by Amos Gunner
CHAPTER 29: DALE
So now that our background is shaded in a bit more, we come to yesterday. I mean, we have more dots. Hm. Pity the journey to this point has slightly fatigued me. Mind if we take a break? No? You’re riveted? I see.
My yesterday, the conscious parts at least--I needn’t report on the doings of my sleeping hours--commenced with the crack of a door slamming shut. I knew my wife took care of the week’s grocery list every Friday, but I had no idea she shopped so early. It was approximately eight.
Other than a pasty tongue, I had eluded the more disagreeable consequences of overindulgence. In a way, this disappointed me. My circumstances were out of the ordinary--that is, no work--and some bodily disruption would have provided a pleasing symmetry. Pleasing because a symmetry is always pleasing.
I had no obligations yesterday. Nothing. And is there any more odious an enemy of the vital mortal than “free time,” an expression and a state which I loath? Free time frightens me, and it is nothing to seek out or to rejoice at upon finding. I know I have the reputation for being a hard worker, but no one considers a fear of the void is my primal motivation.
So I was awake, alive, but I questioned the point of being so. The sandman’s magic had dissipated and falling back under his spell was impossible, though, for a few minutes, I tried, during which I attempted to mentally locate chores around the house which might consume time, but there were no more than an hour’s worth of leaves on the ground and I had cleaned the gutters two weeks ago. My wife took responsibility for the inside our residence, so there was little remaining that required my attention. How sad, when you think about it.
So television, I decided. I was going to watch hours and hours of television. With luck on my side, I’d catch a cop show, and one: remind myself why I took this job in the first place, and two: perhaps add a few killer lines to my arsenal.
In my robe, I nuked a cup of lukewarm coffee and plopped down on the couch. I’ve had a thick turtle-green robe for years and I estimate it’s never spent more than ten minutes covering my nudity. A robe is so decadent, don’t you think? When one dons a robe, one is admitting one is not planning on doing much of anything for an extended period of time.
Daytime TV is dreadful, with its paid programming, shows aimed at children, idiots pontificating on sports or celebrities or home decorations. No Law and Order till noon. I would’ve settled for another adventure of our Temperamental Woman and Her Flower Bearing Fool but I tuned to the station too late. The end credits were rolling for that particular pleasure.
I dug through the morass of cultural depravity, incredulous I could not locate any salvation amongst the two hundred stations. Then I came across quite a hubbub. A din, to be sure, but an intriguing din if you can conjure such a creature. A political show. I promptly thanked the television gods for cable news.
The host quieted his three rambunctious guests. Each occupied their own segment of the screen and each, apparently, subscribed to the specious notion that volume and validity are bedfellows. I exaggerate. The youngest guest, a liberal arts major from a small but reputable university, behaved with relative restraint.
Perhaps as a reward, the host focused on the young man and asked for a clarification of his position. The youth gently explained how he held the position that terrorists lose any moral ground they might have otherwise possessed the moment they take the lives of innocent civilians. By the same token, he went on, the US looses their moral authority whenever one of our bombs accidentally impacts a hospital or peaceful village.
This ruffled the other two guests, but the host cut off their squawks to attack the boy himself. The host--in a tone I judged to be a bit pedantic--assured the youth no one derives pleasure from the suffering of innocents, who, after all, we’re over there to protect in the first place. But this is war and people die. Hadn’t the idealist ever heard of “collateral damage?” It was perhaps a rhetorical question, but the plucky boy gave an answer. “Yes. But have you ever heard of total bullshit?”
Oh, the subsequent bedlam was priceless. Over the noise of the other two, the host issued an immediate apology to the audience and announced the show would return after a brief commercial break, minus one guest.
I turned off the set. Firstly, nothing on any channel all day was going to top that moment. Secondly, the delightful whelp had hinted at something profound, or at least something that resonated in me, something removed from military matters.
Gruber was content to wait for Ravella to tag another bastard and when doing so, to perhaps leave behind a bit of hard evidence--the “you have to break a few eggs to make an omelet” theory. In other words, Gruber felt distressingly little moral outrage over collateral damage. Total bullshit.
The outspoken youth had energized me back to my old self. I ran upstairs and tore off the robe and got into a suit. I can’t say if the suit could be adjudged to be work clothes or civvies. In my closet, there’s little difference between the two. In the bathroom, I did the lightest primping required to retain my dignity.
In my home office, I skimmed Ravella’s case file, stuffed it in my briefcase, and--
Well, things get a little blurry here. Lost time. Next thing I know, I’m across the street from Ravella’s apartment building. In the midst of parallel parking, midway into reversing, I braked and asked myself a tough, sober question: “Dale, what are you doing?”
But I didn’t answer. Sorry, but I didn’t. I completed the parallel park and waited.
