by Jerry
We are not dead, the spaceman says, but neither are we exactly—
He never finishes that sentence; the threat returns, slithering back up the bayou path, looking and looking, but never seeing exactly what they go past—you and the spaceman and the pocket universe—
Neither are we exactly: corporeal, human, lost, ice cream, plans for the future, living, beyond the edge of the hammock—
The summer afternoon snaps and you’re—
The spaceman has been coming to Earth longer than you know; he never tells you how long, and you never ask. He shows up three times that you remember, and each time, he tries to tell you something you never understand. Mostly, you wonder if he can solve the physics midterm you have next week. He shows no inclination toward this, more intent on the chocolate malt sitting between you and the straw that stands suspended in its frozen middle.
One day, he says.
Today? you ask.
One day, he says again, everything will make sense and you will remember.
And this is what visitors from the stars are supposed to say, so you go with it. They know things, visitors from the stars. They know that one doesn’t actually fly about space in a box; they know that bringing people back to life is impossible; they don’t know that Mentos plus Coke equals explosion and don’t know the same thing happens with vinegar and baking soda. This is why your mother doesn’t let you in the kitchen.
What day do you suppose that will be? you ask him.
Why does it matter what day, he says. The day will be the day and that’s all. Knowing ahead of time won’t help you.
You mash the paper down the length of a second straw and add the straw to the malt. You push the straw wrapper to the side, but his eyes swing to it. His eyes are ordinary, he’s ordinary, until he dips a finger into the ice water and carries a droplet of water to the straw wrapper. This water droplet falls, precise, onto the paper, and the paper wriggles like it’s a worm. Every ridge you scrunched into it comes undone. When the paper stops moving, it’s just soggy paper flat against the Formica tabletop.
Well, that’s disappointing, he says, and reaches for another straw.
You snatch it from his hands, wanting to undisappoint him.
You tear this one carefully open, pull the straw out, and set it aside. You fold the paper in half and again and again, over and around until you hold a small paper heart within your hands. You show it to him, but do not offer it.
He reaches for the malt, pulling it close enough to suck on one of the straws. He freezes his brain with the sweet chocolate as you lean across the table, open his pocket, and slide the straw-paper heart inside.
It’s no ordinary pocket—it’s not filled with lint or keys or identification, because he’s a spaceman. He has space in his pockets. He opens his pocket and it’s black as night inside. You think you see the entire universe in there.
At the least, you watch the straw-paper heart free fall into all that sky
(is it still sky when it’s beyond the sphere of earth?
is it still sky when it holds all the stars and galaxies and nebulas that ever were?)
and you know today is the day after all. You know exactly what he means and the world snaps again and you’re—
On the swing, but not swinging. You’re just sitting there, because it’s too hot to move. Your shorts are rucked up against your sweaty thighs and you nearly can’t breathe. You hate this place and it will never be home, but right now, when a breath of air moves the swing and the you and the branches above, you like it well enough, and then there’s the spaceman.
He’s standing by the trunk of the tree, his hand pressed over a pocket in his spacesuit and you think he will smell like metal. You drop off the swing, bare feet in cool grass that needed mowed a week ago, and walk toward him. You think his pockets will be filled with stars and forever, but when he lifts his hand, there’s only something like blood filling his pocket. You think he should slump to the ground, the way he’s losing blood, the way the warm summer-metal smell of him permeates the air, but he grabs you by the arm and you’re off, down the bayou path before he’s said a word to you. Slipping feet, clods of dirt, and he yanks you into the overgrown camellia while the as-yet-unseen threat slides right by again.
Hello, you say to him when the threat has passed.
If only I had a box, he says to you, and he goes unconscious and limp in the camellia. He is dead, you are positive he is dead, because it’s all death, he said so and Aunt Fran proved it, and—Your ankle brushes the poison ivy and you wince but you don’t exactly care. You’re already reaching for the spaceman’s pocket, pushing it open with your sweat-slick fingers so you can see how it’s bigger on—
There’s only ruined flesh beneath your fingers. Your skin tingles as the spaceman’s blood moves into every fingerprint; it’s not red, it’s not blue, it’s not even ghastly green. It’s no color, but it feels like hot ice burning your fingerprints away. You wipe the blood down the matte material of his spacesuit and stare at your fingers. The prints are gone, your skin as smooth as the skin that runs the length of your forearm. Oh, shi—
Sorry, sorry, he says. Other pocket, other pocket!
There is another pocket, but you don’t dare look in it. You press a hand over his apparent wound and the pocket both and you can feel something moving inside. You have never touched a pregnant woman—Aunt Fran told you how presumptuous that was—but you imagine it would feel like this, something alive moving just beneath the skin, just beneath the sky—the sky moving just beneath the skin—
If only you had a box, you think, and you watch the threat slither past outside the bush once again. Stupid aliens, why are they always so stupid, and humans so clev—
But even as you think this, the branches of the bush part, and oh, they’ve found you. They have found you and will eat you while you’re still alive unless you and the spaceman vanish the way your hammock did. But you don’t vanish.
The aliens haul you out of the bushes and they are the worst thing you have ever seen. They are the image of every pet you ever loved, mashed into one terrible thing that should never have lived. They haul you and the spaceman to the edge of the bayou and the stench and bugs are nearly enough to knock you unconscious. You almost wish for that, because it would be better than looking into your puppy’s eyes in that alien face, but all you can do is look.
The spaceman has no gizmo that will save you or him or anyone. This, you tell the aliens, is clearly a misunderstanding. You ask them if they are lost and they stare at you.
You can’t know where they got the images of your pets—there’s dogs and cats and even a gulping fish face goes by as they look at you—but you think if they knew well enough to get those faces, they know everything there is to know about you and earth and life, but mostly, they should know that everything that lives also dies. Every face they assume as their own is dead and gone and so very dead, skin long since rotted away, burned away, chewed away, and you see the flicker of the grave upon them then. If you know death, they should know death, and they do. Wet, dissolving death.
The aliens come apart in a flood. They have no form but for that which you give them; they come apart in sticky rivers of ejaculate that whiten the edge of the bayou; they avalanche down the dirt and into the water, where they are nothing but an oily sheen. An alligator passes through, slicing the slick neatly in two.
You stare at the spaceman, who stares back at you with his dime-eyes, and you have no actual idea what has just happened, only that he smiles at you, and you smile at him and say goddamn it you owe me a hammock. And possibly also Orion, he mutters before the world snaps again and you—
You are sitting in the night-dark yard, telescope aimed at the endless glories and wonders of the night sky, bare feet curled into grass that should have been mowed a week ago. The night is too damn hot, but there should be a comet, a comet crossing through Orion’s belt, but you can’t find Orion’s belt, which is impossible, but also rather happeni
ng. You pull back from the lens, to scan the night sky and it’s just not there. It’s summer, you tell yourself, so there shouldn’t be an Orion at all, but it’s more than that.
There’s a hole in the sky where the stars used to be; there’s a stretch of black that is like looking into a pocket that is like looking into a crevasse that just keeps going and going until it stops in a shine that looks like a smile of dimes turned on their sides and you think oh, spaceman, what the hell did you do, what did you do, and when can you do it again, because sometimes these glories and wonders are just too impossible to take, and you want to bundle every single star and paper heart into a pocket, seal it up, and never look at them again. If only, you think, you had a box, a pocket, a spaceman. But the night is warm and quiet around you, your hammock and aunt have dissolved, and you do not.
SECURITY CHECK
Han Song
My wife and I are celebrating our twentieth anniversary today. After work, I walk to the mall and pick out a necklace for her; then I walk to the subway station in the mall to take the train home.
Subway stations are everywhere in New York City, and I do mean everywhere. The lines connect the most expensive neighborhoods with the poorest slums, and stations can be found in every shopping center, office building, theater, restaurant, nightclub, bar, church . . .
A group of security agents, dressed in black uniforms with red armbands, are stationed at the entrance. They stand with their arms held behind their backs, their feet planted firmly apart, and survey the crowd with cold gazes. I try to go by them nonchalantly, but my legs start going rubbery as soon as I meet their gaze. I take off my jacket without prompting and place it—the necklace nestled in a pocket—and my briefcase into the yawning, dark maw of the x-ray machine.
After the security check, they place a “safe” sticker on my chest.
Dazed and numb, I get on the subway. All the other passengers are also wearing “safe” stickers. Preoccupied, none of us say a word.
Were at my stop. I walk home. My wife is already there. Trembling, I take out the necklace and hand it to her. She forces a smile and tries on the necklace once before putting it away. We eat dinner in silence, as is our habit. And then we go to bed, lying back to back, both of us quickly falling asleep.
We first met twenty years ago, also at a subway stop. Back then, everything was falling apart, and lawlessness reigned. One day, someone shouted that a killer was slashing at people in the subway, and we all panicked and stampeded. A woman in front of me fell; I rushed to help her up . . .
Later, she said to me, “No matter how chaotic the world becomes, as long as you’re with me, I’ll feel safe.”
Twenty years have passed, and life has been rendered one hundred percent safe, cleansed of all risks, dangers, and perils. It seems we’re left with nothing.
The loudspeakers installed in our neighborhood wake me up at four in the morning by blaring out the security briefing for the day. Only half awake, I fumble for my phone.
Old habits die hard. Phones had been abandoned a long time ago, after all the telecom companies ceased operations and the Internet was cut off. All of it had been done to make us safe.
My wife and I get up and leave separately to take the subway to work. She’s not wearing the necklace I gave her, and I pretend not to notice.
I walk by myself quietly. Under the dim streetlamps, pedestrians on the sidewalk scurry like a dull, gray swarm of rats, each clutching a briefcase, completely silent. Soon, I reach the station, where long lines of people wait to enter. Although advancing technology has sped up security checks, there are just too many people who must be processed. In this day and age, the subway is the only means of transportation left in the United States of America, all other modes having been outlawed.
More than an hour later, I finally reach the x-ray machine. Once again, I clench my teeth, and, though I’m fantasizing about striding into the station right past the security checkpoint, I do not even try to step out of line. One time, I did see someone try that stunt, and the security agents seized him right away and dragged him into a small cell next to the platform where they beat him to death as we all listened.
The train arrives in Manhattan. From the station I enter the office building through a tunnel. One by one, my colleagues arrive, their faces numb with exhaustion. How many of them have entertained the same fantasy of getting on the subway without going through security check? In the restroom, Hoffman whispers to me, “Did you try it today?” I shake my head. “Why do we suffer from this peculiar yearning?”
“Freedom.”
Every time Hoffman utters the word it sounds strange and chilling, even though I’ve heard it countless times.
He continues, “I want to live a life in which I am trusted, not watched and controlled . . . what about you, Louis?”
“I want to give my wife a gift. We’ve been married for twenty years.” Once again, I feel terrible. I ask, “When would I ever get a chance to give her a gift that hasn’t been changed?”
“Women don’t care about that,” Hoffman says; he means to comfort me. “She knows you’ve done your best.”
“No, she does care. If we keep on going like this, we’re headed for divorce. She and I don’t live in a vacuum. The bond between us—the bond between everyone—requires the sustenance of the ordinary objects of daily life. But whatever we buy ends up passing through the security checkpoints: the food we eat, the water we drink, cups, books, televisions, refrigerators, computers, the beds we sleep on, even wedding bands and condoms . . . you understand.” Tears crawl down my face.
One time, Hoffman told me that the machine they use at security checkpoints isn’t really an x-ray machine. The government confiscates everything you put in; whatever emerges from the machine may look indistinguishable from what went in, but it has in fact been reconstituted. Atom by atom, the new objects are assembled, printed, and returned to the passenger. The process takes but an instant because our technology is so advanced. The new objects conform perfectly to the new American national security standards, with all elements deemed dangerous removed. If the objects contained any gasoline, it would be turned into water; if there were a gun, the bullets would be turned into rubber; if a computer contained harmful knowledge, it would be deleted and replaced with sanitized information.
Hoffman and I both dream of a day when we can ride the subway without going through security checks, but every time we tried to realize the dream, at the last minute, both of us would lose our courage and our legs would turn to rubber.
One time, Hoffman told me that some people did enter the subway without being checked.
“I saw it with my own eyes. One morning, a woman in front of me walked right past the security agents with her purse, bold as you please. The agents stood frozen in place like mannequins.”
“How was that possible? I saw someone try to do the same thing, but he was beaten to death right then and there,” I said. Was Hoffman hallucinating?
“It was true,” Hoffman said solemnly.
“What sort of woman was she?”
“I only saw that she was young and beautiful. After she went through, she looked back at all of us standing in line and smiled triumphantly.” Hoffman clicked his tongue in admiration.
“She must have used magic.”
“Magic, indeed. Perhaps an invisibility cloak . . . or some machine that jammed electromagnetic waves?”
I can’t remember much about the way things were twenty years ago, only that the country was very unsafe back then. I’ve watched special educational documentaries: the terrible explosions, gunshots, slashing knives, protest marches, petitions to the government, conflicts . . . everyone lived in terror, thinking danger was around every corner. Several times, a random shout or even a single shocked facial expression was enough to cause the crowd on Fifth Avenue to panic and stampede, trampling and injuring hundreds. Security threats were everywhere, as were hidden enemies. The 911 call centers were constantly swamped.
>
The White House had to mobilize a great deal of resources to enhance and expand the security system. The federal government took the lead, but the big companies on Wall Street and in Silicon Valley all participated. Through a public-private partnership, they invested money and technology to rebuild the entire city’s infrastructure into a system of security checkpoints. This was extremely important: buffeted by civil unrest and foreign threats, America was sliding down from its peak. It was no longer the hegemon of the world.
Those old enough to remember say that the nation almost collapsed overnight, barely avoided the fate of becoming a ward under the guardianship of those Chinese coming from over the Pacific. Thank God for the subway, for the security checks. They saved America.
Not only does the system guarantee safety, but the government is also able to gather all information contained in the objects taken onto the subway by passengers. Now, no one dares to make trouble. Even corruption has been eliminated—not just corruption, but also anything else destabilizing. Even so, the substitution of objects in the machines continues each day. The country still feels insecure. Security and insecurity: the two concepts were sometimes different, but often the same.
Hoffman tells me that this is fighting terror with terror. The terror produced by the security check mechanism is even more terrible, sufficiently powerful to shatter all other terrors. The price we pay is freedom.
But . . . the system obviously has holes. Hoffman saw someone enter the subway without going through security check. This was undoubtedly a miracle. Who was that woman who managed to bypass security so easily? Hoffman wanted to find her, but she has never reappeared.
After work, I go to the supermarket for groceries and then take the subway home, dejected. At the completely silent dinner table, I eat my food, ashamed and with sweat beading on my back like a man who has done something wrong. I think maybe things would be better if we had a child, but my wife and I have lost all interest in sex . . .
