by Dave Eggers
—You couldn’t buy an outhouse on the moon.
—But you could get a start.
—Not likely.
—You know what? Hold on a second. What time is it?
—
—I guess it’s hard for you to check. I think I have time. I have an idea. Hold on a sec. Actually, you’ll have to hold on a while. Maybe seven hours or so. I think I can do this. And here’s some food. It’s all I brought. And some milk. You like milk?
—Where are you going?
—I know you like milk. You drank it in class. You remember? Jesus, you were so pure, like some fucking unicorn.
—Where are you going?
—I have an idea. You gave me an idea.
BUILDING 53
—First of all, sir, I want to apologize. I didn’t want to bring you here, but I really couldn’t think of any way around it.
—Who are you?
—We’ve met once, but I don’t know if you’d remember. But it doesn’t matter so much who I am. I just want to apologize for bringing you here. I didn’t have any intention of doing this, but then circumstances conspired to make it necessary. I have this astronaut next door, and he was talking about what happened to him and the Shuttle, and we were talking about the moon, and colonies there, and about government priorities, and then I had this idea that someone like you would have some of the answers that we needed. And I knew you’d retired out this way, so I had to go and get you and bring you here.
—Holy Christ on a cracker.
—Again, I’m really sorry.
—You planning to harm me?
—I’m glad you asked that, sir. The good news is I’m not planning to harm you. The shackles are just a formality. It’s not like I think you’re dangerous or anything, given your disability. But I had to shackle the astronaut, because he could kill me if he wanted to, and then it seemed like the safest bet to shackle you, too, and the posts are here in every building, and I had a boxful of handcuffs, so it was all pretty convenient.
—I don’t understand any of this.
—Well, the chloroform will keep your head a little cloudy for a while. But I just want to say I’m very honored to have you here. I respect your service to the country, both as a soldier and as a congressman. That’s why I gave you the couch. There are couches all over the place out here, just dumped in the street like the place got looted. Is it comfortable enough?
—How the hell did you get me here?
—Sir, I don’t mean any disrespect to you, but a man your age, and with your, you know, missing limbs, you were a lot easier than the astronaut.
—Wait, what, son? You have an astronaut out here?
—Yes sir. I mentioned that before. He’s fine. I haven’t harmed the astronaut and I won’t harm you.
—Kid, you look like a pretty clean-cut guy. Do you have any idea how serious this is?
—I do, sir. I really do. I don’t take it lightly. But like I said, I didn’t think I had much choice but to bring the astronaut here, and when I was talking to him, all these questions came up and so many of them had answers only someone like you could provide.
—How’s that, son? Questions?
—Well, as a congressman …
—I’m no longer in office, you realize.
—I know that, sir. But you were in office a good long while, and I’m sure that you’ve had expertise with some of the questions I have.
—And you brought me out here to answer them? You ever hear of a telephone or e-mail or whatnot?
—Well, sure, but that might have taken a long time. And after I took the astronaut, I figured I only have a certain window before I’m caught or found or something else happens to me, so I thought I might as well get it all figured out in one fell swoop.
—And why me again?
—Yes, sir, that’s a fair question. But again, once the astronaut and I started talking, in the back of my mind I thought, Well, I bet Congressman Dickinson would have something to say about this. I knew you’d retired around here, and given you’re retired, I figured you wouldn’t have a security detail anymore.
—So you could kidnap me.
—Well, yes. Again, I’m so sorry. I really don’t like the word kidnap.
—You were the guy who came to the house to rewire the phones?
—Yeah, I just needed a way into the house, and, you know, it worked. I figured it might not be very difficult, given you’re in a wheelchair. I was hoping no one else was home. I waited a bit until— Was that your daughter?
—My wife.
—Oh, sorry. She was very young. Okay, good. Congratulations. That’s very good. That’s nice. So I had to wait until she left. How long have you been together?
—Son, you are batshit crazy.
—I’m really not.
—Of course you are. But when you showed up that day, you looked like a nice clean-cut guy. We talked about the 49ers.
—They’re really having a good year, aren’t they? And I really am a clean-cut guy. I’m just stuck in a tight spot right now. These headaches are messing with my life, and the ceiling just seems to be lowering on me every day. But just yesterday, with the astronaut, I felt like I was on the verge of something. I was breathing better. And I know you’ll help me even more. So can we start?
—Start what, son?
—I just have some questions. Once I ask them, you’re free. Especially if you answer them honestly. And I know you will; I’ve admired your candor and integrity since the beginning. And again, I’m very humbled by your service to this country. I know it must have been quite a sacrifice to lose two limbs in Vietnam.
—Son, I know that you’re a confused young man, and I want to help you. I saw a lot of people like you back in the day, especially when I rotated back to the States, so I know where you’re coming from. I really do. If anyone understands the mind of a young man whose skull is fastened one turn too tight, it’s me. But I want to say for the record that I think you doing it this way is deplorable and bizarre, and you would be best off cutting your losses and calling this quits.
—Nah, I’d rather not.
—If you left right now, and told the authorities where we are, I would personally see to it that you were treated with some compassion. That you got some help.
—See, but you’re the help I need. If you cooperate, I will be helped. I don’t need medicine or therapy. I need my questions answered.
—What kind of questions, son?
—Not all that difficult. Basic stuff. You’ll know the answers.
—
—So we’re ready?
—Hell.
—Great.
—For the sake of getting this over with.
—Okay. Okay. My first question—and the main one—is, Why isn’t my buddy Kev Paciorek in space?
—Pardon?
—He’s an astronaut. The guy next door.
—You kidnapped your buddy?
—It’s all worked out now. He gets it.
—What’s that?
—I’ve known him fifteen years. We understand each other. And back when we were in college he looked me in the eye and he said, Someday I’m going up in the Shuttle. At the time, I thought, Bullshit, no way. But then he kept getting closer to it. He cleared every hurdle. He was fucking Jesus. He walked on water, water into wine, everything. He did everything they told him to. Joined the Navy. MIT, grad degrees. He speaks Urdu for fuck’s sake. And all because he wanted to go up in the Shuttle or maybe to a lunar colony. And then twelve years later he becomes an astronaut, and a few months later, they kill the Shuttle, and they defund everything NASA does, and so instead he’s waiting in line to maybe get a ride on some shit-ass Russian rocket to some piece-of-shit Space Station full of pussies.
—Son, did you really kidnap me to talk about the Space Shuttle?
—Mainly, yes.
—Holy Jesus.
—Kev said he was going to be an astronaut, and he did everything he was asked to do to become o
ne. But now it means nothing. That just seems like the worst kind of thing, to tell a generation or two that the finish line is here, that the requirements to get there are this and this and this, but then, just as we get there, you move the finish line.
—Now son, just so I understand. You’re saying I’m the one who did this, that I personally moved the finish line?
—I think you were in a position to hold the line.
—You do see me sitting here, do you not? Do you see a man who is missing two key limbs? Do you think a man missing two key limbs and a thumb, all of them taken in a piece-of-shit foreign war, is part of the machinery you’re talking about? You think I’m the enemy?
—Well why were you in Congress if you weren’t part of the machinery?
—I was in the machinery to try to fix that machine, you dummy! Why the hell do you think there were a half-dozen Vietnam vets on the Democrat side of things in the Senate and House? Someone had to talk some sense down there.
—How did it happen, by the way? I know I should know, but I don’t.
—How did what happen?
—What happened to your leg and arm? Sorry to be indelicate.
—I don’t think you’re in danger of being confused with a man of delicacy or subtlety, son. Before I tell you, I should ask, did you happen to bring any of my prescriptions here? I need them for my stumps and for my arrhythmia.
—I grabbed what I could. I didn’t have much time. They’re in the duffel bag behind you. I also brought the bottle by your bed. Which was a surprise to me, that you have a bottle of gin by your bedside. That seemed like some kind of cliché, the aging vet drinking himself to sleep.
—Now you actually are being indelicate. That’s really none of your goddamned business, kid. And just because there was a bottle by the bed doesn’t mean this is some kind of long-standing habit or ritual.
—Fine.
—I don’t know why I’m explaining myself to you.
—You’re right. No need. It’s not why you’re here. And anyway, I understand if you need some help getting to sleep. I haven’t had to go through what you did, I haven’t really seen fuck-all compared to you, and I need eleven hours every night to sleep six or seven. So I would never judge.
—Thanks. That’s a comfort.
—No problem.
—Son, in your head, is this what qualifies as bonding?
—See, you’re being so condescending, and I didn’t want you to be that way toward me. Do you think I’m somehow inferior because I wasn’t part of some war? Because I wasn’t drafted and grew up in peacetime and never had to struggle the way you have?
—No. I don’t.
—I do.
—You do?
—I do. I grew up next to this base, sir, and my father was a contractor here. And I’m pretty sure that I would have turned out better, and everyone I know would have turned out better, if we’d been part of some universal struggle, some cause greater than ourselves.
—And you think Vietnam was that?
—Well, no, not necessarily.
—So what the hell are you talking about? Do you know how fucked up most of the men who came back from Vietnam are? You’re damned lucky your dad didn’t have to fight. You wanted to be part of that?
—No. No, not that exact conflict. But I just mean …
—You wish you were part of some wonderful video game conflict with a clear moral objective.
—Or something else. Something else that brought everyone together with a unity of purpose, and some sense of shared sacrifice.
—Son, judging just by the fact that you’re kidnapping people and chaining them to posts, I knew you were confused. But in actuality your brain is plain scrambled. One minute you’re complaining about your astronaut buddy who didn’t get to ride on a cool spaceship, and the next you’re saying you wish you’d been drafted. I mean, none of this squares, son. What exactly brought you to this point?
—I don’t know. Actually, I think I do know. It’s because nothing’s happened to me. And I think that’s a waste on your part. You should have found some kind of purpose for me.
—Who should have?
—The government. The state. Anyone, I don’t know. Why didn’t you tell me what to do? They told you what to do, and you went and fought and sacrificed and then came back and had a mission …
—Kid, do you know how I lost my limbs?
—That’s why I was asking before. I assume you saved lives. You got a Bronze Star and …
—No. I didn’t save any lives. I was eating lunch.
—What? No.
—I lost my limbs because I was eating my lunch near the wrong dipshit who hadn’t secured his grenades.
—That can’t be true.
—Listen. I was alone, eating my lunch. This kid had just rotated in from Mississippi, and he was some idiotic bumpkin with too much energy. He thought we were friends, so he came running toward me, pretending he was charging at me like a moose. Just some dumb thing young men do. A grenade fell off his uniform, the pin was pulled, and it rolled directly to me and landed at my feet. I just had time to turn my head away when it went off. That was the moment of unified purpose and shared sacrifice that separated me from my limbs.
—That’s depressing.
—Yes, it is depressing. So when I got back I tried to talk some sense into anyone who thought going into some country on the other end of the world to exert our will would be a cute idea, and the main problem with a cute idea like that is that these plans are carried out by groups of nineteen-year-olds who can’t tie their shoes and who think it’s great fun to run around goofing with grenades poorly secured to their uniforms. Wars put young men in close proximity to grenades and guns and a hundred other things they will find a way to fuck up. These days men in war get themselves killed far more often than they get killed by someone else.
—I guess.
—Do you understand the difference, son?
—I think so.
—Because I look at you and wouldn’t trust you with a book of matches. You’ve got a head full of rocks, kid. And there are a hundred thousand others like you in the desert right now, and it’s no wonder they’re killing civilians and raping women soldiers and shooting themselves in the leg. I don’t mean to besmirch the character of these young men and women, because I know most of them are the salt of the earth, but my point is that they should be kept safe and kept out of the way of dangerous things. Young men need to be kept away from guns, bombs, women, cars, hard alcohol and heavy machinery. If I had my way they’d be cryogenically frozen until such a time as we knew they could get themselves across a street without fucking it up. Most of the men I served with were nineteen. I’m fairly certain that when you were nineteen you couldn’t parallel park.
—Do you know that we met once? It was when I was fifteen. Do you remember Boys State?
—Of course. I voted to refund it every year it came up for renewal.
—I went.
—You went to Boys State?
—In Sacramento. 1994. I did all the Boys State things—watched the legislature, learned about democracy, saw some politicians speak. I even ran for lieutenant governor in that mock election.
—How’d you do?
—I lost. I was asked to quit.
—Why?
—Doesn’t matter. They were probably right.
—What’d you do?
—There was an essay component to the whole thing, and I thought it would be good to sign mine in blood. Like Thomas Paine.
—I don’t think Thomas Paine … Anyway. They didn’t like that?
—I guess not. They were nice enough about it after I explained myself. But they made me withdraw.
—I can see you’re a fan of grand gestures, though.
—Sometimes. I guess so. But that’s how we met.
—In Sacramento?
—No, but through Boys State. There was a parade through Marview on the Fourth of July, and you rode in the back of a con
vertible. I don’t know what you were doing out here, but you were in the same car as me. It was some old vintage car, and that year’s local Boys State reps were in the car with you. You were exotic that year because you’d come all the way from Wyoming. You remember?
—Sure, I guess. I mean, I’ve done a couple hundred parades over the years, so I don’t know if …
—But no one ever comes to Marview. We’re just forgotten. People see this broken-down military base and assume anything near it is toxic and dead. I don’t know. Maybe it is. Sometimes it is.
—I remember the day being bright.
—I love you for that, sir. Sometimes it was bright here. It really was. This was always some kind of model for diversity and a strong middle class and all that, then the base closed and it all fell down a few notches after that. It’s like steroids, right? You ever know a guy on roids?
—I believe so.
—They get huge and the muscles get shiny, right? But when they stop, it all sinks like mud. Round shoulders, potbellies. Saggy breasts.
—Okay.
—But you were right. That day of the parade was bright. And I was sitting next to you, with another kid. We rode for a few hours together through Marview. I even helped you get in and out of the car. You dropped an ice cream cone someone got you and I helped you clean up, wiping your shirt and pants and …
—Okay. I remember you.
—So you remember what you said to me that day?
—No, son. I doubt that I do.
—You said that I should play by the rules.
—Okay. I said that to a lot of people.
—And I did it. So where am I?
—And this is some failure of the formula? That you didn’t arrive at where you expected to be? And that your astronaut isn’t on the Shuttle? That somehow this puts in question the entire framework?
—Yes sir, that’s my thesis.
—Well, I have to say, that is a cockamamie thesis. That’s like saying that if you lose a certain football game that the sport itself is flawed. Son, not everyone can win the game. Some people play it poorly. Some people quit. Some people don’t even read the playbook. And some people expect the rest of the team to carry them into the end zone.
