Audio: George Saunders reads.
At noon Layla wheels over Vat of Lunch. For a sec I can be not-scary, leaning against our plastiform wall meant to resemble human entrails.
“Why aren’t the old served first?” crabs Leonard, Squatting Ghoul Two, senior to all.
Last week Leonard’s knee went out. We, his fellow Squatting Ghouls, have since been allowing him to sit upon a plastiform Remorseful Demon, which, at this moment, emits one of its periodic Remorse-groans.
“Grieve on, foul beast,” I say, per Script.
“Foul indeed!” says Tim, Feuding Ghoul Four: great guy, always blurting out such quips as “Brian, you are really on it, in terms of the way you keep casting your eyes fitfully back and forth while squatting!” To which I might reply, “Thanks, Tim, you Feuding Ghouls are also ripping it up, I so admire how, every day, you guys come up with a whole new topic for your Feud!”
Into my paper bowl goes: Lunch. A broth with, plopped down in it, a single gleaming Kit Kat.
Someday I, too, may be old, knees giving out, some group of Squatting Ghouls as yet unborn (or currently mere Li’l Demons, running around in their bright-red diapers) allowing elder me, kaput like Leonard, to sit on, perhaps, this very same plastiform Remorseful Demon, in that dismal future time!
Today, however, all is well: Break Week is nigh.
Next A.M., via Tram, the Break-eligible among us are taken all jolly to the Room: a cavernous space shaped exactly the same as our workhouse, MAWS OF HELL, as well as the eleven other plenteous underground workhouses within our Region. But free of the supplementary Décor that makes each workhouse a unique immersive experience. Free, as well, of Byway Paths, and the small cars on tracks that bear our delighted Visitors through us. The Room is, truth be told, just a great space for a relaxed chill-out! It has Bowling, should you choose; pretend meadow, with real-appearing flowers; free-flowing creek, beside which we may sit, out of which fake fish leap on these sort of wheels, four fish per wheel, smiling, as if to say, “Leaping is what we love!”
Plus we each get a niche into which to put our stuff.
In the Room, we may mingle with individuals from our sister workhouses, such as BENEATH OUR MOTHER THE SEA or WILD DAY OUT WEST. May we mate there? Sure. We may. Many do. Should you observe someone mating and wish to be polite? Lurch off suddenly, as if you have left something back in your niche. Sometimes (tight quarters in the Room!) you may need to step or hop over a mating pair. The polite thing: step or hop over, saying nada. Should you personally know one or both, and feel saying nada might violate politeness, well, say something encouraging, such as “Go, go, go!” or “Looking good, James and Melissa, all best wishes!”
Today, hopping over two such folks, I think, Hey, isn’t that Mr. Tom Frame, normally the “Before” manifestation of Monk Decapitated for Evil Thoughts, in the portion of MAWS OF HELL called “Payback’s a Mother”? Mr. Frame, out of his seventeenth-century-monk threads, is mating with Gwen Thorsen, one of our rotating team of folks in hooded robes playing Death, and here I did not even know that Mr. Frame even knew her!
“Hey, Tom, hi, Gwen!” I cry, not wishing to violate politeness.
To which both briefly glance up at me all love-faced.
That is another great thing about Break Week: you are always seeing folks in new contexts!
For example, last Break, I saw Rolph Spengler, Flying Spear Launcher Three, quietly drinking tea, writing in his journal. No wings on, face not painted red, no wire elevating him aloft, no cloven-hoofed boots. Actually, he looked so tender in the face I felt the need of asking what he was writing.
“A letter to my son,” he said.
“I did not even know you had a son, Rolph!” I said.
“Well,” he said.
“I guess so, if you are writing to your son!” I said. “All I ever saw you as? A red-painted, big-winged, cloven-hoofed fellow, flinging down your spears.”
“And I guess all I ever saw you as was a tiny Squatting Ghoul, far below me,” Rolph said. “Whom I kept trying to just barely miss with my spears. My son is Edgar, CHICAGO GANGSTER HIDEOUT.”
And, just like that, we became friends!
Now, whenever Rolph, on wire, hovers over our quadrant, he will wave down at me with his non-spear hand, at which I will rise from my squat and throw my arms wide, exposing my chest, as if to say, “Spear me, then, Flying Spear Launcher! Since I am already a Squatting Ghoul, how much worse can my afterlife even get?” At which Rolph will fake-pump his spear at me, as if to say, “Ha ha, talk to you next Break, pal!”
By which I mean: friendship may take time and faith to grow!
(Please note: whenever Rolph and I engage in our fun ritual, no Visitors are present. As if! As if Rolph and I would risk providing our Visitors a subpar experience in that way. No, we engage in this warm friendship exchange only when no Visitors are near. Which is so rarely the case. Normally we are just swamped!)
Moments after hopping over Gwen and Mr. Frame, I find Mr. Frame sitting across from me at Lunch, in Dining, explaining why he, a married man, was just now mating with Gwen.
Mr. Frame’s wife, Ann Frame, used to be on Guillotine-Cart Pull Team Five. Those guillotines, being heavy, needing to be pulled over some fake rough terrain, which, though made of poly, still must be bumpy to seem real, Ann’s back went out, and she was transferred to VICTORIAN WEEKEND, a big adjustment, since, instead of being scary, she had to adopt a mind-set of mincing and serving. Now she is Cockney Cook: sweet gig! All she has to do is, every half hour, blunder into this formal dining hall, interrupting some Royals (Visitors) eating in there, then blunder out, knocking over a tea cart while apologizing for her humble class origins in a Cockney accent. But alas: apparently, her new role has caused marital stress, because Mrs. Frame is now constantly practicing her Cockney accent, even while on Break, in the Room.
I try to be a pal by pointing out that Tom himself always takes ample care, prior to the moment of his decapitation, to appear genuinely terrified. Also, re the lightning-burst-thunderclap spate of total darkness that allows him to switch the headless “After” Animatron in for himself on the chopping block before he hops down the DisaHole: does he not always endeavor to do that quickly, so the switch will go unnoticed by our Visitors? Maybe, I suggest, he is more like Ann than he wishes to acknowledge! Isn’t his quick hopping analogous to Ann’s continually practicing her accent, i.e., a form of admirable professionalism?
“I guess what I’m saying is, I don’t practice hopping into the DisaHole when we’re on Break,” he says.
“I get that,” I say, listening and agreeing being a proven path to friendship. “That sounds frustrating.”
“But she just goes on and on,” he says. “Guv’n’r this, guv’n’r that. And why? For what?”
“Wants to do a good job?” I say. “For her Royals?”
“Of whom there never are any?” he says, crossly.
Then there is this rather big silence.
“Not that I’m saying there never are any,” he says.
“I know you’re not saying that, Tom,” I say.
“I should probably just shut up,” he says.
“Probably,” I say.
Jeez, I think, Tom, Mr. Frame, you have really put me in a bad spot!
Rules are rules, friends are friends. But now rules and friends urge differing courses of action upon me, and which shall I choose?
I take a long thinking-walk along our fake creek, pondering, and see several false ducks there, belly up, being serviced by Todd Sharpe. When Todd gets something right, a quack can be heard, or at least part of one.
Gosh! I am usually all about Team. When my back went out last year, did I discontinue squatting and stand up straight, which would have felt good? No, I squatted on, using a broken-off broom as a brace. Once, filling in as Screaming Doomed Cleric, though I had strep, I screamed for eight straight hours, even providing all six Optional Dread Whoops.
Yet I continue pacing the free-flowing creek, going back and forth from one wall where the creek ends in a painting of itself flowing off into eternity to the other, until finally Todd has every last duck up and running, except for one too broke to ever quack again, which Todd bears away under one of his arms.
Just then, from near Bowling, I hear both hue and cry.
And rush over to find a group informally gathered around my pal Rolph Spengler, Flying Spear Launcher Three, engaging in some kicking activity, as Rolph continues, despite the kicking, to emit such discredited ideas as: “We pass our days enacting insane rituals of denial with which I, for one, am done! Can’t we just admit and discuss?” And: “Truth, truth! Can’t we just, for once, speak the goddam—”
Jeez! No wonder that group around Rolph is kicking him!
Shirley from Monitoring shoots me a look, meaning: Brian, give Rolph there a kick, so I can write down that you were among those who gave Rolph a kick because you were, as we all were, shocked and offended by the boldness and audacity of Rolph’s lies and, wishing to do your part in sparing the larger community the burden of Rolph’s confusion, you, with your foot or feet, did your best to stem the tide of twisted negativity pouring forth from strange, discredited Rolph.
At this point, in fairness, Rolph is no longer saying his lies. He is just inert. Shirley’s eyes go wide, then glance down at my foot, as if to say, “Brian, I know you are one of the good guys and I would like to be able to write that down.”
It is not a true kick I give Rolph, more of a foot-tap.
But it is that foot-tap, as I stumble away, that gives me pause. Leaning against a fake elm still in its ancient shipping box, I think, That tap did not hurt Rolph, probably. Not much. Then, with my right foot, I foot-tap my left calf, in order to feel what Rolph felt. Then again, harder. It should be a comfort to me: even when I foot-tap my own calf a ton harder than I actually foot-tapped Rolph, it doesn’t hurt that much at all.
Still, it might have felt unpleasant if one was dying as one felt it.
Wait, where was I going again? I ask myself.
Monitoring & Reporting Services, I reply. To rat out Tom.
Thanks, I respond.
If you don’t wish to be dealt with harshly, don’t do anything wrong, I underscore.
Just be normal, I concur.
At least it is quick to cross the Main Plain, because, on this unsettling day, absolutely no one is mating.
Across Bridge C looms Monitoring & Reporting Services: trim mauve hut, many fluttering banners.
As I approach the bridge, my name is called, and I turn to find Gabrielle D. of FIFTIES SOCK HOP, chomping gum as usual, in bobby socks though sixty, along with her husband, Bill, whose letter sweater, it seems, grows tighter by the day. And who is always calling me Frankenstein. What is up with that? Inaccurate! Do I call him Eisenhower just because that individual is of Bill’s same theme-milieu?
Though on Break, hence not required to be in costume, they are. Plus Bill is wearing his hair slicked back and Gabrielle D. has retained her normal flouncy ponytail.
“What’s the haps, Frankie?” Bill says. “Frankenstein? Frank-a-roo?”
“Hi, Bill,” I say.
“Tom Frame asked us to slap this bit of scribble on you, babycakes,” Gabrielle D. says.
And hands me a note, which I read on the spot:
“Any response, monster-man?” Bill says.
“Not at this time, Bill,” I say.
“We’re hip to that, daddy-o,” Gabrielle D. says, and off they go, holding hands, and then, as is often the case, they pause so he can dip her.
Now I must just cross the bridge and rat Tom out.
But what a nice letter, how direct and trusting.
I turn on my heel, hit Vending up for a potpie, take it home, eat it in my Sleep Slot, go nowhere all night.
And, in this way, allow my Reporting Period to expire.
Yet how ironic.
Next morning, post-Breakfast, I am squatting near my niche, having a Gingerade, when up trots, all peppy, Amy, Special Assistant to Shirley of Monitoring.
“Hey, Bri,” she says. “Got a sec? Some of us were going through your niche just now? And look what I found.”
In her hand: that letter Mr. Frame wrote me that was so nice!
In her other hand: her whistle, which, I feel, at any second, she may blow on me.
“Just so you know?” she says. “Moments ago, I showed Mr. Frame this letter. After which, he very openly ratted you out, claiming that, yesterday, he blurted out a Regrettable Falsehood in your presence, and that you, at that time, gave him a look indicating that you wouldn’t turn him in. Which, per my records, you haven’t. Turned him in. Brian, I need some honesty here: did Mr. Frame, yesterday, blurt out a Regrettable Falsehood?”
“Yes,” I say.
“But you didn’t turn him in,” she says.
“I guess not?” I say. “Not yet?”
“Are you turning him in now?” she says.
“Did he really turn me in?” I say.
“I just detailed that to you,” she says. “Yes.”
“Then yes,” I say.
“And yet your Reporting Period is expired,” she says.
“Is it?” I say.
“And Mr. Frame is claiming immunity, for being First Individual Forthcoming,” she says.
Three cowboys from WEST amble by, fake-bowlegged.
And tip their huge hats at us.
“Brian, to be frank?” she says. “We were kids together. Remember TinyGhosts, remember BabyDracs, remember we were on the Teen Crew that built those first, hilariously inept Torture Racks? I really don’t want to blow this whistle and have a group gather and kick you to death.”
“I’d also prefer that not to happen,” I say.
“But you see my dilemma, though, right?” she says. “Mr. Frame just ratted you out, for not ratting him out. Who’s to say he might not rat me out if I fail to blow my whistle on you? See what I mean? Bri, are you willing to work with me on this?”
“Very much so,” I say.
“Stay quiet and nod,” she says. “During what follows.”
And blows her whistle.
A crowd gathers.
Amy, trusted by all, gives a disillusioned shake of her sad, dispirited head.
“Moments ago,” she says, “a Regrettable Falsehood was uttered aloud.”
A gasp goes up, and across dozens of faces there runs a ripple of, You’ve got to be kidding, this outrage makes us suddenly so mad.
“By Tom Frame,” Amy says.
She looks at me.
I nod.
“We know this,” Amy says, “because Brian here, doing his duty, though it was difficult, spoke the truth. To me. Just now. Immediately. Don’t be surprised if Mr. Frame, a self-admitted liar, now tries making some further shit up to save his butt.”
The crowd rushes off to find Mr. Frame.
“I just couldn’t blow my whistle on you,” Amy says. “I’ve found you cute since we were little.”
“I’ve found you cute, too,” I say.
Which I haven’t, that much, but it seems like a bad moment to begin violating politeness.
Soon, from the sounds Mr. Frame makes when the crowd finds him over by Vending, it becomes clear that the crowd has found Mr. Frame over by Vending.
Amy and I stand there listening, making silent winces of eek and ouch.
“I guess one never realizes how little one wants to be kicked to death until one hears a crowd doing that exact same thing to someone nearby,” I say.
“The thing is,” Amy says, “Mr. Frame actually did that for which he is right now being punished. So I don’t need to feel bad about that. Do I?”
“No,” I say.
“What I need to feel bad about, I suppose, is that you also did something bad, for which you have not yet been punished,” she says. “Jeez. And now I’m doing something bad, for which I may later be punished. You make me not even care about right or wrong, though.”
Then we kiss. And, finding a place beside the free-flowing creek, mate. It is not my first time, but I have to say it is one of my best, my relief that I am not being kicked to death by a group of my peers being, I think, what makes it so memorable.
On my way back to my niche, I pass Mr. Frame. There he is, fallen, by Vending. One of our sickly little birds lands on Mr. Frame and gives him a peck. How do those birds get down here, anyway? That is one of our abiding mysteries. What would impel them to fly down our Egress Spout? Or have they been down here always?
Oh, Tom, I think, it’s my fault, I should have thrown your letter away. But I treasured it and hoped to read it many more times. But mostly, Tom, it’s your fault, for ratting me out to Amy, after she busted you for doing the wrong thing that you truly did do, after which you tried to claim the immunity that stems from being First Individual Forthcoming. What was up with that, Tom? Had you succeeded in ratting me out, it would be me, not you, being pecked by a random bird near Vending, looking much the worse for wear, Tom.
To which Tom, long gone, emits a hissing sound from the zone near his mouth.
That night Amy comes over and sleeps with me in my Sleep Slot: tight fit! Wedged in there so tight that neither of us can roll over unless we both do so at the same time, we mate, we laugh, we slide ourselves out and cook noodles on my hot plate, then slide ourselves back in and she teaches me how to braid her hair.
Although for many years I did not think of Amy as all that cute, I do now.
In the morning, I wake to find her forehead touching mine. On her face a look that says, Can I just say something?
“Good morning,” I say.
“I’m not sure I can do this,” she says.
“It is pretty tight in here,” I say.
“All my life I’ve tried to do everything right,” she says. “And now this. Here I am, a Special Assistant, and what am I doing? Exactly the opposite.”
She is slated to Monitor DISCO LOVE NEST and now begins crankily costuming up from a daypack she brought along last night.
“Seeing Tom dead wigged me out, I admit it,” she says. “Because, in a sense, we caused that. I mean, we did. We got Tom Frame kicked to death and now he rests in peace or wherever. For me? It came down to, O.K., so who do I want to see kicked to death less, Brian or Tom? And the answer was you. So I lied. And I guess now I’m just going to have to live with that.”
“You saved my life,” I say.
“God, I know, but still, ugh,” she says.
When I pull the pulley that causes the bed to slide out, guess what?
A one-time incident involving excess water presence has occurred.
Is occurring.
All kinds of junk is floating past: a cape, a fake arm, a lunchbox.
Amy, nice short disco boot perched above the ongoing water incident, purses her lips, as in, I love these boots, this is so not fair.
But step down she does. She must. Or be late. The water runs into her boots, as I take her hand, all VICTORIAN WEEKEND.
“Shit,” she says. “I hate this.”
A silence hangs above us, as in, Hate what, Amy?
Red Murray comes sloshing past, chasing the Swiss hat he must wear for his ALPS RESORT role, Mountaineer Famous for Surviving Terrible Avalanche.
No way is Red catching that hat.
Going past, he shoots me this look of, This should be easy but somehow that darn thing keeps eluding my grasp.
“These seem to be getting worse,” I say.
“What do?” Amy says.
“Nothing,” I say.
We slosh along, holding hands, and I am overcome by a powerful feeling of trusting and liking and wishing to be brought even closer to this person whose eyelashes last night flickered against mine in the night, with mine also flickering against hers, a pretty bonding thing to do with someone, especially while mating with them.
So I just say it.
“These floods,” I say softly.
And find her stopped, looking down shocked at the water flowing into and around her short disco boots.
I have put her in a bad spot. And me in a bad spot.
Have put the two of us in a bad spot.
She leans in close.
“Flood,” she whispers.
“Flood,” I whisper back.
“Stupid flood,” she whispers, a bit giddily.
Then the lights flicker and all goes dark.
“Power failure,” Amy whispers.
“Another power failure,” I whisper back right away, so she will not doubt for even a second that I am all the way with her.
“Visitors are coming,” she whispers sarcastically in the dark.
“So many Visitors,” I say.
The lights come back on and quickly gaining on us is Gwen Thorsen, dressed as Death, heading to the Tram, holding her Death robe up out of what, we realize, we have just called, out loud, possibly within her earshot, “flood,” after which we both uttered aloud the problematic phrase “power failure,” referring to that which it would have been best to bear silently with good grace, after which we both uttered aloud the most Regrettable Falsehood one can utter.
Gwen’s eyes narrow into these slits of: (1) Yes, guys, I heard all that just now, and (2) You two are having a thing, which is great, but, think about it, you killed Tom Frame, with whom I myself was having a thing.
In her haste to go rat us out, she drops the train of her Death robe and it trails behind her, making a temporary road of wave in the water.
“Crap,” Amy says.
And blows her whistle.
A crowd gathers, many rubbing their eyes, having only just now awoken.
“Gwen here just uttered a Regrettable Falsehood aloud,” Amy says. “Concerning what, I’d rather not say, but . . . ”
Then twirls the toe of her disco boot in the water.
“I didn’t!” Gwen says. “She did! And he did. They also, both, used the problematic phrase ‘power failure,’ as well as—”
“Which, hello, you yourself just used,” Amy says.
“I used it to point out that you used it!” Gwen says. “Earlier.”
“I find this tragic,” Amy says. “Gwen, you are just playing a very weak game of turnaround.”
In Gwen’s eyes, I can see that she knows she can’t win against Amy, so well trusted by all.
“Wait,” Gwen says, frantic. “Think about it, guys. Isn’t it possible that Amy is the one—is the lying one? And not me? If they, in fact, said those things that I just now claimed they said, and I overheard them, wouldn’t this be, uh, exactly how she would, you know, approach it?”
Even though I know Gwen is telling the truth, she is telling it so nervous even I doubt it.
During the kicking that ensues, Amy gives me a look with furrowed brow, as in, Get in there, man.
I get in there. I don’t kick or even foot-tap, just stand there in the early-morning-breath smell of it all, being jostled by my peers’ abundant kicking.
Oh, Gwen, I think, why did you not do what I have so often done upon overhearing someone saying something I wished I wasn’t overhearing, namely, pretend I wasn’t hearing it?
When all is done, someone suggests that, out of respect, we heft Gwen, always a sweetheart until now, off the wet floor and set her on something higher, such as the Suggestion Box made of plastic, shaped like a giant rose, in which we may leave Suggestions, should we so choose.
We drape Gwen over the rose, which, sensing her there, goes, “Great idea! I love it!”
Because Gwen continues to be draped across it, the rose keeps saying that as we drift away.
“This is going from bad to worse,” Amy says, as we approach the Tram.
“I’ll say,” I say.
“I suppose you think I went to the whistle too quick,” she says. “Oh, God, maybe I did. But what did you want me to do? Let her go rat us out, so we could spend the rest of the day waiting to get kicked to death? Does that sound fun? Why were we talking all that crap anyway? What were we thinking?”
Looking over at her there, in her disco boots, eyes moist with tears, appearing not hot but a bit odd and out of sorts, I find myself feeling more tenderly toward her than I would were she looking all composed and hot—i.e., her moment of weakness and being flustered is calling forth feelings of wishing to protect her from all future harm.
At the Tram, upset, she will not kiss me.
But I insist. And we do. Kiss. And continue kissing, even as she, on the Tram, must therefore slightly bend, and I must slightly jog, for us to continue kissing.
Then the Tram disappears into Tunnel Eight.
I turn to regard the Room and find it shimmering, its fake trees AutoSwaying in synch, the tinkle and glow of the many tiny lights upon the trees reflected in the delicate leaping-fish-caused ripples of the free-flowing creek, all of this saying to me, Brian, you feel bad about what just now happened to Gwen, sure, O.K., fair enough, but, for all that, is it not still a beautiful world? Which you would not even be in anymore, if not for Amy, who, at this point, has saved your life twice?
So just try to be happy.
That afternoon, those of us on Break gather as a community beneath the Egress Spout.
Before us: three silver body bags, labelled “R.S.,” “T.F.,” and “G.T.,” respectively.
Entering with her fellow-Monitors, Amy casts a glance at me, her long shiny hair relocating, then swinging back to where it was pre-swing, her winsome glance seeming to say, Ah, sweet, you again!
Then her look grows sombre, as in, Ugh, two of those three silver bags lying there all lumpy are due in part to us.
Mr. Regis from Workhouse Effective Coördination says a few words through his little amp, re how sad it is to live out one’s whole life honoring certain timeless principles, then throw that all away in one ill-advised moment, and in the name of what? Disorder? Chaos? Thus taking one’s dishonor forward into all eternity.
The lights flicker, go off, come back on.
Have we found this life pleasant? Mr. Regis asks. Have we found people to be fond of, things that give us pleasure? Have we generally felt, getting up in the morning, that, if we lived within Law 6, our days would go well? Is it too much to ask that certain false, negative things not be underscored? Is it totally crazy that those who, for their own selfish reasons, insist on underscoring certain false, negative things shall be rebuked?
Al from Janitorial steps forward, picks up the “R.S.” bag, disappears briskly up the Egress Spout.
Dennis from Janitorial steps forward, picks up the “T.F.” bag, disappears up the Egress Spout, albeit less briskly, since Dennis is smaller than Al and Tom was bigger than Rolph.
Soon, Rolph and Tom will rest Above, in that shady graveyard near Pueblo (Colorado), depicted on the Memorial Prayer Cards now being handed out by Susan and Gabe of Consolation Services, Pueblo (Colorado) being the city under which we are approximately located.
Gwen must abide here a bit longer, until Al and Dennis come down and decide which one of them will lug her up Above.
Mr. Regis unplugs the mike from his little amp, picks up the little amp, walks sadly off, if one can be said to walk sadly while carrying a little amp.
Amy, departing, sneaks me a wave.
Oh, Life, I think, I wish you were simpler and I could have these growing feelings of love for Amy without the countervailing negative feelings that stem from, in a sense, our having played a part in certain recent undesirable occurrences.
And find myself somewhat cursing Law 6 in my heart.
To which Life says, Why curse Law 6? Had you stayed within its sensible guidance and ratted out Tom immediately, and refrained from talking a bunch of Regrettable crap aloud with Amy right in front of Gwen, then Tom would be just as dead as he is now, as is appropriate, and Gwen would still be alive, romping around in her Death robe with that goofy crooked smile on her face as usual, and you could just be enjoying your feelings for Amy, no problem, the two of you working hard, anticipating Visitors, thinking, perhaps, of marriage, maybe, eventually, of babies, like normal people, law-abiding folks.
All of which sounds good.
But is not to be.
Guy comes up, holding a tommy gun.
“Are you by any chance Brian?” he says. “Dad mentioned you. He really got a kick out of fake-menacing you from above, I guess? I had a feeling it was you, because Dad sent me a sketch. Dad was such a talented artist. I’m Edgar Spengler, CHICAGO GANGSTER HIDEOUT. Rolph’s son! Sorry about the gun. I came right over from Role.”
The sketch shows me as I am when Squatting Ghoul Eight: hell-scorched shirt, fire-blackened slacks, smoldering necktie, meant to communicate that, pre-Death, I was an office worker, perhaps even Exec.
Under it, Rolph has written in calligraphy: “Edgar, this is Brian, that friend I have made.”
I tell Edgar that Rolph was a good man.
“Well, Mom and I always thought so,” Edgar says. “We truly don’t know what got into him there at the end. He was always so sane. Just happy, you know? Anyway, right before his unfortunate, but deserved, passing, Dad, done with Break, about to head back to MAWS, asked me to get this sketch to you. Then I forgot. Oops. Kind of ironic. Oh, and this.”
Then hands me a letter. Which I step aside to read:
I walk over and gaze up the Egress Spout, thinking, Wait, what now?
Did I know, dear reader, that few Visitors have tended to come down here, and in fact none ever has, even once, in all the days of my life? Yes, yes, of course, we all know that. But knowing it is one thing, saying it another. Why say it? Does it help? We know from bitter experience it does not. All recall with shame that period referred to as the Slough, during which, discouraged, many of us abandoned our roles entirely, casting aside accoutrements and costumes, just lolling around talking crap, arguing, kvetching, brawling, hitting Vending up for those sedative shooters called SomnoSlams, following these, sometimes minutes later, with those mini-paks of stimulant dust called the HyperHooper.
Those were the days.
Not!
Our loss of sense of purpose resulted in eight deaths across our eleven sister workhouses and the destruction of many of the cool things bequeathed to us by previous generations. One evening, that earlier described Remorseful Demon was sent tumbling down the Cliff of Unceasing Desire, emitting a sad random Remorse-groan with each slam until, finally, boinking a Ventilation Unit, it fell silent. And lay looking up with its sad Demonic eyes at those of us who had just rolled it down there, as if to say, “Colleagues, enough, fetch me forth from this foul ravine, let us begin anew. We must believe in something, mustn’t we?”
Soon, as a community, we answered: Yes. Yes, we must. Believing in nothing, we are simply going nuts! Eight dead, forty wounded? Our three main Vending Stations split open and afloat in the Central Fire Pool, the Tram derailed so that, when going on Break, we had to walk darkened tracks to the Room, plus, what fun was Break when one had accrued absolutely zero Role Hours?
Hence Law 6.
And things got better.
And still are.
Always, I have wondered (we have all wondered, or have tried our best to wonder), When will Visitors come? Any day now. On a certain day. Which, when it begins, will be called, by us, at that time, today. Hence, every day, as we wake to a new today, we must assume that today may be the day! And when Visitors do come, what do we hope to do? Wow them. Perhaps blow their minds. With how good we are. In our case, the case of MAWS, how scary. How sad it would be if, after all this waiting, when our Visitors did come, we were to stink! And they were, like, It was sure hard, climbing down that long Egress Spout via that slippery chrome ladder, and now, neither scared nor wowed, we must wearily climb back up it?
But it now appears that that certain day, that longed-for today, will never come.
With a start I note I am standing at the head or foot of Gwen’s silver bag.
Head.
In there somewhere is whatever is left of her goofy crooked smile.
And in a sad flash it hits me: if Visitors are never coming, Gwen, Rolph, and Tom died for naught.
Not to mention Randall “Randy” Cobb, of Food Services, who, for a hobby, maintained a database of all of our birthdays, until last Christmas Eve, when, drunk, he perpetuated the dearth-of-Visitors fallacy aloud and paid the ultimate price, and never thereafter shyly handed over a crude homemade birthday card again. Or Betty Loomis, Blood-Stirring Mistress, whose role was to stand waist-deep and keening in the Pool of Guilty Blood, who, last year, took to sitting depressed on the shore, not keening even a bit, muttering things she ought not, and who, as she was encircled, blessed and forgave us all in advance.
And others, so many others.
Sometimes in life the foundation upon which one stands will give a tilt, and everything that one has previously believed and held dear will begin sliding about, and suddenly all things will seem strange and new.
This happens to me now.
In truth, I am filled with wonder.
Fresh air is constantly coming to us via Ventilation Units 1 through 26, and fresh water via our various Spigots, and food via the narrow Food Chutes that feed into our many Kitchens, and electric power, albeit sporadically, via those big green wires up there, bolted into the ceiling. None of that crap can be cheap, right? Hence there must be someone up there who still cares about us?
But what kind of caring is that? To drop folks in a hole, then plug said hole up?
Oddly, it is in this moment that I realize I am in love.
Because, asking myself with whom I might share these thoughts, and to whom I wish to turn, in this, my hour of need, I realize it is Amy.
Amy and only Amy.
Who, per the clock on the side of the Spout, is likely over at Dinner.
Seeking her, entering Dining, stuck behind a group from WILD DAY OUT WEST, I feel like going, “Oh, Jimbo, stop saying ‘I reckon,’ ” as Jimbo, whose real name is Jim but who insists on WESTifying it even while on Break, stands there chewing a stir-stick as if it were a piece of hay or whatnot, to look, I guess, more WEST?
The time for roles is done, Jimbo.
No Amy.
Why can’t these cowpokes step aside? I somewhat crossly muse. Then take a seat, as far away from them as I can get.
Honestly, I am filled with hope. What new life might we begin, free of the bothersome prospect of being Visited? Dedicated to some new task, some fresh way of being? Who might we become, sans roles, free to redecorate and un-theme this spacious home of ours? What might come to interest us? Toward what might we redirect our considerable, until now misspent, energy?
Only too bad.
The Monitors of our Monitors are Shirley and Kiko: Shirley in the day and Kiko in the night.
It is thus rare to see Shirley and Kiko together in the same place.
Yet here they are now, ambling side by side into Dining.
Headed straight for me.
“Shirley tells me that wasn’t much of a kick you gave Rolph the other day,” Kiko says, spinning around a chair to sit in it backward.
While Shirley stays sternly standing.
“More of a nudge,” Shirley says. “With the foot.”
What a strange set of feelings I am feeling.
“Can me and Kiko buy you a Coke?” Shirley says, and offers me ten tokens.
“Have a Coke, collect your wits,” says Kiko. “You have always been, so far, fairly solid.”
I take the tokens, get up, and buy, actually, two Cokes, because today is TwoferTuesday, wherein you get two of whatever you order for the price of just one of those things.
“We’re such generally nice people, our community,” Kiko says, before I am even all the way sitting down. “Do you ever wonder why, occasionally, we’re so violent?”
“Maybe it’s because we care,” says Shirley.
“I think that’s exactly right,” Kiko says. “We live in close quarters, and hence, to preserve positivity and order, have developed a system distinguished by its rigor, discipline, and ferocity.”
Kiko’s fingering her whistle, on an orange cord there around her neck.
And now sees me looking at it.
And casts a quick glance around Dining.
“Decent-sized group in here today,” she says.
“Do you have anything you’d like to tell us, Brian?” Shirley says. “Anything at all?”
“We hear you’re having a thing with Amy,” says Kiko.
“My Special Assistant,” says Shirley.
“We find ourselves having some doubts about this whole Gwen situation,” says Kiko.
“With respect to Amy,” says Shirley.
“With respect to Amy’s apparent shocking lack of judgment,” says Kiko.
“Based on the testimony of two solid eyewitnesses,” says Shirley.
“Bret Freeze, Katy Freeze,” says Kiko.
“We’d like to underscore that, in terms of you, all is not lost,” says Shirley. “You’re in position to be First Individual Forthcoming.”
“We have bigger fish to fry,” says Kiko.
“To land a giant, well-respected fish like Amy,” Shirley says, “a strong body of evidence is going to be key.”
Poor dears! It all seems so petty.
Knowing what I now know.
I slide to them, between my Cokes, Rolph’s letter.
And watch their faces go red as they read it.
“So, uh, let me get this straight, Bri,” Shirley says, sliding it back. “If I’m understanding this right. All these years, Dennis and Al have just been, what? Stashing those death bags up in this, uh, cave, or what have you?”
“Must be getting pretty crowded up there,” Kiko says.
“So crowded that whenever Dennis and Al go up there to add someone new to the mix,” Shirley says, “they basically have to heave-ho the corpse up as far as they can, onto this, what? Teetering, slippery hill of the dead?”
“Easy, kid,” says Kiko.
“And now they’re all worried that next time will be the occasion on which the deceased comes sliding down and zips over the edge and a few minutes later comes shooting out of the frigging Spout?” says Shirley. “Which, how is that my deal?”
Then looks at me with eyes suddenly wet.
To my amazement.
“Well, shit, congrats, Bri,” she says hoarsely. “You’ve just joined a small fraternity, sworn to secrecy for the good of all.”
“Don’t tell Amy,” Kiko says. “Do not. The fewer folks who know the better.”
“All the more reason for her to go,” says Shirley. “For you to help us get her gone.”
Just then, guess who steps in?
“Speak of the devil,” says Kiko.
Seeing me there with Kiko and Shirley, whose forward-leaning, extractive postures must be familiar to her from the many times she herself has assumed that posture while trying to get someone to rat out a person near and dear, Amy stops in her tracks, gives me a heartbroken head-tilt, sprints out of Dining.
Kiko raises her whistle and does a double toot, meaning not “Come all, kick away,” but, rather, “Tate and/or Jacqueline, bring your Stunners, Stun Brian here, who seems inclined to get up and race after Amy.”
There follows the ear-splitting sound of an All-Alert, and Ken DiRogini, over the P.A., says an unknown individual, female, possibly Amy, actually almost for sure Amy, has just shoved Al down and illegally entered the Egress Spout, bent, apparently, on escape to Above.
Here comes Jacqueline, with her Stunner.
And down I go.
How strange to wake in Clinic, burn marks on both temples, the taste and smell of Amy and the feel of her hand in mine fresh in my mind, only to realize that she is not Above, not at all, but in that creepy cave of the dead, mulling two options equally blah: (1) Come down, be kicked to death more energetically than usual, due to having admitted her guilt via fleeing, or (2) Stay up there among the creepy dead forever, sneaking down now and then at night to hit up Vending for food and water, which, one false move and—see (1), above.
Might I rise and join her? Make a life with her? Up there? Yes. Yes. As soon as I am not so puky. And can stay awake somewhat.
But alas.
A third option I do not imagine: that night, here comes Amy, plummeting head first down the Spout, hitting the floor with the sound a person makes when he or she has fallen from a height it takes forty to fifty minutes to attain by ladder.
In her clenched hand: a note, to me, on a page from her Monitoring Pad, which I am handed the next morning, on the sly, in Clinic, by Carver D., Shy Suitor, VICTORIAN WEEKEND.
“Thanks, Carve,” I say.
“It is of no import to one such as I,” he says.
Every day starts out as a certain day, dear reader, which, when it begins, we call today. Hence, every day, as we wake to a new today, we must assume that today may be the day. For what, though? That is what is unknown, that is what I must find out, and quickly now: for what will each of my coming todays henceforth be for?
For Lunch, Shirley and Kiko send in steak, pudding, four Kit Kats, a milkshake. Plus a note: “Sorry re Amy. For the best, though painful. BTW: we feel you would make a fine Monitor. Appealing, we hope? Otherwise your outlook is grim. To be frank.”
“Yes, please,” I write at the bottom, and eat heartily, then send the note back on my cleaned plate.
But I will not become a Monitor.
I have Amy’s letter, Rolph’s letter. I have these notes I have written to you, dear reader.
Upon my release, I will rise, go to Copy Services, make Copies of these, go forth, leave Copies on every fake stump in the Room, each chair in Dining, in the Coat Check of disco, the stables of NOW WE JOUST, the saloons of WEST, on the seats of the Tram, as it speeds in its unceasing arc, from LOVEFEST, CALI CREEK, in the north, to DREAMY MAINE SUMMER, in the south, so that all may know the truth and be moved to ask, perhaps in some quiet moment, Is this world that we have made (which, for the soundest of reasons, we made, along the way, quite harsh) a world in which lovers may thrive?
Though I will not live to see it, and dread the kicking that must come, may these words play some part in bringing the old world down. ♦
