by Paul Neilan
“You should be careful,” he said, looking me in the eye, and I wasn’t sure if it was a threat or a warning or if he was just trying to teach me something about life. I hoped not. Bryce was in no position to be giving anybody advice about anything. And I think he realized this because he put his hands in his pockets and shrugged and started to walk away. He stopped after a few steps and turned around.
“I really don’t think she cares,” he said.
“About you?” There was no need to be that cruel but he was pissing me off. And I wanted to hear him say it.
“About anything,” he said.
There comes a time in every man’s life when he wakes up drunk on the toilet and begins to doubt the choices he has made. And when that time comes at least twice a day, every day, something needs to be done.
But what? And how? These are hard, entirely unspecific questions. And apathy has its own slow momentum. It doesn’t like to be disturbed.
It had reached the point where I could hardly sleep anymore. So I sat on the toilet and read whatever crumpled newspaper pages people left lying around. It was usually the business section. Things were not looking good. I was concerned about the Fed’s position on interest rates for reasons I could not fully explain. Sometimes I sifted through the scraps of paper in my wallet, a few old receipts and this clipping my mother had given me in high school from Reader’s Digest. Points to Ponder. One of them was by Erma Bombeck. They were all needlessly depressing.
I sat at my desk and made sculptures out of paperclips. I bent them at strange angles and made them stand up. I linked them into chains that were conceptual and open to interpretation. I did other things that were avant-garde and very interesting. Sometimes I went for walks around the floor with a stack of papers in my hand, pretending to be going somewhere. But I was not. Sometimes I would stand very still and listen to the hum of the air vents, and when someone saw me I would nod and smile and walk away.
These were the longest days of my life, and I was wasting them. That is always a sad thing to know. Everyone else was wasting them too, but that only made it a little easier to take.
Sometimes I thought about things, what to do about Bryce and his wife or if I should do anything, or sometimes about Marlene and her black eye and how I wouldn’t be going back to Doug’s office anymore. I tried not to think about any of it too much. I was hoping it would all just work itself out. One day I thought of a bumper sticker: “The world is your oyster, but you are allergic to shellfish.” That was too good to be a bumper sticker, and too long probably. Maybe it could be in a fortune cookie.
I sat there as the fabric walls of my cubicle, and all the cubicles, and all the walls of the building closed around me like one big malevolent cocoon. Maybe soon I would emerge a beautiful butterfly. Or maybe some guy out cutting his grass would mistake me for a nest of gypsy moths and set me on fire to save his trees. I wouldn’t blame him. It’s so hard to tell the difference these days. You have to really be paying attention.
“Shane, can I see you for a moment?” Andrew said, standing in the open side of my cubicle. He was gravely polite.
Finally.
I staggered after him and fell into a springback chair as he shut the door to one of the private conference rooms. My eyes were so bloodshot I looked rabid. I could have been a POW.
Andrew sighed softly.
“Shane, let me just start by saying that your work for us here has always been impeccable. There have never been any questions about your abilities as an alphabetizer.”
I began to weep.
“You’ve displayed a lot of the qualities we look for in prospective hires, but in the end we decided that you’d probably be a better fit at another company. We’re going to have to let you go,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said, and started to get up.
“I really shouldn’t comment on this any further, but I feel as if I have to,” Andrew said, lowering his voice even though I could already hardly fucking hear him. I sat back down again. “This company, and the entire insurance industry as a whole, isn’t just about numbers and quotas and how many forms you can alphabetize in a day. It’s about people. It’s about integrity and compassion. It’s about what makes us human beings. I’ve heard about your ‘imitations’ of Carl as you make your way back from the bathroom, mocking his walk, his disability. I don’t know who you thought you were entertaining, but it’s no one on this floor. No one in this entire company. Carl may not technically be affiliated with Panopticon, but he’s still a valued member of our team. The human team. And he’s a veteran. He sacrificed his body so that we could enjoy the freedoms we have today. He deserves not only your respect, but your undying gratitude.”
Andrew was gallant and flushed and trembling. He would tell people of this speech for years, and he would be proud of himself. And rightfully so. He had done his duty, just like Karal.
A 600-year-old security guard watched me as I packed up my paper clip sculptures and my miniature nooses, his hand quivering over his holstered gun. I touched the door of the men’s room as I passed. It was like leaving home to go to college.
“Hey Shane! TGIF!” Mitch said as he stepped out of the elevator and I stepped in. He didn’t know I’d just been fired. Andrew would send out an email, call a team meeting and explain. They would shake their heads and denounce me. I would be condemned and vilified. Rumors would spread. No one would defend me, not even Mitch and my other teammates, not even for my miraculous alphabetizing.
In the passion play that my life had not nearly become, this was my crucifixion: getting fired from a job I did not want for being unpatriotic. This was my Good Friday. I would descend into a Miller High Life–soaked hell for the rest of the weekend before rising on the third day to an ad in the Sunday classifieds:
Two-month sleep study. Participant must be able to pass out on toilets for up to one hour at a time. Nudity optional. Data will be used to determine the crippling effects of modern life on the physical and psychological health of the individual. Generous compensation package including full health benefits, open bar, 3.4 million dollar stipend, worldwide fame and scientific immortality. Only serious applicants need apply. We are an equal opportunity employer.
Redemption is important. And it’s fun to be Christ-like, when the circumstances fit.
part two
Chapter 8
When I woke up that Sunday after getting fired Marlene was dead. I was in a salty bed and two detectives were staring down at me. Three hours later I was jerking off in a police station bathroom. It was not the resurrection I’d been hoping for.
When they let me go I went straight back to my apartment. My phone was ringing as I walked in the door. Even though I hadn’t spoken to her in a long time and she didn’t have my number I hoped it was my mom. It probably wasn’t but I picked up anyway.
“Momma?” I said.
“IS THIS SHANE?” a man shouted, so loud and atonal and nasal it made me wince.
“Yes.”
“YOU KILLED MY WIFE!”
It was either the worst telemarketer in the world or Marlene’s husband.
“No I didn’t,” I said.
“YOU’RE GOING TO PAY FOR WHAT YOU DID YOU SON OF A BITCH!”
“Stop shouting, I can’t understand you. Use the robot voice,” I said. It was hard to understand him. He talked much deafer than Marlene.
“FUCK YOU!” he wailed.
“What?”
Then there was a pause.
“you-killed-my-wife-you-mo-ther-fuck-er,” the robot voice said slowly, and I was back on Battlestar Galactica.
“I did not.”
“i-have-proof.”
I knew it couldn’t have been true, but in that flat, dispassionate, mechanical monotone, it was still quite chilling.
“she-tried-to-end-the-af-fair-and-you-would-not-let-her.”
“What? I didn’t have an affair with her.”
“you-are-a-li-ar.”
“Listen, I’m sorry Marlene’s gone but I
had nothing to do with her, uh, passing.”
“you-bet-ter-hope-the-po-lice-get-to-you-be-fore-i-do.”
“I just came from the police station. They asked me some questions and told me to go home.” I didn’t mention that they’d also told me not to leave town or I’d be the star of a statewide shoot-on-sight manhunt. That I kept to myself.
“what-they-let-you-go.”
“Yeah, see? I’m innocent.”
“you-killed-my-wife.”
“I didn’t kill anybody.”
“I-found-her-blee-ding-in-the-bath-room-i-know-what-you-did.”
“I didn’t do anything, but I told the police about you shit-head.”
“what-are-you-talk-ing-a-bout.”
“That black eye you gave her? Yeah you’re a real tough guy beating up on your wife.”
And I was a real tough guy telling him so over the phone as I checked my door to make sure it was locked.
“you-fuck-ing-li-ar.”
“Nice try framing me for it though. Too bad it didn’t work out for you. I bet you’ll be real popular in those prison showers.”
“YOU MOTHERFUCKER! I’LL KILL YOU—”
I hung up and hoped he wouldn’t call back and prayed he didn’t know where I lived. My ears were ringing and I still had the shakes from the creepy robot voice.
So that was his angle. He’d already gone to the police, trying to set me up. His “proof” was probably that picture I’d drawn of her with the horse teeth sitting on a pile of garbage. Even with the crooked cops that wouldn’t be enough. I was safe.
Still, he sounded pretty sure of himself. It was hard to really judge, since he talked like a robot most of the time, but he seemed like he believed what he was saying. He was already preparing for the polygraph. He was a crafty deaf man.
So Marlene had died in the bathroom, just like Elvis. That was a shame. I hadn’t even known how it happened. I’d never even asked the police. Fuck. Did that make it seem like I already knew? Was that suspicious? But I was in shock, how could anyone expect me to be thinking clearly? I was anguished. I was in no condition to ask thoughtful, obvious questions. But I could crack jokes before jerking off into a plastic bag. That I could easily do. It wouldn’t look good to a jury. I’d convict me in a heartbeat, then be home in time to watch the ripped-from-the-headlines TV movie. I would be played by a pretty boy actor who was looking to showcase his gritty, serial killer side. The Greyhound Strangler they’d call me. Fuck.
I went down to the bar to at least get my alibi straight. There was an unlit neon-lettered sign over the door that I made sure I remembered: The Mickeypot Tavern. So that’s what it was called. I liked it better when it was just the place with the seven-to-ten A.M. happy hour.
I sat at the bar and paid regular price for a pitcher of Miller High Life. Five dollars was a lot to spend, but I needed something familiar, something I could trust to sicken me in that old reliable way. Projectile vomiting can be very reassuring sometimes. And I needed to talk to Sooj. I had to make sure he’d vouch for me. I knew I hadn’t done anything, but the police and the robot voice had gotten me pretty spooked. Not spooked enough to where I was doubting myself, but pretty spooked.
Still, asking a strange man from Cleveland to please, please keep you out of prison isn’t as straightforward as it seems. Etiquette is important. And there were other considerations, the biggest one being that I wasn’t sure I was even in here the night Marlene died. I thought I was. I didn’t know where else I could’ve been besides here or passed out in my bed. But what if I wasn’t? Would that make me seem even more suspicious, like I was shopping for an alibi wherever I could get it? From some pissed off bartender whose parents weren’t even from this country? How would Sooj play on the witness stand, shouting, “Deadly force is authorized!” during the cross-examination? Christ.
All I had in my defense right now was my good word and a bag of sperm. I was nobody, and who knows what they do with DNA testing? It can be faked and tampered with just like anything else. And how the fuck would anyone know? Are you a scientist? Are you?
No, I needed Sooj. Sooj was the best I could do. Christ.
But how do you ask someone for an alibi? What are you supposed to say?
“Last night was busy, huh?” I said, smiling and wishing I had a microphone taped to my balls so I could record his answer and not go to jail.
Sooj looked at me with utter contempt, like I was the biggest asshole in the world, then went back to staring at his hands.
So that didn’t work. I would need a new strategy. And as I drank my pitcher I tried to think of one. But I could not. Midway through my second pitcher I came up with a few ideas. They were convoluted and hilarious, and most of them involved me wearing disguises and running around to funny music like on Benny Hill, but I didn’t have the courage to try them. Not yet. By my third pitcher I had forgotten all about them and I didn’t even care.
I didn’t kill Marlene. The whole thing was ridiculous. I’d blacked out from alcohol plenty of times before. Some of those times I’d done things with ugly women that I never would have otherwise done. Sometimes I’d pissed places I probably shouldn’t have pissed. Sometimes I did other things that were gross and sad. But I’d never blacked out and murdered anyone before. You’d have to be really religious to do something like that. Or famous and on designer drugs at least.
Obviously I wouldn’t be sent to prison for a crime I didn’t commit. That happened to the fucking A-Team, not me. This would all be straightened out tomorrow somehow. I was confident my name would be cleared. Maybe I could sue those cops for making me jerk off. Fuckers. I’d like to see them try it now. Yeah, fucking perverts. I’d sue them, then after the trial I’d fight them on the steps of the courthouse in front of all the reporters and I’d make them jerk off all over each other. Two disgraced cops whacking each other off. People would be taking pictures and everything. Yeah.
There were two old men at the bar, one on either side of me. No one was talking. We were all just sitting with ourselves and our beer.
“Why are dogs better than women?” the old man to my left said suddenly, then coughed phlegm into a filthy handkerchief for about twenty minutes until it was heavy and full. Sooj glared at him from behind the bar, his arms folded, saying nothing. I didn’t say anything either because I wanted Sooj to like me, but I was very curious. The old man had a few strands of white hair that stood up on his ancient head, and they waved like withered grain as he shook with coughing. The other old man on my right had his eyes closed and he swayed on his stool like a dreidel right before it spins out. Chanukah would be ending soon. I hoped he wouldn’t crack his head when he landed on the floor.
Finally the coughing man pulled the sopping wet rag from his face.
“You can give them a bone and you don’t have to call them the next day!” he said, and laughed phlegm and filth into his handkerchief.
It was by far the funniest thing I’d ever heard in my entire life, but Sooj wasn’t laughing so I bit my cheek hard and tried to keep a straight face. The other old man beside me wasn’t doing anything but getting ready to fall down. I don’t even think he was conscious. I was going to tell my sex with a three year old joke, to show Sooj that it was okay to laugh and that I was funny and that he should want to save me, but then the front door of the Mickeypot Tavern opened. We all looked towards the rectangle of natural light. And there, there was Gwen.
She was prettier than I’d remembered, even though it’d only been a week since I’d seen her last and nothing about her had changed. Maybe it was just that the lighting was worse. As she walked over, the old comedian, still hacking his guts up, plastered his swaying hairs to his head with one of his slimy hands.
“Shane, can I talk to you?” she said.
Her face was hardened into a mask of businesslike indifference, but it was the kind of indifference that didn’t have much patience and wouldn’t be indifferent for long. I stepped off my stool and it was like jumping into a rowboa
t with both feet the way the floor pitched beneath me. I tried to walk a straight line as I followed her over to a small table that was just far enough away from everyone to give us absolutely no privacy. As I sat down I tragically realized that I’d left my half-empty third pitcher on the bar. I also realized that I really had to piss.
We sat looking at each other and I tried to keep my head from swimming away.
“Shane, in spite of everything, I want you to know that I’m sorry for the way things had to end for you at Panopticon.” She was speaking slowly, measuring her words to show how serious all this was.
“Yeah,” I said.
“It’s over between us,” she said, and she paused to give this the weight that it was obviously lacking. “But I think it’s important that we talk about a few things, or else it’s all just been a waste of everyone’s time.”
It was the speech she’d been rehearsing since the night we’d first met. For her, this was the payoff to all those brutal, meaningless nights together. I decided to be the bigger person. I decided to let her have this closure, this satisfaction. I would let her lecture me and teach me and then never think about her again.
“You’re a good person inside Shane, but you need to realize that what you do on the outside affects other people. We all have an impact, whether we like it or not.”
“You mean like the weather?” I said.
“What?”
“Like when a swallow flaps its wings in Africa and then there’s a tsunami in Japan and then a building falls down in Kansas? I think that’s just a myth really,” I said. I decided to be the smaller person after all. I knew that I would.
“Don’t embarrass yourself. I’m being serious. I don’t have to do this you know. I’m just trying to help you. You hurt me Shane. But more than that, you hurt yourself.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“You can be such a great person when you open yourself up, when you let people in. But until you start doing that on a regular basis you’re not going to grow, personally or professionally.”
