Grey

by Jon Armstrong

  "I was this close to death." He squished his index and thumb together. "Yeah, you can tell all your friends! They turned your dad's balls into mutant raisins." Around us a dozen of the leotard-wearing stage workers had stopped to watch. I thought he was going to yell at them, but then as if he were pretending to be thrilled, he said, "You heard me! I'm a genetically poisoned freak from the war! I'm not a real man anymore. Go on and stare your hearts out." To me he added, "This isn't something you tell your clients." He spoke as if it was a joke, but clearly he knew it wasn't funny. "They don't want to invest if you can't reproduce. And they wanted someone handsome to take over. At least not the freaks I could make."

  I always thought of Father as a beast for what he did and said, but this was the source of his anger and craziness—he was broken inside. It made so much sense I wondered why I hadn't thought of it before.

  "Very tragic, indeed," agreed the director, grasping our hands like two children, "but please follow me. The show must continue!"

  "I don't want to!" growled Father, pulling away.

  "Ratings!" said the director, as if that were the holy word. "We're having a hell of a show! They love it."

  Father let out a big sigh. "It's a disaster. Like everything I ever made."

  "No! The crowd is sucking it down faster then greased slut cakes! They love you, Hiro. This is your real audience, not those stuffed hams who just left."

  "They were the whole reason for this," said Father.

  "Forget them! You are a performer. I've been filming your life for years, and I know. That's what you are—a performer. A real star."

  Father looked up at him with a glimmer of hope.

  "The director's right," I said. "We have to finish the show!" If he didn't go back on stage, my plan was done, but letting Nora and the world see how I felt was part of it.

  "Well," said Father, flipping one of his hands over as one might turn a burger " . . . I do like acting . . . "

  "Of course you do! You were born to be before the camera. The eye loves your face. The ear cherishes your words. The heart suffers your feelings!"

  "I guess so," he said, like a dry sponge absorbing a last drop of water. Then smiling, he looked the director in the eye. "I'll do it for you."

  "That's it! Now you're going! And they do love you! I know they do. Come on." Assistants opened the door in the sound baffles, and we stepped onto the strangely ornate glacier of a stage. A smoky, jet-fuel haze filled the air. The director led us to the front where the shiny blue floor was covered with a craze of cracks, scorch marks, and bits of paper and trash. The huge curtains were closed, but I heard strings, a dreary rhythm, and several voices chanting something about palpitations, kitty cakes, and pussy willows. It was the same group I'd heard at my promotion date with Elle.

  "It's illegal," I said, picking up where we had left off, "to cut and paste people."

  "It is," he agreed. While he had been near collapse a minute ago, the director's words had lifted him, and he held his head up as if filled with a form of pride. Not the real stuff perhaps, but a pride for the sake of pride. "But real parts are so much better than the grown ones. And we had lots of real parts."

  "Stay with me!" said the director, eying us with concern. "Concentrate. This is an important section of the show." He nudged me toward a small, white-taped x on the floor. "It's a little showmanship! Some razzle dazzle." He placed Father four feet away. "In thirty seconds, the curtain will open. At first, the house voice thinks it's the wedding, but it's the ceo crowning. Xavid will come down that set of stairs."

  "I thought this was the wedding!" I said.

  "That's next."

  "But this is just Father and me?"

  "Yes," he said. "The Beavers will be singing on either side, but it's a simple quiet moment . . . an ebb to the flow. It's just the two of you . . . then Xavid comes down."

  It wasn't what I planned, but I couldn't wait any longer.

  The director gazed at me as if horrified.

  "What?" I asked, afraid he had read my thoughts.

  "Where's your makeup? You didn't get makeup!" He called over a man who began dabbing my face with a huge sponge. "Look into the cameras. Smile. Be calm. If you get stuck, look for me stage right. I'll help you." The makeup man powdered my nose three more times. Before he ran off, Father asked him for all the sponges he had. After he handed them over, Father stuffed them down his codpiece.

  As the curtains parted, I saw a hundred rows of tables and chairs on the old dance floor and all the seated Ültra freaks. In back fifteen balconies were filled with thousands more. In the glare of the yellow, violet, and blue stage lights, I couldn't see them, but I could hear them and feel their heat. Three transparent screens hung beyond the stage. On them blinked blue words. Stand still. High above, rings of colored spots shot shafts down through the haze like a million-legged spider. Then lasers began scribbling words and lyrics all over the walls and floor—as they had in Father's car. I saw dead orgasm, rip it red, and crush më among the vibrating scrawl. On the steps on both sides of the stage, stood the singing Beavers. The closest one on the right held a long note while he rubbed one of his paws over his crotch. Atop his head the linty fur was highlighted in a large yellow light.

  "Aren't they cute?" asked the announcer. "They're The Pipsqueak Beaver-boys! They are everyone's favorite band, and check out their derrieres!" Half the crowd cheered, the other booed. But when the Beavers turned around and bent over, the cheers overtook the catcalls.

  "I thought crowning Xavid would be an ass-saver," said Father, with a sigh.

  "Xavid is Chesterfield's brother," I told him. "And neither of them are part of the families."

  Father gazed at me bewildered. "Where do you get this butt fluff?"

  "Is this the part of the show when Michael Rivers becomes a man?" asked the announcer. "Is this when some super-lucky girl becomes his sex-slave wife? Or are we stretching out the show with one more RiverGroup business announcement?"

  The Beavers began singing the wedding march a cappella.

  "I was at the Kez compound." I emphasized the last word because it was so wrong. "There is no Ribo-Kool. There's nothing. Walter told me they're not even Kez. They're Noodle . . . or something. Xavid stole identities for them."

  "Shh!" I heard the director say from the side. "Quiet! Wait for your lines!"

  "Who is going to come down the stairs?" asked the announcer. "Could it be a beautiful and raunchy girl—someone to make Michael happy a thousand dirty ways?"

  "Oh, my, gosh!" said the announcer with a phony laugh. "I'm sorry, that's not a luscious and slutty girl for our beloved Michael, it's RiverGroup's own coo and cfo, Xavid Xarry! Yes, that's right, this is a super-secret surprise! One of special interest to all you partners, subsidiaries, and affiliates."

  Beavers—double tempo appeared on the prompters, and when they sped up to a cartoony frenzy, the crowd laughed.

  Father stared at me as though I was insane, but I thought I saw a hint of fear.

  "When were you at the Kez compound?" he asked over the din.

  "Today! It looks like the slubs."

  "Bullshit!" Shaking his head he added, "Xavid checked them out."

  "Xavid lied to you! He's not part of the families!"

  "After a fabulous run," continued the announcer, "as the greatest ceo the world has ever known, our beloved and yet deeply hated Hiro Bruce Rivers is going to relinquish that coveted title."

  "Squid shit!" said Father, rolling his eyes at me. "Xavid's lard!"

  Maybe father would never understand or admit his mistakes, but at least I had told him what I knew.

  "Serving with RiverGroup for more than two years," said the announcer, "Xavid has shown amazing loyalty, fearless determination, and hot, relentless love—the one thing that every great ceo needs. But before we welcome Xavid into our greedy corporate hearts, let's give a much-earned standing ovation to our squealing, bawling Ültra baby of agony, the hard, long, and fat Hiro . . . Bruce . . . Rivers
!"

  I could see people in the front rows stand and clap. Some pumped their fists. Others hollered. Father waved a pumpkin arm slowly. He spoke, but I couldn't hear.

  "What?" I asked stepping closer.

  "There were a lot of ugly babies." He smiled and pretended to point at someone he knew. "One had five nostrils. Another had chicken wings for legs. Some had brains but no skulls. Others had skulls but no brains."

  While I could picture the horrors he described, he seemed more nostalgic than sorry. I told him, "You're a monster!"

  The prompters said: Hiro—Thank you! I love you all!

  With a sardonic smile, he eyed me. "I am a monster, but then again, so are you."

  "Not by choice."

  He laughed. "Me neither."

  "Your lines!" shouted the director. "Hiro, say your lines!"

  Now the prompter read: Hiro—I loved you the best I could. But my love just wasn't good enough.

  "You made me!" I told him. "I didn't choose to be like this."

  "I didn't choose either!" he barked. "Don't you get that? They poisoned me."

  "It's not the same at all."

  Shaking his head, he said, "It's completely, absolutely, and totally identical!"

  "But why did you have to hurt Nora?"

  Now he scrunched up his face as if he had never heard anything so absurd. "I didn't hurt her. Every three seconds it's something else!"

  I heard the director off-stage saying, "Hiro! Your lines! Say your damn lines!"

  "You did hurt her," I said. "You cut off her toe!"

  Shaking his head, Father spoke, but the house voice drowned him out.

  "Your love is good enough for me, Hiro! And we will all miss you, very much. But from this day on, the mighty RiverGroup will hereby be shepherded by the very talented code bastard, Xavid Xarry. And that means for all of you who what to vomit in Hiro Bruce Rivers' mouth, he's not the man to blame anymore and whatever bad things he presided over are now officially gone with him!"

  I studied Father's profile as he stared forward. The bright lights flattened his face and made him look younger, but now all I could see—or imagined I could see—was the flawed dna in each of his cells. And in that instant, I was angry, and disappointed, but I didn't hate him like I thought I should. Maybe there was no such thing as the pure hate I wanted to feel, or maybe I came upon that opposite dot of emotion right in the middle. Or maybe I'd just felt that he had heard me—even if he couldn't yet respond. He was, after all, my father and whatever he had done—easily a million terrible things—maybe I was about to make a worse mistake.

  Then, loathing my sympathy, my pity, I turned to check how close Xavid was, to see if I could include him, but he was still fifteen feet away and walking one step at a time. Now, I told myself. I couldn't wait any longer. Bending my knees, I stepped toward Father. Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw another figure come from the opening at the top of the stairs on the left. It was Joelene.

  She wore my grey jacket over her underwear as if she had just come from the dungeon. Her curly hair was matted and dirty. Her skin was mottled with bruises, and in the lights they were vivid shades of purple and hunter green. Bright blood ran down her chin.

  She sprinted down the stairs three at a time like an athlete. And although I could see that she was going straight for Xavid, all I could do was watch.

  "The hell?" said Father softly, as if he hadn't had time to inhale and fill his words.

  Completely unaware, Xavid slowly continued toward us as though wading through three feet of water. "Thank you all," he said to the audience. "It's an extra-extraordinary day of exhilaration for me!"

  From the bottom step, Joelene leaped into the air and straight-legged Xavid's neck. His head was knocked so far back, his face disappeared and his chin became the highest point of his body. The sharp, bony crack filled the PartyHaus as everything else went silent. For a second, even with his neck obviously snapped, he just stood there. The seal pelts all over his blue and orange color-blocked suit vibrated as if from aftershocks. Then he fell forward and crashed three feet away.

  Joelene stood beyond him breathing hard. Her ribs were visible when she inhaled. Her left hand was bloody. Her pinky and ring fingers had been cut off.

  Twenty

  A single drop of blood gathered at the end of Joelene's middle finger. It grew to the size of a kidney bean, broke away, and splat on the crackled blue stage. The dot was perfectly round and in the shiny, convex surface, I could see pinpoints from the colored spotlights above.

  I had been about to kill Father, Xavid, and myself, but the brutality of what just happened—the palpable snap of bone—made me nauseous and fearful. And as I gazed at Xavid's body, I felt shaken that his death had been so violent.

  Another drop of Joelene's blood gathered on her fingertip and hit the floor. Now two circles rested a half an inch apart. Her breathing was slowing. I wondered if she had been hit in the mouth for the red on her chin.

  "Improvise!" said the director from the side of the stage. "Invent! Do something good."

  One of the Beavers let out a high-pitched yowl like a strange, exotic bird. The crowd cheered. Someone nearby shouted, "Kick 'em all dead!"

  More drops had fallen from her hand. Two formed a figure eight. Joelene was watching me. Her expression was at once angry, victorious, and surprised, as though she had been hoping to kill Xavid, but couldn't believe she had.

  "Come on," she said. She was gazing at me, and as much as I was glad she was alive and out of the dungeon, my Joelene wasn't a killer. She knew the fighting arts—she had put Mother in a headlock in a half-second—but this wasn't my thoughtful, gentle advisor. "We're going." Her voice was heavier and harder, and I thought of that time I had heard her swearing early that morning.

  "Please bear with us," said the announcer, "we are experiencing technical difficulties. This is not a breach."

  Someone screamed in pain. In the audience I saw a chair fly through the air, hit a man in aluminum pants, and flatten him. A woman in lavender feathers climbed onto one of the tables as if to dance or proclaim something. As she tore off her plumage, someone knocked her down. She fell onto her head.

  Above, a prompter screen read: Michael—I have promised my full support for Xavid Xarry and pledge to . . .

  When I turned back to Joelene, the floor beneath her hand was now a puddle of dots. "What is going on?" I asked her.

  "Please remain in your seats and refrain from violent conflict," said the house voice. "We'll be right back with the exciting conclusion to this year's show." The curtains began closing. The crowd booed and hissed.

  "God damn fuck!" yelled Father as if he had finally regained his volume.

  His words seemed to energize Joelene. She leaped toward me and put her right arm around my neck. "You're my hostage," she said quietly. "Play along."

  She wasn't hurting me, but her grip was rigid like steel. I stood still, afraid that if I tried to pull away, I would explode.

  "Do as I say!" Joelene said to Father. "Don't move or Michael dies."

  A gold crown covered with sparkling blue and orange jewels hit the floor about a foot from me, with a tinny thunk as if it had been dropped from high above. A handful of the gems popped out and scattered like glittering beetles. The thing rolled past Xavid's pelt-covered body and stopped a foot away.

  "Security!" cried Father. "Xavid is down! Get that woman!"

  I felt heat on the side of my face. A huge crawling amoeba of yellow flames spread across the curtains. Clouds of black smoke dimmed the lights.

  From both sides of the stage, half a dozen people rushed toward us. They wore cobalt leotards with the word security on their chests. Forming a circle, they surrounded us. They all stood in the same crouched-and-ready position like they were from a tennis academy, and their faces were pale, young, and afraid. Beside Father was his freeboot all in black.

  "Let my boy go!" said Father, his eyes panicked. "Just let him go!"

  "Keep bac
k!" said Joelene as she jerked me toward her. "I can crack his neck in an instant!" As Joelene gestured with her right hand, I could see bite marks in her flesh. She had chewed off her pinky and ring finger to escape the cuff in the dungeon! I thought of Walter's nose and the aru.

  "Careful," I told her, afraid she would knock the suit and blow us up.

  "Back off you fucking idiots!" shrieked Father at the security people. He grabbed one of them by the collar and whipped him to the ground.

  The crowd roared as the fire ate the curtains away and they could see again. High above, flames engulfed several spotlights. One exploded with a shower of white sparks that arced down like the sizzling petals of fireworks.