“That’s absurd,” Julien said.
The five of us tried to absorb the minuscule scope and borderline random quality of this mission.
“What kind of stories?” Sam asked.
“Whatever you like. Fairy tales. Literary fiction. Detective stories. Horror.”
“Why stories?” Julien asked.
“Just trust me,” Serge replied.
Diana: “How long do they have to be?”
Serge: “As short or as long as you choose.”
Sam: “Do we write them down? How many words minimum? This feels like homework.”
Serge: “It is not homework, and no, you don’t have to write them down if you wish not to.”
Zack: “I’m ADD.”
Serge: “But you are still creative. You’ll do just fine.”
I asked, “Why stories?”
Serge replied, “Right now, it’s probably for the best that I do not tell you the specific purpose. But then, remind yourselves that you spent many weeks in an underground chamber without words or books or TV or the Internet or even logos on the mattress. Being asked to invent and tell stories is surely not as weird as that.”
Diana asked if it had anything directly to do with our not being allowed books or TV or computers in our cells, and Serge said, “Yes, it does.”
Julien asked if we were being graded on these stories, and Serge said, “Ah, Sean Penn, always the lazy student. All that is required of you is that you invent your stories on your own.”
It’s strange to be asked if you have any stories to tell. Did I? I wasn’t sure.
Zack asked, “Can I tell the story about the time I spent a lost weekend with a Japan Airlines mechanical crew who were abandoned in Sioux City during the Oktoberfest riots?”
Serge said, “I do not want anecdotes from your life, Zack. I want stories. Stories you invent. Stories that have no other goal in life than to be stories.”
Sam asked, “How long do we have to do this for?”
Serge replied, “Maybe a week. Maybe a year. It may all be for nothing.”
There was a quiet patch where we sat trying to imagine something to tell, trying to engage that portion of our brains or our selves that handles that activity. Hours passed in the room lit by candlelight.
Zack finally said, “I think I have one.”
Diana, clearly a little jealous, asked him, “What’s it called?”
“It’s called . . . ‘Superman and the Kryptonite Martinis.’”
Superman and the
Kryptonite Martinis
by Zack Lammle
One sunny afternoon, Superman was at the beach and got tar all over the soles of his feet. He went to his car and removed a Clark Kent shirt from the back seat, and then he popped his gas cap and dipped his shirt in just far enough to soak the tail of the shirt. He pulled it out and began to wipe the tar from his feet, and was promptly nailed by the Carbon Squad patrolling the lot. They gave him a $200 ticket for using gasoline frivolously, and a $150 ticket for destroying a shirt that had a thirty-percent synthetic-fibre content. Meanwhile, a group of fellow beach-goers surrounded the car and began heckling him.
“Ooh, look at me. I’m Superman. I can leap tall buildings and make time go backwards, but nooooo, instead I waste gasoline and destroy permanent-press clothing.”
“Gee,” said another, “I think I’ll go fight crime—whoops! My footsies are dirty. Looks like I’ll just have to eat shit like everyone else in this world.”
Superman asked, “What is wrong with you people?” He threw his shirt into the back seat and got in his car and put it in reverse, narrowly missing a quintet of snarling beach bunnies. As he drove away, he rolled down the window to shout, “You make me really happy I left my home planet to come and fight crime for you ungrateful fucks!”
Someone threw a Frisbee at the car; it bounced off the roof and landed in a ditch.
Superman turned on the radio and was listening to a program discussing profound corruption at the heart of UNESCO when he passed a bar whose sign read TASTY COCKTAILS FOR THOSE WITH A HEAVY LOAD. “Man, I could use a drink right now,” he said. Right there in traffic, he did a U-ey and pulled up in front of the bar.
The bartender, who happened to look and sound a lot like Yoda, said, “Ah, Superman. I think for you a terrific drink I have.”
Superman said, “Bring it on.” The air inside the bar was cool, and he readjusted his cape and looked around. There were a few barflies in the back, but otherwise the place was dead. The jukebox was playing “The Logical Song” by Supertramp; it brought the superhero a flood of memories. As Yoda arrived with his drink, he said, “This song was in my first colour movie ever.”
“That be the one with Christopher Reeve?”
“That’s the one.”
“Ever meet him, did you?”
“Once, at a Golden Globes after-party. We were both kind of wasted. I don’t remember much of it.”
“Your drink is on me, Mr. Caped Crusader.”
“I don’t know about that ‘caped crusader’ stuff any more. Today it’s all I can do to not blast this planet to smithereens. But thanks.”
Superman looked at his martini, frosty and chilled, dew dripping down the sides. He took a sip—Ahhhhhhhh—and then his mouth turned to fire. “You dirty little shit, what the hell is in this thing?”
Yoda, wiser than Superman, said, “The first time you tried wasabi you remember?”
“Yeah. In Osaka, when I was helping Sailor Moon during her Asian fragrance launch.”
“And did it not burn at first? Did not your nostrils feel aflame?”
“Why . . . yes, it did.”
“So finish your drink you will. And enjoy it you will.”
Yoda went to the other side of the bar and Superman sipped a little more of his martini. He yelled to Yoda, “These things kick like a bound and gagged hitchhiker. Very tasty—mmmmmmmmm.” The burn was like a new spice, and Superman became an instant addict. “Yoda: hustle with the next one.”
“Yes, Mr. Caped Crusader.”
As Superman awaited his next martini, he wondered why he bothered fighting crime any more. He still had all his superpowers, but people just didn’t seem to want him to use them. He’d recently received a condescending letter from the United Nations:
Dear Mr. Superman,
We appreciate your willingness to fight crime, but at the moment what we really need is a superhero who can separate transuranium isotopes in the soil of Northern Germany—or perhaps a superhero who can distill Pacific waters to render them free of plastic particles larger than two hundred microns. We at the UN acknowledge that everyday crime and everyday criminals are on the rise, but please also remember, Mr. Superman, that evil supervillains have all been eradicated with your help. (Note: you left your thank-you plaque and goodie bag at the dinner table after the presentation ceremony. I can ask my assistant, Tara, to forward it to you.)
In any event, we want you to know that we appreciate and support your drive to be as super as you can possibly be, and we look forward to convening in the near future!
Yours, Mbutu Ntonga, Secretary-General, United Nations Temporary Headquarters, Saint Louis, Missouri
Prick.
Superman downed his third martini in one gulp. A barfly near a keno machine clapped at this, and Superman roared, “I am a fucking superhero, you know.” He turned to Yoda. “What’s in these things, anyway?”
“Magic ingredient is kryptonite.”
“Kryptonite!?” Superman was about to induce vomiting with his index finger when Yoda said, “Frightened be not! It is only at a strength useful for flavour, not enough that you lose your superpowers.”
The martinis were tasty. “You’re not shitting me? No lost powers? Seasoning only?”
“I shit you not. Mix you another I will.”
“Done.”
Soon Superman was hanging out every day at the bar, from its noon opening time until two a.m., with a few time outs to go to the Wend
y’s next door, plus one isolated incident when he chased down a teenager who had jimmied the Hyundai logo from the front grille of his car. Being drunk, he miscalculated his speed, and the offending delinquent was flattened like a taco shell between Superman’s body and the wall of the local rental storage facility. But nobody had witnessed the event, so Superman squished the teenager into a diamond and, once back in the bar, tossed the diamond over towards the barflies.
“Nasty little prick.”
Yoda said, “Hear you I did not. Mr. Superman, I am sorry to inform you, but you owe several thousands of dollars for the martinis you so much like.”
“Bar tab, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Forget cash. I know—how about I pay you in diamonds?”
“Diamonds I like.”
“Good.”
Superman picked up the new diamond from the floor and gave it to a smiling Yoda, who promptly made him another kryptonite martini. All was well for several days, until his next bar tab came due. Superman excused himself, went outside and jumped up and flew around the skies for a bit, trying to find someone committing a crime who might deserve the fate of crystallization. Finally he saw some guy holding up a rice warehouse. With just a small amount of vigilance, Superman was able to snag him and crush him, and soon he had Yoda’s diamond.
But as the months passed, Superman’s superpowers waned. And there came the fateful evening when, upon capturing a burglar in the act of entering somebody’s rear window, instead of being able to squish the perp into a diamond, all he created was a blob of stinking bloody mess that got all over his crime-fighting suit.
Shit.
Superman’s crimes grew uglier as his superpowers dwindled to mortal levels. Yoda, addicted to Superman’s diamonds, refused to accept any other form of payment. Superman tried offering a Patek Phillipe watch he had ripped from the wrist of some guy who was selling weed behind the Office Warehouse. No go.
And so he robbed a Zales in the strip mall off the interstate. Bad decision. He went down on the third bullet; by the sixth, he was dead.
Back at the bar, Yoda trawled the news sites for exposés on Superman’s private life: the whores, the spare bedroom filled with emptied and unrecycled cans of Boost and Ensure, the back taxes that went all the way back to the Reagan administration. Yoda sighed, fondled his sack of diamonds and then smiled as he looked up and saw Batman enter the bar.
“Ah, Batman. I think the drink for you I have.”
SAMANTHA
So, right, I’ve never been the brown-noser in school, but I have prided myself on getting good grades throughout my life, and Serge was the teacher I wanted to please. Zack telling a good story was like the special-needs kid in the class knowing a Keats sonnet. Bloody annoying.
Serge said, “Your turn, Samantha.”
Bloody hell. “Serge, I’m not creative that way.”
“If you relax, you might surprise yourself, Samantha. The brain uses stories to organize its perceptions of the world. Every moment of your life it’s doing things for you that you can barely imagine.”
I went silent from nerves. Serge smiled and said, “Is your PDA working? Go online and look up The Decameron.”
“Spell that for me.”
He did.
I read aloud: “The Decameron is a collection of short stories written from 1350 to 1353 by an Italian writer, Giovanni Boccaccio. The collection begins with a description of the Black Death. Then we meet a group of seven young men and women who flee from plague-ridden Florence to a villa in the countryside. To pass the time, each member of the party tells stories about lust, the nobility and the clergy.
“The Decameron was made into an Italian movie in 1972. A Japanese version, Tôkyô Dekameron, made in 1996, featured lesbian torture chambers.”
We sat there digesting this piece of information. Diana dropped a log on the fire, saying, “Well, I guess we’d better update our notions of lust, the nobility and the clergy. Zack is totally on the right track. Let’s tell stories about stalking, superheroes and cults.”
The room became warmer and more intimate. I felt like a child again.
I said, “If Zack can do this, I can do this. But I want to tell a story with a real king, not a superhero.”
Zoë Hears the Truth
by Samantha Tolliver
Once upon a time there was a princess who had no brothers or sisters. Since she was fated to become queen, she spent much of her early life wondering exactly what it is a queen does, aside from displaying excellent table manners and cutting ribbons at the openings of horticultural festivals. Her parents had always told her that when her day came, she’d receive special instruction. In the meantime, she was told to enjoy life.
So Princess Zoë, which was her name, went to the gym. She read ancient scrolls. She played tennis. In order to promote her kingdom’s industrial base, she once had lunch with a Japanese-made robot that simulated Elton John. It was an interesting life. Then one day, during a month of heavy rains and floods, her father became sick and a hush fell over the castle. He called Zoë to his bedside and said, “It’s time we had a talk.”
Zoë’s stomach fluttered because she knew this was when she was to receive her special instructions on how to be queen.
“What is it, Father?”
Rain drummed on the ancient lead-glassed windows.
“It’s simple, really. You need to know that your mother and I don’t believe in anything.”
Zoë was shocked. “What did you say, Father?”
“Your mother and I don’t believe in anything.”
“As in . . . religion?”
“Absolutely. No religion for us.”
“Politics?”
“Nope.”
“The monarchy?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why are you telling me this? How can you just sit there and tell me you don’t believe in anything. You’re the king! You have a kingdom, and subjects who worship you.”
“If it makes them happier to worship me, then let them.”
“So wait. You mean you don’t even believe in any form of higher being?”
“That is correct. Nothing.”
“But you’re divinely chosen!”
“So?”
Zoë didn’t know how to handle this information. The room began to tilt like a dock on choppy water. “Did you ever believe in anything—when you were younger, maybe?” she asked.
“I tried. Quite hard. Really.”
Zoë got mad. “Papa, you’re a fraud!”
“Grow up just a bit, my little cabbage. Don’t you ever wonder how I get through all my days in such a good mood, even when the peasants threaten to revolt or the queen of Spain overstays her welcome?”
“But don’t you have to believe in something?”
“Princess, you’re too old not to have had, how shall I say, certain experiences. You’ve had bad Internet dates. You’ve had people be creeps to you. You’ve seen what you’ve seen; you’ve felt what you’ve felt. Ideology is for people who don’t trust their own experiences and perceptions of the world.”
“I feel like I’m going mad.”
“Madness is actually quite rare in individuals. It’s groups of people who go mad. Countries, cults . . . religions.”
Zoë said, “I wish I smoked. If I smoked, right now would be a very good time for a cigarette.”
“I’ll have the butler bring us one.” Her father leaned over to a speakerphone beside his bed and said, “Please bring me a cigarette.” Almost instantly, the butler arrived with a mentholated filter-tipped cigarette resting atop a burgundy pillow. “Try it, Zoë. You’ll see what you’ve been missing all these years.”
The butler lit the cigarette for Zoë. She breathed in some smoke, coughed and grew dizzy. “This tastes awful.”
“Sometimes what’s bad for our bodies is good for the soul. Smoke some more. You’ll love it. Soon you’ll be unable to stop.”
Zoë inhaled again. It wasn’t
as bad as the first few puffs. “Does anyone else know you don’t believe in anything?”
“Just your mother.”
“Don’t you worry about death?”
“For every living person here on earth, there are millions of dead people before them—and there will be billions of dead people after us all, too. Being alive is just a brief technicality. Why are you so upset?”
“This is a lot to absorb in one blast.”
“Pshaw. There’s nothing to absorb. That’s the point. And soon you’ll be queen and you’ll have to go through your days displaying flawless table manners and cutting ribbons to open horticultural fairs. And you’ll have to deal with a few monsters as well.”
“Monsters?” This was news to Zoë.
“Yes, monsters. People who believe in things to the exclusion of their senses. Everyone dumps on politicians as monsters, but they’re actually very easy to handle because at least they’re up front about the system they’re using to avoid reality. The real killers are the quiet believers. It’s always the sullen twenty-year-old who wears the vest into the market square.”
As Zoë sat and finished her cigarette, there was a pleasant quiet moment between father and daughter. The rain pounded on the window like a crazy person trying to get in. She stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray designed to look like a miniature version of the Magna Carta. She said, “You’ve heard the news this morning about the floods?”
“I did.”
“They say the Royal Cemetery will soon flood.”
“Won’t that be something,” said the king.
“Papa, it’s where you’re going to be buried.”
“Just imagine all of those bejewelled skeletons washing away down into the river.”
“Papa, we’re going to have to find somewhere else to bury you. What are we going to do? Where can we bury you if not in the Royal Cemetery?”
“Surprise me,” said the king, and died, making Zoë queen. And as she sat there thinking about her future, she looked at her cigarette butt and had the strangest sensation that the cigarette was looking back at her.
And then she realized that she, too, didn’t believe in anything.
Then she wondered if not believing in anything robbed her of the ability to fall in love.
Generation A Page 14