Canni
Page 35
“That’s me. Hey, get this: no bus ride back. They set us up with a limo, and said we get to meet President Collins today!”
“He’s right over there, you know,” said John, pointing.
“Hot damn,” exclaimed Willie, spotting POTUS. “Sniff me.”
“Huh?” said John.
“I sweat a lot.”
“You’re fine.”
President Collins waved them over. Willie took his sister’s hand, and they went.
Rob and Cash were alone in the side room. The suit and bouquet were still on the table, along with the disc that contained the wedding songs. Her hand was nestled in his.
“Do you like me in a suit?” he smiled.
“I do.”
“Should I put that one on?”
She looked down at it, searching for the right words.
“Teresa always said I could never find a better man than you.”
“Teresa is our angel, and I love her, but she’s not the one in the wedding gown.”
“I . . . I . . . all of the people from the tunnels said that if we got married before we went back home . . . I just . . . You and I could be completely different in five years. People change. But you should know that the me who is here with you now, the Cash that you love, will always be yours, no matter what the future holds. We might change, but our history never will.”
“I understand.”
“I mean, holy shit—the President of the United States has come to see us get married, Rob.”
“Well, you might have just saved the world . . . ” he smiled, caressing her hand.
“Yeah, so why are the Secret Service guys still wearing those helmets?”
“I guess they can’t be sure who really ate their cookies.”
“I really need another cookie, Rob. Getting married in a world like this . . . ”
“One thing I do know is that I would rather be with you in this vile world than be without you in a proper one. However, you can’t marry me out of obligation. Please don’t.”
She put her other hand on his. It was shaking.
“All good,” he said, holding up his bandaged left hand. “I don’t even have a ring finger anymore.”
Eyeliner raced mascara down her cheek. She swallowed hard, managed a smile, and said, “Wanna start a band?”
He dabbed the streak of makeup from her face and replied, “What would we call it?”
She rested her head on his shoulder. The veil tickled his face, so he gently removed it.
“Tomorrow Never Knows,” she said.
He kissed the top of her head, “That’s a cool name.”
Fifteen minutes later, the assembled guests mumbled as Rob and Cash entered the main room, he in his Buick shirt, she in her Mets tee. President Collins, having already been briefed, stood before the flowered trellis with some words for the group.
“Well, folks, I could never hit a curveball,” he said. “Or even a fastball, for that matter. But we’ve sort of had one tossed at us today. But it was actually the rest of us, not Caroline or Rob, who called for the strikeout pitch. I think we got a bit ahead of ourselves. They are young with a boundless future before them. One day, when they’re ready, and if they are ready, I suspect there might be a beautiful wedding back in New York. But that day is not today. Nor should it be. There were some words that were going to be read today; words from Caroline’s best friend, Teresa.”
He unfolded a small note.
“And they shall be read. Teresa once said, ‘Love colors all things bright. Love transforms the drab, the uninteresting, the routine. Love makes all things new’. Now, I am not the youngest sumbitch, and we have Judge Ruvnick twiddling his honorable thumbs here, and my fiancée Madison and I have been planning a wedding anyway, and maybe it’s those cookies talking, but . . . ”
The crowd began clapping and yelling.
“Who needs a fancy wedding, packed with stuffed shirts, right?” asked the president.
More cheers.
“Where is that kid who told me he is trying to blow up his YouTube channel?”
Paul’s eyes widened. His mother motioned to him to raise his hand. He did.
“What is your name again?” asked the president.
“Bhong. Paul Bhong.”
“You got your phone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Paul Bhong, you are the official, and only, White House cameraman for this event. An
American president has not been married in office since 1915. When we add interracial wedding to the mix, that takes it up a notch, and when we drop gay on top of all that, well, Mr. Bhong, you are about to own YouTube.”
President Collins held out his hand, which was taken by his fiancée, Madison, a petite gentleman with milky-smooth skin and flowing blonde hair that would do Thor proud. Paul fumbled to get the video rolling as the guests cheered. The judge took his place, Cash’s hand was snug within Rob’s, and the future First Couple of the United States of America turned to face the magistrate who would marry them.
No rice was thrown but many bubbles were blown, and the country had a First Gentleman. A covey of heavily guarded limousines and SUVs formed a line outside the courthouse.
“Air Force One?” smiled Paul. “You bitches are going home in style!”
“I guess if I’m gonna get on a plane, Air Force One and some Exodus is as good as it’s gonna get,” said Cash.
“Yeah, and the flight crew are as baked as you are. Fuckin’ Stoned Temple Pilots,” he laughed. “Damn, with no commercial flights, McCarran and JFK will be open only for you!”
Most of the tunnel-dwellers had said their goodbyes and loaded into the cars that would take them to their new housing, but Russo and Phaedra remained. Don held a large box.
“The Magnificent Seven!” he said, looking at Rob, Cash, Paul, John, and Doctors Chuang, Anderson, and Papperello-Venito.
“That’s been done,” said Rob. “Maybe the Magnanimous Seven?”
“The Magnanimous Seven,” repeated Russo.
“Phaedra, can you take a pic?” asked Paul, handing her his phone.
“Of course.”
Everyone in the photo was smiling. Paul had his tongue out.
Don Russo stepped up to Rob with the box in his arms.
“This was supposed to be like a wedding gift, but y’all fucked that up, so I guess it’s a little going away present. I didn’t wrap it or nothin’, so just take the lid off.”
As Rob took the package, there was an audible rattling around within. He placed it on the ground and lifted the lid.
His 8-tracks. His father’s 8-tracks.
There they were; Emerson, Lake & Palmer, Rush, Black Sabbath, Pink Floyd, all of them.
“What?” was all he could muster.
“I really tried to get your car back for you, bro. I was too late. This was the best I could do.”
Rob wrapped his arms around the Don of the underground.
“Thank you.”
Russo and Phaedra said their goodbyes and walked toward the cars. They had a brief but animated discussion. They then entered separate SUVs.
Cash was filling her palms with Purell hand sanitizer. Rob hadn’t seen her do that in quite some time.
Paul, with his arm around his smiling mom, said to the other five, “Well, I guess Air Force One awaits you lucky bitches.”
“Yes, we’ll need to get a move on,” replied Dr. Papperello-Venito.
As the group took their first steps toward the vehicles, John G took Rob and Cash aside.
“I . . . I don’t think I’ll be going to New York with you guys,” he said.
“What?” replied Rob, holding his box of tapes.
“Yeah, I’m gonna catch a ride with Willie and his sister back to California.”
“Come on, we are gonna have a blast back home,” said Rob. “We’re going to see Scarlett Johansson on the big screen, Johnny!”
“Yeah,” he responded. “The thing is, I might be blind again by the time we get to the thea
ter.”
“What are you saying?”
“My vision is deteriorating. Quickly, too.”
“Oh, John,” said Cash, grasping his arm.
“The White House doctors!” said Rob. “Maybe they can help. They must know the best ophthalmologists. You know President Collins will help. Who gets a chance like that?”
“Rob, it’s the cookies.”
“Huh?”
“The Exodus.”
“It’s making you blind?”
“No, it’s minimizing the effects of the canni virus. All of the effects.”
Cash could feel the germs crawling up her arms. “I know what he means,” she said.
“It’s okay, though,” said John. “That’s what it’s supposed to do. Bring us back to who we really are. Only more fried.”
“Even so, you can still come to Brooklyn,” said Rob.
“That’s the problem,” answered John. “I don’t know if I want to go back to who I was.”
“No, buddy. You can’t stop taking the cookies.”
“I don’t know . . . ”
“But your friend Willie?”
“No, jackass,” said John, “I’m still on Exodus. I’d never endanger anyone else. But, when I get home, I’m going to decide if I should check into one of those dissident camps.”
“For the refusers? No! You’ll be caged all alone in a cell. You’ll flip. What if you become a perm, John?”
“But Rob, I’ll be able to see.”
The embrace was long. It included three people. Then, John G was off to Willie’s limo. Rob and Cash hurried to catch up to the Washington D.C. doctors, who were being ushered into their own luxury ride. As they walked, Cash had a realization.
“Rob, what about Uncle Reg? He was so much better.”
“I know, babe. How about we visit him first thing?”
They reached the limousine. The driver, holding the door, reached for Rob’s box of tapes but he held it tightly and brought it in with him.
As the door closed, Cash said, “I can’t believe that the President of the United States would have Air Force One stop at JFK, just for us, on his way back to Washington.”
“Caroline,” said Dr. Papperello-Venito, “he just got married, and you’re going to New York City for Christ’s sake; I’m not sure there’d be a stopover if you guys lived in Owatonna, Minnesota.”
The army of vehicles, with police escorts—despite the fact that the Presidential Limousine and its immediate entourage had already departed for McCarran Airport—rolled out onto the streets of Downtown Las Vegas, along with a singular civilian motorcycle, atop which sat a fellow who was gaining YouTube subscribers by the thousands. He was wrapped in the arms of a mother who loved him.
As Air Force One lifted off the runway, the car transporting John, Willie, and Michele had stopped at Alien Fresh Jerky, just off I-15 in Baker, CA. The big football player stocked up on barbeque jerky, his sister bought some mints, and John couldn’t resist purchasing a typical tourist tee. Willie had read its inscription aloud for his friend.
I Survived Area 51.
In Las Vegas, several SUVs unloaded the former tunnel dwellers into the bright and clean Flamingo Center; Hoffman, Skunk, Quinn, and Phaedra included.
A few miles away, Don Russo, still in his Raiders shirt and sweats, trudged alone toward the darkness of a tunnel opening; the same one where he’d beaten the jodhpur-wearing deliveryman.
He stopped walking, removed his clothing, dropped the garments to the ground, and disappeared, naked, into the dark of the tunnels, his elongated shadow following him in. The clothes remained there, still, the only movements being the breeze, and the appearance of a gray, long-tailed lizard on the far concrete wall.
After a moment, Russo reappeared, picked up the Raiders shirt, left the pants, and returned to his tunnel.
The lizard scurried about on the wall, searching for a spot where it might feel most comfortable. Once it found it, it stayed. There they sat, the motionless reptile and the unwanted sweatpants. The tunnel entrance remained static for eleven minutes. Then she came out, slowly crawling from the dark, hands and knees shredded.
The old woman who had been drinking from the crayfish puddle.
She dragged herself along, maybe searching for water. At one point, she attempted to stand, but could not. The concrete being bone dry, she eventually writhed her way back to the black of the tunnel.
VIRGINIA
Below Dr. Robert’s barn, a television showed amateur video of the Presidential nuptials.
Courtesy of YouTube channel, Bhong Rider.
Under the wall-mounted television, beside a soda machine, in the cafeteria of the Anderson-Daniele Research Center, a chess instructional was taking place.
“So,” asked the lovely Dr. Martinez, “a knight can move two squares horizontally and one square vertically, or two squares vertically and one square horizontally?”
“That makes it seem harder,” smiled the janitor. “Two up, one over. One up, two over.”
“Right,” she laughed. “Now, don’t let me win.”
“I’d never do that, cocksucker. Sorry, again.”
AIR FORCE ONE
The president’s jet soared above the clouds, crossing a country that still faced its greatest challenge. A new version of life had been birthed below them; a nation whose people were either consuming regular cannabis or locked away for the greater good.
In Minnesota and elsewhere, the wood frogs were coming to life. Winter had perished in the arms of spring. Seeds grew roots and unleashed their shoots up through the earth. They would not stay buried, much like fossils or time capsules.
Far below Air Force One, from the seaports and surf shops of San Diego to the body shops and barbershops of Brooklyn, much like the frogs and the seeds, there was an emergence.
The fortunate ones, like Teresa, had been cremated. But for the rest, it had begun.
The clatter of the caskets. The stirring of the slabs. The graveyard gait.
They had no agenda. No hunger for flesh. They craved nothing but water. The only harm they would do us is to dare lumber and crawl among the living. While rotting.
The hearts of the human race can be cold, like canni, or they can be brought to life, like the wood frogs, or the living dead.
In their spacious private quarters, just behind the nose and directly below the cockpit of Air Force One, as Rob, Cash, and the doctors enjoyed a lavish meal in the center of the plane, President Collins held hands with his new husband, yet his mind kept returning to the mantra repeated by the Iranian scientist.
You die as canni, no?
FOR A HEART DRAINED OF BLOOD, ONLY LOVE REMAINS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Daniel would like to thank everyone who has taken the time to read anything he has written, and especially those who’ve shared his work with others. Special thanks to Blood Bound Books for their hard work and dedication, and to Tell-Tale Press for valuable editing contributions.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Daniel O’Connor was orphaned at age six. He is a retired New York police officer. His first novel, Sons of the Pope, was praised by several NY Times best-selling authors and has a near five-star rating on both Amazon and Goodreads. Daniel’s short stories have appeared in several anthologies and his writings on Canni.blog have been read by millions of people in over 200 countries. He lives near Las Vegas with his wife, Joanne, and daughters, Kelly and Jennifer.
Daniel dislikes the devaluation of music and the unnecessary use of shaky-cam.
Blog: Canni.blog
Twitter: @DanOVegas
Facebook.com/DanielOConnorAuthor/
Email: AuthorDanO@Gmail.com
“Please keep your inner canni in check, as will I.”—Dan
his book with friends