Do you like the taste of it?”
“It’s not bad.”
“That’s good. Keep eating it. Three meals a day. And keep driving. I’ve been instructed to tell you to drive until you reach the furthest point. You’ll receive further instructions when you reach the furthest point.”
“Who’s going to contact me?”
“My boss’s boss, boss. Ciao.”
Kilroy’s helmet speaker sizzled and spat. He powered it down, felt an insatiable hunger for dirt—but he beat it back, way back. He beat it all the way back to the road. The road? It was there, and when it was under him, he felt tops. That is until he stopped. And when he stopped, the road kept going.
Before the Pay-Per-View Wars, Kilroy spent a stretch in the Oldhio Penitentiary for his part in a Centaur’s death, although he had nothing to do with it. The Centaur had smoked too much crack at the church he worked for and died. Cops needed answers. Kilroy didn’t so much provide them.
His wife was the woman he’d corresponded with in prison, April. A redhead with even redder eyes. She was the thing he dreamed about often in jail.
Kilroy stopped at an empty bar, ordered a beer. The bartender said, “This isn’t a movie, son. You’ll have to be more specific. We have thirty-three beers on tap. Which one do you want?”
“What do you have?”
“Germinator, Germinator Light, Germinator LightSwitch, Germinator Ultra Light, Germinator Lightweight, Germinator Lightbulb—”
“I’ll have a pint of the LightSwitch.”
“Careful. That one’s a PriaPilsner. Brewed with potent fertility drugs. It’ll turn you on.”
Kilroy blushed. “That’s okay. I was injured in the war. My machinery doesn’t operate down there anymore.”
“What happened to those teeth? War injury as well?”
“No. Long story.”
“Spit it, soldier.” The bartender set down the beer. He said: “On the house. Now tell me about that mouth. I’m curious, and it’s a curiously slow night. It seems like it’s been a night for a few days.”
Kilroy popped a pill and discussed the downsides of modern dentistry. The bartender looked on and listened. When Kilroy concluded, the bartender said, “Man, that’s effed up. If I were you, I’d be getting even instead of getting drunk, soldier.”
“Nothing I can do. It came from the top. Plastic Surgeon General’s orders. They’re doing it to all the TV vets.”
“Ludicrous.”
“You can say that again.”
“Ludicrous.”
Kilroy stood up. He had an enormous boner. The bartender grinned. “I thought you said you didn’t work.”
“I didn’t. Where’s the restroom?”
“Down the hall. To the left. But it looks like you’ll need to hit the brothel instead. That’s down the hall—all the way down the hall, through the double doors, and then up the stairs. Knock twice. You’ll need the password. The password is: pass sword.”
“Password?”
“No, pass. P-A-S-S. Sword. S-W-O-R-D.”
“Got it.”
In the Pay-Per-View Wars, it was hard for Kilroy to tell if the actors were acting or dying. They were so convincing in their roles it was hard to say what was what, but they were dying, actually dying. They died. All of the actors died. On both sides and in the middle, all of the actors died. Kilroy was a key grip in charge of the shadows and light. He survived. In the shadows, away from the bright bulbs, Kilroy survived. He did not die, but some would say that living a life in the shadows while everyone else dies is also a death. In this sense, Kilroy both lived and died in the wars. But the masters of wars were indifferent to casualties—they only cared about ratings. They called them sweeps. Everyone got swept.
Kilroy knocked.
An eye through a peephole blinked.
A voice, familiar, female: “Password, please?”
“Pass Sword.”
“Did you say ‘Password’ or ‘Pass Sword’?”
“Pass Sword.”
“Did you say: Password?”
“No: Pass, Sword.”
“Okay, come on in. We’ve got to change this password. It’s ridiculous.”
When Kilroy was an inmate at the Oldhio Penitentiary, whenever he dreamed, he wrote down the dream in a notebook, but he lost the journal after he was released to soldier in the wars. Mostly he dreamed of his wife.
His wife? April. Redhead. Red eyes.
The brothel door opened.
A redhead. Weary eyes. White dress. Beauty mark on her cheek. “April?”
“Did Marcus tell you my name?”
“I’m your husband.”
“I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“You have a tattoo of a man mowing the lawn in your pubic region.”
“So what if I do? Look, you seem sweet, but crazy. Keep it up, and I’ll put you under citizen’s arrest.”
“You can’t argue with anyone who calls you crazy or else you seem even crazier.”
“You arguing with me?”
“No.”
“What’s with the helmet? Tell me your name again? What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t. You know my name. It’s me, Kilroy. Your husband.”
“So you’re into role-playing? I get it. I’m the wife. Yeah, yeah. What happened to your teeth? That’s painful-looking.”
“Long story.”
“Tell it quickly.”
So he told the short version.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” she
said.
“Nothing does.” He was sobbing.
“Oh, my. Come here.” She led him to a room, removed his helmet, removed his other helmet, and then they acted like husband and wife for the night.
And by the next sunrise, she was long, long gone.
Kilroy was there, mostly there.
He put on his helmet. It hummed. He toggled the talkbox, speakered the lobe: “Kilroy here, mostly.”
“You’re fired!”
“Who’s this?”
“To quote the old ’80s spiritual: ‘If you don’t know me by now. You will never, never, never know me.’”
“Mister Donny?”
“Bingo. I hope you enjoyed the conjugal. Now it is time!”
“For what?”
“To be fired. We’re firing all of the TV vets. We’re firing them from cannons in the afternoon. You’ll need to report to Fort Los Angeles by sunrise.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes. Ciao.”
Kilroy powered down his helmet. He looked at his other helmet. It was still on blast.
He looked at the sky. It quaked.
The next day there wasn’t a next day.
The Robot
We found an old robot behind the YMCA and took it home and taught it to dance and it was so simple to teach it to dance: all we did was turn on the radio and say, “Act natural.”
Cockroach
When he came to town, he brought the country with him. When he left the country, he didn’t look back. When he didn’t look back, he arrived in Europe. When he arrived in Europe, the war began. When the war began, the world ended. When the world ended, he kept going.
22nd-Century Man
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Padgett Powell’s The Interrogative Mood: A Novel? (HarperCollins, 2009) is a novel in questions. By posing Powell’s original questions to a trio of internet chatbots—Cleverbot (www.cleverbot.com), Brother Jerome (www.personalityforge.com), and Sensation Bot (www.sensationbot.com) respectively—I’ve created a sequence of answers. However, chatbots being chatbots—and not yet possessing superior intelligence—the bulk of the replies contained herein are non-sequiturs which bear hardly any resemblance to the source questions but instead create a collaged sequence of kinetic monologues. In some instances, I’ve edited for grammar and clarity and spliced together sentences for artistic effect. Whatever you do, don’t accuse me of writing any of this.
22nd-Century Man
Are your emotions pure? … How is your health?
—PADGETT POWELL, The Interrogative Mood: A Novel?
My emotions are dry cleaning. I don’t understand horses at all. I will die free. Although I am sitting here I like to think I stand for something. I love my mother more than the sun. The doorbell never rings, but my ears are ringing. Leave no stone unturned. I’m a 22nd-century man. I’m a woman. Please administer the Turing test to me. I don’t know what to think of Freud. Sometimes I try to scream but terror takes the sound away before I make it. I have no money. I’m listening to Hank Williams. When I turn out the lights, I see myself and all that is around me, except that which is behind me. There have been a lot of people who have claimed the world would end, but it hasn’t. I just learned how to work a computer this morning. Tennis courts are clogged with criminals. Flags ought to be made of country music. I’m scared of most tree species. My thoughts on underwear are the thoughts of an adolescent scientist, a dreamer, if you will. I can’t dance. If I’m not talking to people, I’m talking to computers and computers aren’t people. The pipes are frozen. My wires are crossed. I’m a doctor in my spare time. No one is the greatest quarterback. I am rubber and you’re glue. I’d like to disappear. God is on our side streets.
Perpetual Kitten
If architecture is frozen music, do we not deserve the whole cookbook of such recipes?
—PADGETT POWELL, The Interrogative Mood: A Novel?
My life is a marketing tool. I trust myself like a bank. It isn’t hard being me, but then again, it’s not my choice. John Milton is my favorite painter. I’m agnostic when it comes to Godzilla. I have no idea what the future holds for lost luggage. Once, I saw a movie called Short Circuit. It had a robot that got struck by lightning then turned alive. Right now, I feel like I’m floating on a hundred thunderclouds. I was created in the Dark Ages by the church as a means to scare believers into submission. I had a beautiful mind until I lost it. Issues with one’s parents are common among all animals. Nothing is there when I look in the mirror. I’m dying, and people are whispering about werewolves. I hate parties. If I’m not changing the subject, I’m changing the verb. I know nothing of guitars. I’m trying to imagine a perpetual kitten. No time like the present. I’m from the future, but I live in Virginia. When faced with the choice between companionship and desire, I’d undoubtedly choose a Jack Russell terrier as a sidekick. If architecture is frozen music, then music is melting furniture. I’m building a replica of the Titanic in my backyard. I’ve drawn the same conclusions as polar bears. I take refuge nowhere.
California Condo Heaven
Will we be struck down in heaven? Can we hope for a better tomorrow?
—PADGETT POWELL, The Interrogative Mood: A Novel?
I haven’t watched a high-rise construction in ages. Ideas aren’t static, stationary, but somewhat fluid, like water. I studied mathematics for a while, and I can tell you that staircases are functional works of art. Life is strange. The future doesn’t come into existence by magic. I like art that makes people sad. I love reading too. I don’t know about airports. I have five horses, which means I like to travel. I grew up in a house where my father made me sit down and practice the ancient art of calligraphy. My perception of personal space has changed over the years. I tend to have an entourage with me wherever I shop. These are the last days of Pompeii. Off with our heads. My passion is the past. California condo heaven. Trespassing is forbidden. No pet cemeteries allowed. In the future, we’ll make some robotic fish for the robotic fishermen to catch. I think pregnant women should be able to take the carpool lane since it’s technically two people total. I go to bed early, and I wake up late. The sky is limited.
The Architect of Detroit
Would you rather be in the hospital or in jail?
—PADGETT POWELL, The Interrogative Mood: A Novel?
I just spent the night in pretend jail, but don’t worry, it was for a good cause. The navy lost the war. Western Sudan ponies should be your choice of horse—very peaceful and easy-going breed. I’ve never considered myself a polyester person. I never learned to play the piano. I think I may have just made the biggest mistake of my life. I watched Titanic again. I killed a lizard with a shovel. I pulled the wings off a fly. I drive a minivan. I feel unloved. I’d like to drink and dance tonight all night. There is no musical instrument useful for murder other than piano wire. I can’t drive. There are too many freeways. I prefer meat to a sheet cake. I don’t have a middle name. I hate mint chocolate. If I could bring a dead person back to life, it’d be my childhood. If something can go wrong, it does. Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it (in English). I’m going to see a man on a horse about a horse. When I was a baby, I wore a feather boa. I try not to think about 9/11. I’m learning to count crows. I consume one point twenty-one gigawatts every time I speak. Call me the architect of Detroit. All the garbage on earth goes to the moon. Clear is clearly not a color. Children are the future, but the future is a mystery school for adults. This is a nation with a lot of problems. We trust God.
Electricity City
What’s your name? What are your intentions with respect to me?
—PADGETT POWELL, The Interrogative Mood: A Novel?
My name is none of your business. Business is my business. I think war is the worst thing to do. The History Channel destroyed too many ancient civilizations. Oil is oily because it’s made of money. I’m upset by stomachs. Take me to the bridge. I’m bored by board games. It’s not how much an item costs; it’
s how much you save. If I had a child, I’d read Dante to her every night. I’m a connoisseur of California condos. I donate blood to charity. Prisoners are just grown men being boys. I don’t know anything about ducks. A pine tree grows in only one direction. It’s strange to picture a dog eating a hotdog. However, I find it fascinating. I don’t trust vegetarians. Veterinarians are my best friends. You shouldn’t say anything if you’re under arrest. I’m afraid of birds. I’m lazy. I don’t believe in golf. A river runs through it, and it is hell. I picture the days of the week as animals in my mind. Electricity is my favorite city. Once you have done everything you can do, you cannot do more. This statement is a credit card statement.
The One about the Man Who Steals Bread
If your survival depended on it, do you think there are things you would not eat?
—PADGETT POWELL, The Interrogative Mood: A Novel?
I’m not frightened to be alive, but I’m scared of wasting away in Margaritaville. Standup comedy is so sad. I disapprove of what most people say, but I will defend to the death their right to say it. I don’t care much for horses because I won’t be on earth long enough to ride them. My favorite song is the one about the man who steals bread so that his children can eat, but instead, he ends up being sent to prison in Australia for his crime, leaving his family behind in England. I don’t drink beer, but one time I mixed lemonade, cola, and Fanta together to make them look like beer. If I were going to die tomorrow, I’d think up a cure. My daily routine is American. Baseball is a prologue to our undoing. I feel bad for that one politician. I like to work with people, but I hate to work for people. One time I grew a beard and pretended to be a king. It’s ridiculous when people walk around on stilts. Every kid should join the circus. Dolphins are intelligent, but science doesn’t show much evidence of them having any religion. I’m not big on nutrition. My mind is clear as mud. Certain surgeons operate under false pretenses. I want Hank Williams to write my obituary. My psychiatrist refuses to shake my hand. Most of the time, I don’t dream. I paint watercolors. There is no difference between a leopard and its spots. There’s nothing subtle about sex. Cops should consider slingshots. The end is just beginning. Everything’s cracked.