Everyone Dies in the End

by Brian Katcher

  I realized I had my hands on my hips and quickly lowered them.

  L.J. stared at me blankly for a second, then smiled. “And to meet chicks. Don’t deny it.”

  I almost snapped at him, but stopped myself. He did have a point. A month here, with a bunch of really intelligent, driven girls…like the brunette I’d seen out front.

  “Yeah, and to meet chicks.” I allowed myself a smile.

  My roommate laid his head under his hands and stared at the ceiling. “There is nothing sexier than a babe with brains. Nothing.”

  I sat down on my bed. “Now that’s the damn truth.”

  It wasn’t long before Benny stopped by to remind us of the floor meeting. I was hoping I could skip it, but such is life. L.J. pulled on a T-shirt and walked with me, as if we were suddenly BFFs.

  About thirty guys gathered in the austere lounge, sprawling out on the worn couches and plastic chairs. I found myself next to a short, swarthy guy. His narrow face and goatee kind of made him look like Satan, if Satan looked perpetually nervous and worried.

  “Hey, I’m Sherman Andrews.”

  He jumped slightly at my introduction, then nodded. “John Doe.”

  Before I could reply to that, he held up a palm. “Yes, I know. My parents came from Manila. They were trying to give me an American-sounding name. They didn’t figure it out until it was too late.”

  We both laughed.

  “So what’s your focus here?” I asked.

  “Physics.”

  Now why couldn’t this guy have been my roommate? Maybe I could get L.J. to switch.

  Benny called the meeting to order, with his already tired ‘one of the guys’ routine. As I suspected, he was a high school English teacher. I zoned out as he explained the rules and procedures. We’d spend most of the morning with our sponsor, usually a professor or other professional who’d give us a leg up in our chosen area, and help us work on our summer project. This was the reason I’d come here. The other stuff Benny mentioned, the afternoon lectures and clubs, didn’t really interest me. I had a plan, and intended to stick with it.

  Our advisor droned on. “Now from six in the evening onward, you’ll be free to spend however you choose. Most likely working on your project, though there’s a lot of other things going on. You may walk downtown if you like, there’s some interesting shops and such. No driving, no getting your friends to drive you anywhere.”

  Across the room, L.J. winked at me. I pretended not to notice.

  “The doors to this building automatically lock at ten at night. A Mizzou ID will open them, and you don’t have one. My cell number’s in your packet if you’re running late and need me to let you in. Please don’t abuse that, I have better things to do. I’ll do a room check at eleven. If you’re not in the building I’ll assume you’re passed out in the local drunk tank and call your parents to inform them of this.”

  A few guys laughed. Benny stared them down, suddenly looking like something of an authority.

  “A lot of people who wanted to come to the Scholars’ Academy were rejected. And every year when they write the state budget, this place is always on the chopping block. You all are young men, and I’m going to treat you as such.” He glanced around the room, and for a second, I thought he was staring at me.

  “Try not to fuck it up.”

  A couple of guys looked nervous. I looked at my watch. I’d never been in trouble and didn’t intend to start now.

  “Okay, enough rules talk.” Benny stood and clapped his hands once. “Let’s get to know each other.” He held up a ball of yarn. “When someone throws the ball to you, tell us your focus and a couple of interesting things about yourself.”

  Jesus, not a get-to-know-you game. What the hell was this, first grade?

  Our fearless leader started us off. “I’m Benny Schultz, this is my tenth summer with the scholars. Before that I lived in the Ukraine for five years, where I met my wife.” He hurled the ball to L.J., while clinging to the end thread. The line stretched across the room.

  “I’m L.J., here for the music program, and I grew up right here in Columbia. I play guitar, piano, and I’m learning the sax.” He tossed the ball to John, who addressed his feet.

  “I’m John, physics, and um…last summer my dad and I went searching for the Lost Dutchman silver mine.”

  John didn’t seem like the adventure sort. “Are you kidding?” I blurted out before I could stop myself. He smiled and nodded.

  “I’ll show you the pictures some time.” He threw the ball, which landed with a sad thunk near no one. A tall guy with a crew cut grabbed it.

  “Aaron Malone, business. I’m gonna be joining ROTC when I graduate. And one time, I kissed a girl.”

  Everyone laughed. I wondered how many of these guys could truthfully make the same claim.

  The ball bounced back and forth, and my classmates bragged their brags. Actually, a lot of what they described was pretty impressive: travel, strange hobbies, athletic achievements. Not surprising, considering where we were.

  I was one of the last people to get the ball. A huge web of yarn connected everyone in the room. I toyed with the remains, already predicting Benny’s tired spiel of how we were all now linked and should support each other, or some BS like that.

  “My name’s Sherman, I’m here to study journalism, and I…I…”

  I have nothing interesting to say.

  Jesus Christ, I didn’t. Everyone was staring. I mentally clawed my brain, trying to think of one vaguely amusing story.

  My dad’s a plumber.

  My favorite color’s blue.

  I went to Nebraska once.

  They continued to look at me. Someone coughed. L.J. grinned.

  “My name is Sherman, and I hate party games.” I let the yarn fall to the floor and walked out of the lounge, just slow enough to hide my panic.

  Columbia, Missouri, September 7, 1935—Deacon Henderschmitt always reminded Rev. Gowen of a weasel. Not so much because of his beady eyes and overbite. Gowen had the strangest impression that if he placed his hands too near the deacon, his finger would be bitten off.

  “Rev. Gowen,” said the deacon in an exasperated voice. “We’re all very sorry about your assault. But I find it hard to believe that you have no idea what motivated your attackers.” The deacon’s red tongue darted out between his teeth with every syllable.

  The reverend groaned. The itching in his empty eye socket was almost unbearable, and the bandages around his torso felt like iron rings, restricting his breathing. Nevertheless, he forced himself to sit upright behind the borrowed desk. Less than a week after his beating he was back at church, temporarily working out of the assistant pastor’s office while his own study was being repaired.

  “Mr. Henderschmitt,” said Rev. Gowen, biting back the pain of speaking. “If I knew anything, rest assured I would have informed the proper authorities.” The dig was intentional. Henderschmitt had no real authority over the minister.

  The deacon sucked in air through his teeth with a wet hissing noise. “There’s been talk that the coloreds are planning some sort of insurrection. Could it be possible…”

  Rev. Gowen interrupted. “The men were white. I’ve said that before.” Gowen felt Henderschmitt would have dearly loved to announce that Negroes were behind the attack. When he felt better, the reverend would have to have a serious talk with him about certain attitudes among the church board members.

  The deacon shrugged. “Reverend, perhaps it would be better if you took some time off. Recuperated for a few months. I know several men of faith who would be happy to fill in for you. Myself included.”

  Rev. Gowen stared down Mr. Henderschmitt until they both blinked. “Thank you, Deacon. But I believe I’ll be fine.”

  “But…”

  “Thank you,” said the reverend, dismissively.

  As soon as Mr. Henderschmitt closed the door behind him, Gowen let out a moan. He sat still for several minutes, his eyes clamped shut, his fists shaking. Ev
entually, his breathing returned to normal.

  He was not fine. He needed a break. And not just because of his physical injuries.

  Looking to make sure the door was still shut, the reverend bent to pick up a briefcase and place it on the desk. This took considerable effort and he had to pause and rest. Eventually, he unlocked it. Reaching into an inner pocket, he pulled out a handwritten note.

  August 10, 1935

  Rev. Gowen,

  I am in considerable trouble. Mr. S will not allow me to leave the brotherhood. He was quite emphatic in that respect. I implore you, please talk to him. He’ll listen to you. I fear for my safety.

  Yrs,

  Alanzo

  The reverend read and reread the note. He then folded it and replaced it in his case. With a determined expression, he picked up an ornate, leather-bound Bible and began methodically tearing out the pages.

  – Chapter Two –

  “And over there’s the loading docks. I guess that’s everything.” Dr. Hopkins, Assistant Dean of the University of Missouri College of Journalism, finished up my tour of Donald W. Reynolds Hall, where they produced the Columbia Missourian, the J-school paper.

  I’d skipped breakfast in the dining hall and showed up half an hour early for my first meeting with my sponsor. He was a middle-aged guy, dressed in slacks and a polo shirt. I wondered if it had been a mistake for me to wear a tie. Oh, well, dress to impress.

  Dr. Hopkins was already trekking back down the corridor. I admired his drive. “Let’s get back to my office and discuss your summer project. I’m going to pretty much let you manage your own schedule, but don’t be afraid to ask questions. That’s what I’m here for.”

  I felt I should ask a question, just to prove I could follow directions. I glanced at a portrait of the building’s namesake.

  “Donald Reynolds, was he an author?”

  “Of sorts.”

  “What did he write?”

  “A check. Here we are.”

  We entered his cluttered office and he motioned for me to sit down. I waited politely as he went through the papers on his desk, feeding several things into a shredder. Finally, he remembered that I was there.

  “Sherman, we’re happy to have you here on the Missourian team. You’re a junior staff member, but that doesn’t make you any less of a reporter. I can tell by looking at you that you take this seriously.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ve been giving a lot of thought to the stories I’d like to—”

  “I’m way ahead of you.” He passed me a printed page. “Here are some suggestions I came up with. Obviously, you’ll only be able to tackle a few. Take a look.

  I read the list with an increasing feeling of hopelessness.

  Interview the owner of a local business: The Juice Bar, John’s Pipe Shop, or one of the tattoo parlors. NOT the Peace Nook, that’s been done to death.

  Public transportation: adequate for a city the size of Columbia? How does it stack up to other university towns?

  Interview a graduate from ten, twenty, thirty years ago. How has MU changed? The Alumni Center can help you with this.

  I tried to keep the horror off my face. I didn’t intend to spend a month on these trainee articles they’d run when a sports event got rained out.

  “Dr. Hopkins, um, I’ve been the editor of my school paper for two years.”

  He smiled. “That’s why I’m letting you write real articles.”

  Just like a grown up.

  “And I appreciate that. But I’ve been writing stuff like this for years. Here, let me show you my portfolio…”

  I reached for my briefcase, but he stopped me. “Well, what did you have in mind?”

  Deep breath. If he didn’t like my idea, then I’d just wasted a whole month.

  “I’d like to write a complete history of the Mizzou Department of Sociology. No one’s ever really done that before, I checked.”

  Predictably, the reporter gave me a curious, slightly nauseated look. “There’s no way we can print something like that. Missourian articles, we’re talking a thousand words, max.”

  I expected this and had my answer ready. “So how about the University Press?”

  The J School did occasionally print scholarly articles and books, but it was highly competitive. Mr. Hopkins stared at me.

  “My, my, our cub reporter dreams big.”

  “So what do you say?”

  I expected another no, but I was prepared to argue all morning. That was the great thing about the Scholars’ program, you were expected to do a lot more than the bare minimum.

  “Sherman, you realize that even if you come up with a great article, they might not print it. And by ‘might not,’ I mean you don’t have a snowball’s chance.”

  “So are you telling me I can’t do it?”

  He tented his fingers and looked at the ceiling. “Tell you what. You get me one of my suggested articles by Friday, and I’ll let you have a crack at it.”

  “You won’t be disappointed, sir.”

  He reached into his desk and tossed something to me.

  “That’s your press pass. It’s the real thing, so don’t lose it. And Sherman? When you interview someone, maybe dress a little…less formal.”

  “Sir?”

  “You look like you’re coming for an audit. Here’s a handy rule of reporting: everyone has an embarrassing secret, and they’re all afraid, maybe subconsciously, that you’re going to figure it out and tell the world. Lose the tie.”

  I wandered back to the dorm that afternoon, staggering under the weight of a box of papers. I’d spent most of the day using my new press pass to access the records in the sociology department. No one had cleaned out the files in maybe decades, and I’d gotten my hands on many original papers, some dating back to the nineteenth century. I had to promise to return everything, of course, but I think the TA who’d led me down to the basement storeroom would have been happy never to see any of this stuff again.

  I fumbled with the door to Mark Twain Hall, awkwardly holding the box under one arm. This material would help me start my paper. With any luck, I’d be able to finish it before the session ended. At which point Mr. Hopkins would read it and reject it.

  I didn’t care if it was published or not. I cared even less about the history of the Sociology department. The only reason I was bothering with any of this was to impress my sponsor. That way, when it was time to apply for scholarships next year, I could put his name down as a reference. I’d done my research. Praise from a guy like that was worth a lot of dough, and I sure couldn’t depend on my father to send me here. I didn’t intend to graduate college with a student loan hanging over my head.

  All part of the plan. I had my goal and nothing was going to distract me from it.

  As I passed through the lobby, I noticed someone sitting at one of the large tables, reading a book. It was the brunette from earlier. Abandoning thoughts of working on my project, I casually dropped my box on the table next to hers. It landed with a loud thump that caused her to look up.

  “Pardon me!” I said, as if the whole thing hadn’t been contrived.

  She smiled. Her teeth were so perfect they looked almost fake. She had intense, brown eyes that smiled and smirked at the same time. She saw right through me, knew that I hadn’t arrived here by chance. I almost bolted.

  “Quite a package you have there,” she said, one eyebrow raised.

  Warily, I sat down at the adjoining table. “Research. For my big project. I’m in journalism.” That somehow didn’t sound as impressive as it had in my head.

  She nodded, and seemed on the verge of going back to her book. “I’m Sherman,” I blurted out, in a desperate attempt at conversation.

  She giggled and tried to hide it. I reddened. Sherman. What the hell had my parents been thinking?

  “I’m Steph,” she said, trying to cover up her laugh. “Boring old psychology major.”

  As I tried to think of something complimentarily about psychologists, I
happened to notice what she was reading.

  A Bible.

  I cringed. Girls who read the Bible in their spare time are not generally likely to want to go over to the park and make out.

  “Are you reading that for one of your classes?” I asked. Hope springs eternal.

  “Nope, I try to read it every day, especially when I’m away from my church.” She looked smug, as if daring me to have a problem with that.

  I soldiered on, like a mountaineer determined to reach the summit, no matter how many toes he had to sacrifice. Some of those religious girls liked to be bad. I took a chance Steph might have a naughty side.

  “So what church do you belong to?”

  “The Mormons.”

  Or not. Getting lucky with an LDS chick would involve one milkshake and two straws. Which was regrettable, since they were all uncannily hot. Maybe it was some kind of Utah eugenics thing.

  “So what exactly do you have in there?” she asked, gesturing to my box.

  “Old papers from the Sociology department.”

  “Thrilling.”

  “More gripping than ‘so and so begot such and such.’” Now that I wasn’t trying to get into Steph’s panties, I felt much more relaxed around her. I began to dig through my finds.

  It soon became obvious that there was a reason they’d let me borrow all these papers. Over a thousand individual sheets, and not one interesting thing. Supply inventories from the eighties. Class lists from the sixties. Payrolls from the nineties…the eighteen nineties.

  I started stacking everything in two piles, one for useless materials and one for slightly interesting materials. I quickly gave that up when I realized everyone was going into the first pile. The dust of forgotten decades began to well up around me. Steph stage-coughed.

  So I’d been too optimistic. Did I really think one trip to the archives would supply me with enough material? I was going to have to dig harder. Jesus, I might actually have to go interview someone. That was a sickening thought.