Fight Song

by Joshua Mohr

“Choice is yours, Schumann. But I’ll rat you out.”

  “These are the moments I know you never played on a football team. Teammates have each other’s backs no matter what, until the game clock of life expires.”

  “What’s it going to be?”

  “What choice do I have? I’ll take them and try not to bleed to death,” Schumann says. “But if I do die, you can have my bagpipes. Every time you look at them remember that you murdered me with your truth pills.”

  “I can live with that.”

  They shake on it. He squeezes Bob’s hand hard. Really hard. Hard enough that Coffen winces and emits a little girly yelp.

  For the first time during the conversation, Schumann smiles, still crushing Coffen’s hand. “Now who’s peeping like a mouse,” he says.

  After dumping Schumann at home, Coffen makes it to the status meeting with ten minutes to spare. It’s just him and Malcolm Dumper in the conference room, Coffen’s young cohorts only arriving seconds before these meetings commence, risking late arrivals to maintain a persona of youthful ambivalence to structure, rules, the asinine consideration of other people’s time.

  Dumper is plopped on a beanbag, while Coffen hooks his laptop up to the overhead projector, so Scroo Dat Pooch will appear on the large white screen.

  “Are you excited about your unveiling this morning, Coffen?”

  “I’m excited to see what you think of it.”

  “I bet the Great One will love it like a bee loves smelling the roses.”

  “I hope you love these roses.”

  “We still need to have that dinner we’ve been talking about for years,” Malcolm says.

  “Yes, you’ll have to come by the house sometime soon.”

  “Is your roof helipad-friendly?”

  “I doubt it,” says Coffen, “but I’m not sure.”

  “That means no. I won’t make that mistake again. One mighty big check I had to write those buffoons who are too dumb to know the specifications of their own roof. While we’re alone, I wanted to tell you that the layoffs I was mentioning are probably going to happen soon for some of our teammates. We need to whittle some pudge. And while we’ll miss those members of our family who are no longer our teammates, truthfully, it probably could not come at a more ideal time for them to take a hiatus. They’ll thank me in the long run. Go to Paris. Go backpacking. Fish in Alaska. Big things are afoot outside these walls.”

  “Big things are about to be afoot inside these walls, too,” Coffen says. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  “I’m pro-information. I want my people knowing as much as my people can know. Especially those who are plock-worthy. Those who hold plocks hold a special place in my heart. Some things, of course, are for my eyes and ears only. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, if you get my drift. Don’t worry about the pudge purge for now. Hopefully, your new game will help the layoffs be more of a simple cleansing than an all-out flush.”

  “I’m glad there’s no pressure.”

  The team scampers into the conference room, planting themselves on various beanbags.

  “We’re all yours, Bob,” Dumper says, smiling.

  Coffen launches Scroo Dat Pooch. What makes this tricky is the possibility, nay, the probability that Dumper won’t much care about the game’s feel, the game’s overall look. It’s conceivable that he won’t be concerned with such analytical components once he observes that Malcolm Dumper himself is the main character of the game, the head honcho of pooch screwing.

  Bob has used a JPEG of Dumper’s face to build the avatar, so the likeness is top-notch. It’s almost a perfect match. And if Bob is too biased to make any objective observations about the facial likeness, as the test level launches, all of his teammates crack up and clap. Everybody in the conference room, except Dumper, is hysterical and nothing’s even happened yet.

  All that’s on the screen is Dumper in his signature Gretzky sweater, #99.

  All that’s up there is Dumper and his big, thick tongue lolling stupidly from his mouth.

  All that’s there is Malcolm Dumper licking his filthy, bestiality-loving chops.

  Kiss’s “Rock and Roll All Nite” starts playing in the game.

  All Bob’s teammates tap their feet.

  The mouth-breather says, “Awesome!”

  Coffen is the only one standing in the conference room. His movements control the avatar. He now marches in place, his movements moving the Malcolm in the game. It’s an empty cityscape. Malcolm prowling the barren street. Then, over behind some dented garbage cans, he spots a collie. It’s looking generally frightened. Coffen’s even incorporated some audio: a sad, furtive series of whimpers and whines coming from the collie.

  Coffen runs in place, quickly moving Malcolm toward the crying dog. Malcolm leans down and pets the mutt, strokes its head. A voice comes from the game, Malcolm saying, “There, there. There, there. Shhh. Hey, do you like to party?”

  The collie turns its head to look at whoever is playing the game. The dog’s eyes bulge, seeming to say: Did this creep just say what I think he said?

  Seconds later on the screen, Malcolm is undoing his belt and dropping his trousers.

  Seconds later, he picks up the collie and mounts the poor thing.

  Bob furiously pumps his hips in the conference room.

  “Scroo dat pooch!” says the avatar of Malcolm, giving the hang-loose sign.

  His teammates go crazy.

  Coffen is practically hyperventilating.

  The faster Bob pumps, a series of graphics appear above Malcolm’s head—lightning bolts, throbbing hearts, pulsing stars. Bob goes as fast as his out-of-shape physique can handle and about twenty seconds later a message flashes across the center of the action:

  Money shot!

  Malcolm finishes giving his business to the dog.

  Coffen gives his hips one last pump.

  The mouth-breather whistles.

  Once Malcolm’s done sullying the collie, he sets the dog down and it wanders off with an awkward gait. Then the avatar pulls up his pants, buckles his belt. Then he says, “Me want the next one.”

  Bob says to his teammates and Malcolm, “That’s all I had time to put together, but you can see the direction. From here, he’d move on to the next breed. What do you think?”

  None of the teammates utter a peep. Everyone’s waiting for Dumper to take point on this one. It’s tough to read the boss’s face, utterly blank of legible expression, tongue stowed away.

  Coffen braces himself for the worst: security being called, roughing him up a bit on the walk from the building. Dumper refusing to honor his three-hundred-plus hours of paid time off. Dumper slandering his name with every contact he’s ever made in the business, making it almost impossible for Bob to get another gig. It’s a risk but one Coffen has to take; he sees no other way. He has to get fired. He needs permission to never come back here, as sick as that sounds. He won’t do it on his own.

  Finally, Dumper says, “I doubt I’m alone in wanting to heap congratulations on top of you like syrup on pancakes. I asked for edgy and you gave me edgy. It’s extreme, but I think the targeted demo will froth for it.”

  “You like it?” Bob asks.

  “It’s exactly what I hoped for.”

  “Really? What about the avatar? Do you like his look?”

  “What a dope! I love how he’s dressed like your average Tom, Dick, or Harry. It’s actually funnier that you didn’t make him some creep. He looks like any working stiff.” Dumper starts laughing. “A working stiff who likes to boink dogs.”

  “I’m surprised you like it,” Bob says.

  “You are a genius,” Dumper says. “Isn’t he a genius, gang?”

  “Yes, yes,” the teammates say, still howling. “He is indeed a genius!”

  Coffen panics. Getting fired is the only way to get out of this job. He’s not strong enough to do it on his own. He’ll never make the change without being shoved, like a baby bird being heaved from the nest, a fled
gling forced to fly under its own power.

  Everything Bob once loved about building games is gone. It’s been tarnished, denigrated. It’s digressed from art to the ultimate farce, and it’s his own fault. Nobody made him stay at DG. Nobody made him earn that fucking plock. He acted through his inaction. He chose a path by default. Scroo Dat Pooch and these kinds of imbecilic games are futile. He can get back to his art—he can build new ones, he will build new ones—games that are fun and smart at the same time. The two don’t have to be mutually exclusive. Escapism doesn’t require the inane. Yes, his next title will be about simply preserving your sense of self—or re-establishing a sense of self you’ve let rust. A sense of self that hasn’t gotten the necessary attention. The game doesn’t need an antagonist hopped up on mutated genetics. It doesn’t need lasers. Or cannibals. It doesn’t need Navy SEALs infected with a flesh-eating virus or vampires hunting you down or werewolves capturing you in a corner, licking their chops, eyeballing you as their next square meal. It doesn’t need to take place on another planet. Doesn’t need terrorists or dinosaurs or nuclear weapons or mutated crocodiles. Psychopaths aren’t a necessary ingredient. Rogue pooch-screwers aren’t foundational elements. No, the peril is right here. Peril covers more of the earth than the oceans. Peril is around us with every gasp, each lap around the sun, every whirl on the axis. Every sunup, sundown. Every eclipse. Every greenhouse gas. Every oil spill. Every endangered species. Every unfounded fear. Every founded fear. Every nightmare. Every diagnosis. Every time an alcoholic takes that next sip. Every gambler losing the mortgage money. Every affair. Every backhand. Every abandonment. Every deception. Every time a family falls apart. Every divorce. Every life. Each life. Bob’s life. Your life. The peril is simple. The peril is us. It’s the plight of the people of now.

  “You guys got my green light,” Dumper says. “Build this bad boy. Make it a masterpiece.”

  “You can keep the plock,” says Bob. “Robert’s days are done.”

  “You’re taking a personal day?” Dumper asks.

  “You’ve seen the last of Robert Coffen.”

  “What?”

  “Robert’s officially stepping down.”

  “What about the new game?”

  “Have him do it,” Coffen says and points at the mouth-breather.

  “You’re quitting?”

  And that’s that. There’s no screaming scene. He doesn’t demean Dumper with a melody of profanity. No need to go down in any kind of spectacle—he already tried that by building the damn game and it didn’t work. Seems the only way for him to leave this place is of his own accord. Under his own power. And there’s no time like the present. Might as well march out. So he struts from the conference room, past his teammates and the beanbags. Past Dumper and LapLand and its lifeguards. Past the whole preschool of his coworkers. He sees their young faces. He sees their futures. And while walking outside, he finally sees freedom.

  Geraldine the giant squid

  Coffen camouflages his spying. Hiding in plain sight. All afternoon and evening, he’s another anonymous member of the health club relaxing by the outdoor pool, safety in numbers. He’s another sucker kicking up his heels on a chaise lounge and soaking up some sunshine. Nobody pays him any mind, even though he has a pair of binoculars and spends most of his time aiming them through the huge window and toward the indoor pool, where Jane is trying to break the world’s record for treading water.

  Bob respects Jane’s wishes, heard her loud and clear when she uninvited him to stand by the pool and purr moral support. Nobody, not even Gotthorm, knows more than Bob about how much Jane wants to accomplish this remarkable feat, and so he follows her instructions, stations himself outside the confines of the building, hunkering down for some average, run-of-the-mill peeping. She’s none the wiser to his presence and Coffen can feel as if he’s offering every nickel of his support, safely stationed away from her.

  Unless Bob’s binoculars deceive him, Jane is doing great thus far. She’s been in the water for about five hours. She looks relaxed. Braids hidden under a swim cap.

  Erma is there with Brent and Margot. The kids sit in folding chairs and fiddle with their favorite devices: Brent, his phone; Margot, her iPad.

  There’s also a judge present: the stickler who oversees if in fact Jane’s able to tread water eighty-six hours straight. It’s a woman, probably in her forties. She holds a clipboard, which strikes Bob as odd. What can there possibly be to take notes about? Either Jane breaks the record or she doesn’t, but the judge periodically scribbles something mysterious down.

  And of course, Gotthorm, clad in his red Speedo. He’s right next to the pool, the closest one to her. He has some kind of huge taxidermied fish and he glides it around in his arms; some kind of visual aid, Coffen assumes. Bob wishes he could read lips, wonders what Gotthorm and the bulge whisper to his wife while the fish dances in his arms.

  The problem comes when a voice pipes over the intercom system and says, “We will be closing in ten minutes. All members need to leave the club in ten minutes, please.”

  Bob is relatively prepared for this. He has a plan, of sorts. There’s a thought to how he can evade detection. Of sorts. Coffen’s not the most stealth fella, but he thinks he can hide behind the hut that houses the pool’s cleaning supplies. Once it seems like most of the lights are off in the facility, he’ll come back out and spy more.

  He has a ski jacket. He has a blanket. He has a thermos of coffee and fifteen Mexican lasagnas.

  He has everything he needs to support his wife from one hundred feet away.

  That first night is lonely. About 10:30 PM, Erma and the kids leave. Bob’s sure they’ll be back some time in the morning, but he doesn’t like the idea that it’s only Gotthorm and the judge with Jane. She should have a bigger cheering section. She should have French Kiss playing songs to keep her alert. He almost calls Ace before realizing that’s a terrible idea. His only job is to stay out of sight, and he’s not going to screw it up.

  But apparently he’s already screwed it up. It’s not half an hour later and Gotthorm comes out to where he’s hiding, sort of wedged under a chaise lounge.

  “What’s that?” Bob asks, pointing at the big taxidermied fish in Gotthorm’s hands.

  “It’s an African pompano.”

  “But why do you have it?”

  “A mermaid has the upper body of a human and the tail of a fish.”

  “Thanks for refreshing my memory.”

  “Jane needs to be supported by both her land family and those family members from under the sea.”

  “And that stuffed fish is like an aquatic cousin?”

  “I’m going to let you stay and watch us from out here,” Gotthorm says. “But you can’t come inside and Jane won’t know you’re present.”

  “Why can’t I come in and cheer her on?”

  “No one cheers on a piece of sea grass, being bandied by the tide.”

  “Right, but she’s … ”

  “Nobody applauds a jellyfish feeding on plankton.”

  “That’s my human wife in there.”

  “Jane is transcending human endurance. She is of two worlds right now. And her mind needs to be like this fish’s mind.” He moves the taxidermied thing in an arcing motion. “You pollute her state of nothingness.”

  Gotthorm turns and starts walking back toward the indoor pool, leaving Bob and his binoculars all by their lonesome.

  About 4:00 AM something sort of beautiful happens. Gotthorm gets into the pool with a bottle of Gatorade and an energy bar. He approaches Jane. Slowly, she seems to emerge from her trance, her nothingness, and she slowly drinks the whole Gatorade, eats the snack. Then she shuts her eyes again and returns to her puckered breathing.

  Coffen climbs into the empty lifeguard chair, the perch giving him a better view. He watches Jane in awe. Watches and feels washed with affection.

  Tuesday looks a lot like Monday. Besides intermittent trips into the locker room to relieve himself, C
offen stays fixed to the outdoor pool deck, spying with grave intensity, snacking on his stash of Mexican lasagnas.

  If Coffen’s calculations are correct, she’s been treading water for twenty-nine hours now.

  And while he can’t see her legs working in the pool, he can see her face, her arms, her cohesive motions. Gotthorm is right—there is something otherworldly in the way her body moves.

  Erma, Margot, and Brent are back.

  Apparently, the judges rotate to stay alert. The woman who was there the day before is now gone. A small gentleman is positioned close to the pool, scrutinizing each of Jane’s strokes, clutching a clipboard of his very own.

  Bob texts his kids the same message: How’s our girl doing?

  Margot: fine

  Brent: you mean mom?

  Bob: Think good thoughts for her!

  Neither of them knows he’s out there, hiding with the masses on the congested pool deck. He figures it’s better to keep them in the dark about his distant attendance, so they don’t accidentally tell Erma, who would probably call the cops on him. Or worse, buy a stun gun and handle things herself.

  Gotthorm comes out again to chat with Coffen late Tuesday, around 11:00 PM. The health club is closed. He’s not carrying the African pompano this time, but instead is eating a banana.

  “Aren’t you cold?” Bob says, pointing at his Speedo.

  “I’m Nordic.”

  “Don’t remind me. How’s she doing?”

  “She is accepting the ocean as another home. And it is accepting her.”

  Bob fights back laughter. Why is it that the first thing through Coffen’s stupid mind is a wisecrack? Here his wife is going on forty hours straight of treading water and all he wants to do is say something snide to Gotthorm: How is a heated indoor pool anything like the open ocean?

  He stops himself, embarrassed. Why can’t he focus on what’s important? He catches himself, composes himself, then says to Gotthorm, “She’s going to do it this time.”

  The coach snorts. “Too soon to know. She’s made it this far before.”

  “This time’s different. I can tell.”