by Jeff Wood
Sue shouts from inside the truck, muffled like an angry bumblebee in a glass jar.
Out in the field, Jonah looks up from his notebook—
And Gunner fires right back at Sue.
GUNNER
Hey! I was from here! And I think I oughta know what I’m talking about. I was from here and now it’s all one big fucking cemetery.
SUE
I know where you were from! What I’m wondering is if it’s possible for you to keep your fat mouth shut for two fucking seconds!
Gunner moves aggressively toward the truck.
GUNNER
Well those are pretty big words coming out of a little girl, mister.
Sue fumbles with his paperwork and locks the door just as Gunner reaches out to grab the handle.
Gunner leans into the window and talks low, muffled and filtered by the truck window.
GUNNER
Sissy. You’re always sitting in the truck with the heat on. Why don’t you come out here with the elements and do a man’s job for a change.
Gunner glares at Sue with wild animal eyes, steaming on the glass with his snout like a bear on a tourist vehicle. Sue watches Gunner, almost intimately, from behind the safety of the aquarium. He parts his lips as if to say something but then stops himself.
GUNNER
That’s what I thought.
Gunner turns his bear ass around and walks away from the truck. Sue gets in one last dig, calmly speaking over the distance of the radio.
SUE
(radio)
Fuck off, Gunner.
Gunner turns and hurls his paper coffee cup at Sue. It explodes coffee all over the truck window.
GUNNER
Church coffee!!
Sue looks out from inside the truck window, coffee running down the glass.
Gunner goes back to the scope on the surveyor’s gun and sights up Jonah in the crosshairs. Jonah stands across the site, quietly writing in his notebook. Gunner observes him and then speaks to Sue over the radio again.
GUNNER
(radio)
What in the hell is this guy always writing down?
But Jonah can hear him over the radio. He looks across the field at Gunner, directly down the scope of the surveyor gun as if they’re looking eye to eye through a telescope.
Gunner pulls quickly away from the scope and snaps off his radio.
GUNNER
Dammit.
He walks back over to the truck and speaks to Sue. From opposite sides of the window their conversation sounds muffled and bubbled.
GUNNER
Roll down the window.
SUE
Leave me alone, Gunner.
GUNNER
I need to talk to you.
Sue thinks it over.
SUE
All right, back away from the truck.
GUNNER
Oh, come on.
SUE
Go on. Back away.
GUNNER
Jesus Christ.
SUE
Well go on.
Gunner backs up a few steps. Sue cracks the window.
GUNNER
What is he always writing down?
SUE
Who?!
GUNNER
Him.
Sue squints over his dash and across the field at Jonah.
SUE
I don’t know. I never noticed.
GUNNER
Well I have. The guy never says shit and every second he gets he’s always writing something down in that little notebook.
SUE
So what?
GUNNER
So I don’t trust him, that’s what.
SUE
Oh, will you quit being paranoid.
GUNNER
I’m not being paranoid. I’m observing is all, and what I’m observing is one more thing I don’t need in my workday.
SUE
Gunner, we are not going to invent problems where there aren’t any, so just lighten up.
GUNNER
Now that is just exactly what they want us to do. Just go along with the whole goddamn thing.
SUE
What whole thing? What are you talking about?
Gunner looks back out at Jonah. Jonah gestures with his hands as if to ask, “What’s going on?” Gunner looks over at the new houses, searching for an answer.
SUE
Can we get back to work now?
GUNNER
It’s just something I think you should know about, that’s all.
Sue rolls up his window and goes back to his numbers.
Gunner darkens…
GUNNER
(ominously)
Suit yourself.
He lingers for a moment at the truck and then goes back to looking down the scope of the gun.
***
A long pink corridor of concrete block and fluorescent tube lighting, frighteningly institutional and empty.
Around a corner at the far end of the hallway, the sound of a metal cart approaching, clanking and rattling through the industrial complex…
Simone rounds the corner, pushing a cart full of salt and pepper shakers vibrating on metal trays. She rolls down the long hall, attentive and focused, pink walls flowing by on either side. Then an invading awareness sweeps across her face like a passing cloud, furrowing. She slows down and stops.
She looks at a couple of doors, unsure. She gazes down the long receding hallway, and back up the route she has just traveled.
She listens to the building, deathly quiet but for intermittent clanking off in the distance, as if there isn’t another soul for miles.
She listens to herself, the invisible map inside her, of whatever country that is. She flexes her hands around the handlebar of the cart and looks down at the salt and pepper shakers gathered on the tray like a clutch of extraterrestrial spores.
Then she turns her cart around and pushes it back down the hallway, taking another turn and disappearing down another corridor.
***
A clumsy, familiar melody in the air of the neighborhood. The invisible song floats down a quiet new street.
The ice cream man!
Samson rounds a corner and slowly navigates the glacial streets. Deserted sidewalks, lifeless windows, winter lawns, the strange empty spaces between houses— Somnambuland. The ache of a phantom limb. Out here the ice cream man is king. The truck brings a luminescent glow to the neighborhood, a white-hot cauter beneath the overcast.
Sam rounds another corner in the labyrinth, trolling for action. Suddenly a front door explodes open. Bingo!
A small boy wearing a silver snowsuit and a space helmet rockets out of the house. He sprints across his front lawn and launches out into the street. All engines, maximum warp speed. He chases Sam’s truck down the center of the street.
Sam sees the boy in his side mirror and grins rakishly, watching the boy run… Then he pulls over.
The space boy looks up at Samson through his space helmet.
Samson beams down at him, radiant.
SAMSON
Hello there!
SPACE BOY
I’m in outer space.
SAMSON
You most certainly are! How may I assist your mission today?
SPACE BOY
It’s cold.
SAMSON
Yes it is. But it can get very hot in outer space under certain circumstances like suns, supernovas, red dwarves, and Big Bangs. Then there’s heat shield failure during reentry and other misfortunes. You’re familiar with all this, of course.
Space boy is focused.
SAMSON
How about some hot chocolate?
SPACE BOY
Hot chocolate!
SAMSON
All right then. One hot chocolate coming right up… Here you are, sir.
Samson hands the boy a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Space boy holds out some change in his little hands.
SAMSON
Oh, I�
�m sorry, but your currency is no good on this planet. Save it. No charge.
SPACE BOY
Thank you.
SAMSON
You bet.
A sickly woman emerges from a house and stands in the front doorway in her bathrobe. Sam nods to her and she disappears back inside, leaving the door ajar.
Sam climbs out of the back of his truck and walks up the front walk with a doctor’s house-call bag. He enters the house and shuts the door behind him. The sullen beige house glooms in the flat midday light.
The woman is lying on the living room couch in her bathrobe and an afghan. She’s looking into the daylight filtered through thin, gauzy curtains.
Sam enters and approaches the couch. He moves a box of Kleenex out of the way and sits down before her on the ottoman, obstructing her from view.
From behind the couch we see him speaking to her softly, backlit by the light coming through the curtains. We can’t see his actions, or her, but we hear her quiet replies.
SAMSON
Is there anyone you would like me to contact for you?
SICKLY WOMAN
No. Just the bank.
SAMSON
I will certainly do that.
SICKLY WOMAN
Thank you, Sam.
SAMSON
You’re going to feel a little prick here.
SICKLY WOMAN
Ah—
SAMSON
It’s okay.
SICKLY WOMAN
Sam…
SAMSON
It’s okay.
SICKLY WOMAN
Sa—
SAMSON
It’s okay.
Sam waits another quiet moment and then exits. Through the pale veil of the living room curtains we see him take a real estate lawn sign from out of his truck and put it up in the front lawn.
Sam fires up the melody maker and pulls away.
The sign on the front lawn reads: FOR SALE.
***
Robert is curled up like a baby on top of the covers.
The dresser, the mirror, the night stand. A clock ticks over the silence, surgically counting another day away.
A tiny, tempting melody creeps into the bedroom and dances around his head like a swarm of drunken mosquitoes.
Robert opens his eyes.
He descends his driveway and waves Samson down. Sam pulls over and leans out the window like a thousand-watt bulb.
SAMSON
Howdy.
ROBERT
Hello.
SAMSON
What can I do for you?
ROBERT
Well… I’m not exactly sure.
SAMSON
Hot chocolate is pretty popular this season.
ROBERT
I’ll bet. What else do you have?
SAMSON
What else are we in the market for?
ROBERT
I’m not sure. Something a little stronger, I guess.
Sam considers him.
SAMSON
You a cop?
ROBERT
No. Do I look like a cop?
SAMSON
Yes. Do I look like the ice cream man?
Sam opens up the rear of the truck and leads Robert inside.
ROBERT
Holy smokes.
The interior seems oddly and deceptively bigger than it could possibly be. Part laboratory, part showroom, the ice cream truck has been perceptibly re-sized and retrofitted as a state-of-the-art medicine wagon.
SAMSON
As you can see, I’m able to offer just about anything that you might be looking for. So. What is it that you’re looking for?
Hundreds of bottles and jars are beautifully displayed on glass shelves—a dazzling rainbow of pills, powders, capsules, and exotic plants.
ROBERT
Gosh. Something for pain, I suppose.
SAMSON
What type of pain?
ROBERT
A general sort of pain.
SAMSON
Physical or mental?
ROBERT
Well I guess it’s sort of that gray area.
SAMSON
I see. Are you taking any medication, currently?
ROBERT
No, not really. Vitamins. Aspirin. Coffee, I guess. If that counts.
SAMSON
It depends on the quantity, of course. Can wreak havoc on the adrenals, but it’s my weakness too.
How is your mortgage situation?
ROBERT
Fine. Paid off, actually. That’s one thing I’m not worried about. Why?
SAMSON
Just a stress indicator.
ROBERT
What’s this?
Inside a solitary medicine cabinet, behind a glass door, there is a vessel containing a silver metallic liquid.
SAMSON
Ah, that’s just a novelty item.
ROBERT
It looks like mercury.
Robert leans into the glass to gaze upon the curious, attractive substance.
ROBERT
It’s very beautiful.
SAMSON
Isn’t it?
Sam moves to the work counter and begins working with a mortar and pestle and some herbal greenery.
But Robert can’t take his eyes off the silver vessel. The shimmering liquid reflects a fish-eye view of the room.
ROBERT
Well, is it?
SAMSON
What?
ROBERT
Mercury.
SAMSON
Quicksilver, actually.
ROBERT
Oh… What’s the difference?
SAMSON
Semantics.
ROBERT
What do you mean?
SAMSON
Exactly.
Robert draws a blank.
SAMSON
It depends on how you look at it.
ROBERT
Uh huh. What’s it for?
SAMSON
It’s not for anything.
ROBERT
Then why do you have it? What does it do?
SAMSON
It does have some therapeutic properties.
ROBERT
You just said it’s not for anything. Mercury is poison.
SAMSON
Sort of. In a way, yes.
ROBERT
So you poison people?
SAMSON
Why would you say that?
ROBERT
Because that’s what it is.
SAMSON
(more firmly)
Like I said, it depends on how you look at it.
The Quicksilver glimmers and glistens.
SAMSON
Many naturally occurring substances with poisonous properties also have therapeutic uses. This is called the law of similars, or, if you like, homeopathy.
ROBERT
So what does it do, then?
SAMSON
It’s different for everyone.
ROBERT
You’re not answering my questions.
SAMSON
You, sir, are momentarily in my charge and this substance does not concern you, except perhaps as an object of caution. Now I suggest we focus on the issue at hand or terminate this engagement.
ROBERT
I see. And what is the issue at hand?
SAMSON
Your condition.
ROBERT
Which is?
SAMSON
Chronic boredom. A pervading sense of uselessness. Loneliness, isolation, malaise. Textbook depression. Anxiety. General physical nervousness. Circadian inversion characterized diametrically by compulsive napping and insomnia. Regret. Remorse… Repressed anger resulting in self-deprecation, passive aggression—
ROBERT
All right, that’s enough.
SAMSON
Denial.
ROBERT
Thank you.
SAMSON
Contempt. Bitt
erness.
ROBERT
Yes, I get the picture.
SAMSON
Impotence.
Robert glares at him, impotently.
SAMSON
Now what I would like to suggest is a very basic protocol—
ROBERT
I think I’ve had just about enough of your suggestions and amateur diagnoses. I don’t believe you have any idea what you’re talking about and I’ve half a mind to seek out a regulatory board or business bureau on behalf of the safety of the neighborhood.
Stand-off. Samson speaks calmly and confidently without a shred of doubt as to the accuracy of his knowledge.
SAMSON
The Quicksilver is a profound therapy in which the patient, having exhausted all other options, is injected with the element. Whereby, a neurological transaction occurs such that the benefit and the cost are relative, and terminal. The patient undergoes a complete psychological rehabilitation, the prognosis of which can, paradoxically, only be described as both highly personal and transcendentally impersonal. But in so achieving this level of catharsis, the patient trades his or her life.
ROBERT
That doesn’t sound like a novelty item.
SAMSON
No. It’s very special.
Robert considers this, briefly.
ROBERT
I’ll take it.
SAMSON
I’m sorry?
ROBERT
You’ve sold me.
SAMSON
Oh, I apologize, but there’s been a misunderstanding. The Quicksilver is not for sale.
ROBERT
But this is exactly what I’m looking for.
SAMSON
Yes, of course it is. It’s what we’re all looking for.
ROBERT
Then name your price.
SAMSON
Listen, I think this conversation is quite premature. Now why don’t we take our time and think this over—
ROBERT
I don’t have any more time. Look at me. I want the full deal while I still have a chance.
SAMSON
I am sorry.
ROBERT
But why?! I don’t have anything to lose!
SAMSON
Because you don’t deserve it! If you don’t have anything to lose, then you don’t deserve it. Now I recommend that you go back inside your house and think about what you really want for the remainder of your short time here on earth before you mess around with irreversible consequences. Perhaps you may find that you do indeed have something to lose.
Robert is speechless. Defeated.
Sam places a hand on his shoulder.
SAMSON
Listen. Let’s start out with something reasonable. On the house.
He offers Robert a nice fat joint.
SAMSON
Warm comfortable clothes. Nice hot cup of ginger-lemon tea. Relaxing music. Some yard work. And a long walk around the block. You’ll feel like a new man. Won’t even recognize yourself.
