Your Fathers, Where Are They? And the Prophets, Do They Live Forever?

by Dave Eggers

  —

  —That’s enough time, right? Too much time. The narrative was departing from what you recognize as normal and true. Normal and true is that he submits or he dies on your timetable.

  —No.

  —Do you realize what a strange race of people we are? No one else expects to get their way like we do. Do you know the madness that this unleashes upon the world—that we expect to have our way every time we get some idea in our head? That twelve heavily armed men can surround one man with a steak knife and the outcome is a backyard execution? Does that not indicate to you that we have work to do? That as a people we have improving to do?

  —

  —Well?

  —Well what? Sure. We have improving to do. I’m chained to a post. You have improving to do. Your friend is dead. We have improving to do. This base is collapsing around us. We have improving to do. To know this—I can’t see why this is helpful to you or anyone else. All this, and I don’t think you’ve learned a thing.

  —You’re so wrong. God, I love how wrong you are.

  BUILDING 55

  —I just want you to know how wrong you are. How wrong you always are and always have been.

  —That’s fine, Thomas.

  —It’s all been necessary. I just solved the whole thing with Don. The cop confessed. I know everything.

  —You brought a police officer out here?

  —I can get anyone I want.

  —Thomas, you must know that as your mother I care about your welfare. I don’t want you killed. You must know that. I’ve been hearing helicopters and I have a bad feeling. And no matter our differences and issues, I want you to live and to heal.

  —If that happens, you’ll be no part of it. You didn’t help at all. I had to do it myself. I brought the cop here and he was one of the ones who shot Don and now I know why.

  —I hope you didn’t harm him.

  —I didn’t.

  —Those helicopters are getting closer, son.

  —No. They came and went. And I hid the van in the old roller rink. I was meant to be here so the truth could come to me.

  —I don’t know why you’ve put such importance on Don’s death now. You didn’t even go to his funeral.

  —That has nothing to do with anything.

  —It’s not like you were so close to him.

  —He was my best friend.

  —He was your best friend? You hadn’t seen him in years.

  —You don’t know anything about it.

  —But I do. You didn’t even— Forget it.

  —Say it, you horrible person.

  —You were his best friend. But when you dropped him, how do you think a borderline guy like that …

  —What?

  —Nothing. Forget it.

  —Say it again.

  —Please. Forget it. I don’t know what I’m saying.

  —No, you don’t.

  BUILDING 60

  —Do you know why you’re here?

  —No. Are you going to hurt me?

  —No. But I need answers quick. There isn’t much time left.

  —Okay.

  —You know the hospital where I found you—were you working there in 2012?

  —Yes.

  —What is your position there?

  —I’m director of patient access.

  —Good. Good. That’s what I thought.

  —How did you get me here?

  —You remember getting into the elevator down to the garage?

  —Yes. That was you.

  —Yes. Then chloroform and a thirty-minute drive. You were the easiest, next to my mom. Now listen. Some of the people out here have been here for days, so this has to be quick. Do you remember Don Banh?

  —No. Are you planning to hurt me?

  —Let me spell his name, because I don’t think you know how it was pronounced. B-A-N-H.

  —Wait. The guy who was shot by the cops?

  —Exactly.

  —You knew him?

  —I did. Do you remember me?

  —You must be the guy who … The arson case.

  —No. That wasn’t me.

  —What’s your name?

  —It doesn’t matter. But I knew Don. Do you remember seeing me the night he was brought in?

  —I don’t know. Maybe. It was chaotic.

  —But do you remember his mother?

  —Yes.

  —Do you remember denying her access to her son?

  —No. I didn’t deny her. Immediate family is always allowed to visit.

  —Listen. I should have prefaced all of this by saying that you need to tell me everything and right away. I haven’t harmed anyone so far, I haven’t hurt the astronaut, but you provoke me when you lie. You’re not behind that desk anymore. Now we have to tell the truth.

  —I’m sorry.

  —Are you ready now?

  —Yes.

  —So why didn’t you let Don’s mom see her son?

  —The police told me it was a security risk.

  —A security risk to let her see her dying son?

  —Yes. But it wasn’t my decision. There were a bunch of cops there, and they were talking to the head of the hospital, and I was just a girl at a desk.

  —But you called security on her.

  —I was told to call security, yes.

  —And they removed Don’s mother from the hospital.

  —Yes.

  —And I wasn’t allowed to enter the building.

  —Right.

  —You remember me now?

  —Yes.

  —Thank you. I’m glad you do. When was Don’s mom allowed to reenter the hospital?

  —I don’t know.

  —Never. She was never allowed to reenter. She first saw her son when he was at the morgue. After the cops had done whatever they needed to do. They said he was only shot three times.

  —That had nothing to do with me. But I can understand your frustration, and that it drove you to set the building on fire.

  —I told you I didn’t do that.

  —Okay.

  —Did you know that something untoward was happening in the hospital while you were preventing Don’s mom and me and everyone else from entering?

  —No. I didn’t know anything at all. I was told that the patient was in critical condition and that we needed to limit the flow of people in the ER.

  —But he wasn’t in the ER.

  —He started in the ER and then was moved to the critical care unit.

  —And this unit had a half-dozen cops guarding it.

  —I don’t know about that. I work on the first floor, and the critical care unit is on the second floor.

  —But what do you believe was happening up there?

  —I don’t know.

  —What have you heard?

  —Nothing.

  —You lie. It’s way too late to start lying.

  —I heard that the police were worried about the whole thing.

  —Explain that.

  —They shot him a lot. I don’t know. This is all just rumors.

  —You know the paramedics.

  —Yes. I knew them.

  —You knew them for years, right?

  —Yes.

  —And what did they say? How many bullets did they say they saw in Don?

  —I really don’t know.

  —Tell me what you heard.

  —They said seventeen.

  —I knew it. And all this time, you never told anyone that.

  —I couldn’t. And it wouldn’t have helped anyone.

  —Now do you know why I tried to burn down your hospital?

  —Everyone assumed it was you.

  —You prevented a mother from seeing her son. I was thrown out of the building, too. You sealed his records, everything. You were complicit in a horrific lie.

  —What was I supposed to do? The guy was dying. He died within three hours of being admitted. There was no way to save him. It was incredible that he was alive at all
when they brought him in. So nothing I could have done would have changed that outcome.

  —But the police covered this up. They made it look like they exercised restraint, twelve cops and only three bullets. But we know it was more. We know they shot the fuck out of him—I heard at least ten times. And there were no repercussions for any of those cops.

  —Listen. All of that is far beyond my purview.

  —Your purview? Your purview? It’s the Hippocratic oath, right? Does that involve the truth? You perpetrated a lie.

  —I perpetrated nothing. And I’m not a doctor. I don’t do that oath.

  —You’re disgusting.

  —You’re saying that because I heard some rumor from a paramedic I was somehow part of a big conspiracy? If you people wanted so badly to know what happened to the guy, his mom shouldn’t have pushed so hard to have him cremated so soon. She cremated away all the evidence.

  —Okay, this is why I tried to burn your hospital. First of all, my friend was dying inside your hospital and you wouldn’t let me see him. Even when he was dead, you wouldn’t let me see him, even when his mother gave her consent. Second, I stayed at the hospital for two days after he died, trying to get in and trying to help Don’s mom get the hospital records and trying to talk to anyone who worked there. But you set your fucking security stooges on me every time, and one of them hit me in the head with a flashlight. Third, you fucking terrible person, Don’s mom never asked for him to be cremated. She had no idea that was happening. They delivered a little box to her, with Don inside, and she had no idea what it was. It was some woman from the funeral home delivering this box to her. But she’d never ordered a cremation. Why would Mrs. Banh order a cremation? She wanted to find out what happened to him. She and I had been talking about it for two days, that once Don’s body was released from the hospital we’d get an independent autopsy done. Then one day she shows up asking about his body, and you, and I swear to god it was you, you look on your computer and tell her he’s been cremated.

  —That was me.

  —I knew it.

  —I was reading a computer screen. I didn’t order the cremation.

  —But now are you putting this all together?

  —Yes I am.

  —Do you know the kinds of crimes you were part of now? First a man is shot for holding a steak knife in his backyard. Then we find out he’s shot seventeen times. Then the cops won’t let his mom see him. Then they burn his body without her permission.

  —But she must have signed some form.

  —She can’t write in English! They signed it for her. They claimed that she asked for cremation verbally, and then she signed the form. And they thought they were so fucking clever, because they had a Vietnamese woman with limited English, so they could always claim it was some misunderstanding. And you know what else? Your fucking paramedic friends stole his watch.

  —That’s not a surprise.

  —I bet it isn’t. They steal all the time, don’t they? They stole the dead guy’s watch, probably for the same reason that the fuckers forged her signature on the cremation forms. They figured she couldn’t advocate for herself. She’s some helpless Vietnamese woman. And he’s some kid with bullets in his body. If the paramedics take his watch, they can blame it on the cops, or vice versa. I mean, you guys have a top-to-bottom system of wrecking all hopes of humanity. You strip bare every vestige of dignity.

  —I think you know that isn’t true. The case with your friend was incredibly rare. And everyone was very scared.

  —You threw a body in an oven to hide the evidence.

  —I didn’t do that. I had nothing to do with that.

  —You were complicit.

  —You think your friend is the only terrible thing that’s ever happened in a hospital? I’ve worked in some good ones, but this hospital we’re talking about is a mess of a place. There are disgusting things every day, and dignity is not an option. It’s a river of human decay and mistakes made in haste. People die every day for reasons no one could ever justify. Too much of this drug, not enough of that. People come in with a cold and leave dead. And above it all we have a code of silence driven by fear.

  —Oh God.

  —We do more good than harm, for sure, but …

  —You know, when your friend is transported from his backyard, full of bullets, to a hospital, you think he’s going to a more honorable place. There are these places where we expect honor, and cleanliness, and a code of conduct. But every day there’s another one of these places that slips from the list. It’s a damned short list now, you know that?

  —I do know that.

  —I have an astronaut here who did everything he was told to do and it got him nowhere. He’s one example. He reaches the pinnacle of his field and they give him a punch in the gut. On the other end of the scale there’s Don, who wanted to be left alone, who was confused, and the price of being confused in this world is seventeen bullets in your own backyard.

  BUILDING 53

  —Congressman, did you do anything over there that surprised yourself?

  —Sure. Wait. What time is it?

  —Sorry to wake you up. There’s just not much time left, and I have to get down to the beach soon, to see if this girl is there again.

  —What’s that? What girl?

  —This woman who I like a great deal, sir. She’s been walking on the beach with her dog, and yesterday we talked, and I know there’s a reason she was there when I was there. But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you. I was just spending some time with this lady, this other lady from the hospital I poured gasoline on, and at a certain point I knew I wasn’t getting anywhere with her.

  —Wait. You poured gasoline on—

  —Not on the lady. On the hospital. It was minor. It was symbolic. And she didn’t know why I did what I did, because she’s always been a perpetrator of the system, as opposed to a victim of it. I trust you know what I mean.

  —Well, son, I understand you have a unique perspective on it. You say you took another person? This one a woman?

  —She works at the hospital where my buddy was taken. They burned his body to hide the evidence. They shot him seventeen times and said it was three, so a few weeks later I poured some gasoline around the administrative part of the building, and I lit it.

  —Anyone hurt?

  —No sir.

  —You intend to hurt anyone, son?

  —No sir. But I had no other recourse. Or I didn’t think I did. I wasn’t about to sue them or some other useless thing. I wanted to make a point, and make it quickly. I needed to shove the dog’s nose in the shit so they would make the connection.

  —And you’re saying you weren’t caught?

  —No. Some people thought it was me, but everything was all fucked up because of Don, and the cops didn’t want to make it any worse, so they didn’t pursue it.

  —Did it solve anything for you, lighting that match?

  —It felt pretty good in the moment. And when I saw the newspaper reports, and read about the administrative people all shaken up and scared, that felt good, too. The best thing was that some of their records were burned, and that felt like justice.

  —It’s not good that you went about it that way.

  —They shot my friend.

  —The hospital people didn’t shoot your friend, son.

  —Well, they helped kill him.

  —I have a feeling he wasn’t going to make it, what with seventeen bullets in him.

  —You must have had moments like that, sir, where there’s some human being that’s acting like, well, shit. For some reason the hospital woman makes me madder than the cops who shot him. I mean, why is that? Two years later I still don’t understand it.

  —Killing feels more natural in some way. Killing is some kind of connection. It’s a convoluted connection, but it is one. You know how when you’re a kid, and you’re wrestling around with some friend, there’s always that moment when you think you could snap his arm or bite through his nos
e?

  —Yes, yes! I know that.

  —But what happened at the hospital is something else. It’s not human. It’s not primal. So we don’t understand it. It’s a more recent mutation. The things we all have, love and hate and passion, and the need to eat and yell and screw, these are things every human has. But there’s this new mutation, this ability to stand between a human being and some small measure of justice and blame it on some regulation. To say that the form was filled out incorrectly.

  —Yeah, yeah, what is that? That’s the doom of us all.

  —This is a new thing, son, and it’s a frightening thing. It’s something I saw every day in the VA. And if you think it’s bad in some hospital, Christ, you wouldn’t last a minute in Washington. Wait. You hear that?

  —I do.

  —I really think this is the end, son. That’s at least three choppers, and they’re getting closer. That’s not good for you.

  —They’re going too fast. They’ll pass.

  —I think the clock’s running out, kid. Now listen. There’s no reason anyone has to be hurt. I’ve been thinking a lot about this and I have a plan for you.

  —That’s not necessary.

  —I know it isn’t. But listen. You’ve probably heard some pretty frequent helicopter activity out there, right?

  —It’s routine.

  —It might. Might not. Now listen. I have some empathy for you. I think you are mixed up but I don’t think you should die for it, okay?

  —I won’t. I have a plan.

  —Well let me give you a better plan. This is the right plan. You ready?

  —Sure.

  —You trust your mother, correct?

  —

  —I’m going to hope that’s an implicit yes.

  —

  —Good. So you leave this place with your mother. You drive to whatever town you want to drive to. Then you drop your mother off. Maybe you’re headed to Mexico, in which case you give yourself seven or eight hours. You tell your mom that after eight hours she can call the police and let them know where we all are. That way you personally know we’ll all be safe and more importantly, that she’s safe, too, and not languishing here for days and days, right?

  —

  —See, you hadn’t thought of that, I’m guessing. You probably had your own escape planned but not the rescue of your mom. Thomas, she probably needs care. How old is she?