by Rich Horton
Of course, Buenos Aires featured no such street in its official atlas. And the neighborhood that Ilona supposedly lived in was of such a rough nature as to preclude much questioning of the shifty-eyed residents—even if Mutt’s Spanish had been better than the “¿Que pasa, amigo?” variety. Watched suspiciously by glue-huffing, gutter- crawling juveniles and their felonious elders hanging out at nameless bars, Mutt could only risk a cursory inspection of the Badgerway environs.
After checking out the most relevant district, Mutt was reduced to wandering the city’s boulevards and alleys, parks and promenades, looking for any other traces of a hidden, subterranean, alternative city that plainly didn’t exist anywhere outside the fevered imagination of a handful of online losers, praying for a glimpse of an unforgotten female face graced by a small mole. Maybe Ilona was some Argentinian hacker-girl who had been subliminally trying to overcome her own reluctance to divulge her real whereabouts by giving him all these clues.
But even if that were the case, Mutt met with no success.
He had now been in Argentina for ten days. All costs, from expensively impromptu airline tickets to meals and lodging, had been put on plastic. He had turned his last paycheck into local currency for small purchases, but Mutt’s loan payments had left him no nest egg. And the upper limits on his lone credit card weren’t infinite. Pretty soon he’d have to admit defeat, return the New York, and try to pick up the shambles of his life.
But for the next few days anyhow, he would continue to look for Tlun and Ilona.
Returning today to the neighborhood labeled Funes on the Tlun map, Mutt entered a small café he had come to patronize only because it was marginally less filthy than any other. He ordered a coffee and a pastry. Spreading his map on the scarred countertop he scratched his stubble and pondered the arrangement of streets. Had he explored every possible niche—?
A finger tapped Mutt’s shoulder. He turned to confront a weasly individual whose insincere yet broad smile revealed more gaps than teeth. The fellow wore a ratty Von Dutch t-shirt that proclaimed I KISS BETTER THAN YOU.
“Señor, what is it you look for? Perhaps I can help. I know this district like the breast of my own mother.”
Mutt realized that this guy must be some kind of con-artist. But even so, he represented the best local informant Mutt had yet encountered, the only person who had deigned to speak with him.
Pointing to the map, Mutt said, “I’m looking for this street. Do you know it?”
“Si, seguro! I will take you there without delay!”
Experiencing a spark of hope, Mutt followed the guide outside.
They came to a dank calle Mutt was half-sure he had visited once before. The guide gestured to a shadowy cross-street that was more of a channel between buildings, only large enough for pedestrian traffic. A few yards along, the street transformed into a steep flight of greasy twilit stairs.
“Right down here, señor, you will find exactamente what you are looking for.”
Mutt tried to banish all fear from his heart and head. He summoned up into his mind’s eye Ilona’s smiling face. He advanced tentatively into the claustrophobic cattle-chute.
He heard the blow coming before he felt it. Determined not to lose his focus on Ilona, he still could not help flinching. The blow sent him reeling, blackness seeping over Ilona’s face like spilled tar, until only her smile, Cheshire-cat-like, remained, then faded.
* * * *
Sunlight poured through lacy curtains, illuminating a small cheerful room. On the wall hung a painting which Mutt recognized as one of Sigalit’s studies for his Skydancer series. Mutt saw a vase filled with strange flowers on a nearby small table. Next to the flowers sat a box labeled LIBERTO’S ECLECTIC PASTILLES and a book whose spine bore the legend:
Ancient Caprices, by Idanell Swonk
Mutt lay in what was obviously a hospital bed, judging by the peripheral gadgetry around him, including an object-box and a pair of meta-palps. The blanket covering him diffused an odd yet not unpleasant odor, as if woven from the hairs of an unknown beast. He saw what looked like a call button and he buzzed it.
A nurse hurried into the room, all starched calm business in her traditional tricornered hat and life-saving medals.
Behind her strode Ilona Grobes.
Ilona hung back smiling only until the nurse assured herself that Mutt was doing fine and left. Then Ilona flung herself on Mutt. They hugged wordlessly for minutes before she stood up and found a seat for herself.
“Oh, Mutt, what happened to you? A Junior Effectuator found you unconscious a few feet from my door and brought you here. I was at work. The first thing I knew about your troubles was when I saw your picture on the evening propaedeutic. ‘Unknown citizen hospitalized.’ I rushed right here, but the remediators told me not to wake you. You slept for over thirty hours, right from Fishday to Satyrsday!”
Mutt grabbed Ilona’s hand. “Let’s just say I had kind of a hard time getting to Tlun.”
Ilona giggled. “What a funny accent you have! That’s one thing that doesn’t come across online.”
“And you—you’re more beautiful than any photo. And you smell like—like vanilla icecream.”
Ilona looked shyly away, then back. “I’m sure that’s a compliment, whatever vanilla icecream may be. But look—I brought you some candy, and one of my favorite books.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much for being here.”
No icecream, Mutt thought. He’d be a millionaire by this time next year.
They talked for several hours more, until the sounds of some kind of commotion out in the hall made them pause.
The door to Mutt’s room opened and three men walked in. They were clad in elaborately stitched ceremonial robes and miters, and carried among them several pieces of equipment.
Seeing Mutt’s puzzlement, Ilona explained. “It’s just a team of Assessors. Golusty died yesterday, shortly after your arrival. The Imperial Search has begun.”
One Assessor addressed Ilona. “Citizen Grobes, your testing will take place at your residence. But we need to assess this stranger now.”
“Of course,” Ilona said.
The Assessors approached Mutt’s bedside. “With your permission, citizen—”
Mutt nodded, and they placed a cage of wires studded with glowing lights and delicate sensors on his head like a crown.
COMMCOMM, by George Saunders
Tuesday morning, Jillian from Disasters calls. Apparently an airman named Loolerton has poisoned a shitload of beavers. I say we don’t kill beavers, we harvest them, because otherwise they nibble through our Pollution Control Devices (P.C.D.s) and polluted water flows out of our Retention Area and into the Eisenhower Memorial Wetland, killing beavers.
“That makes sense,” Jillian says, and hangs up.
The press has a field day. “AIR FORCE KILLS BEAVERS TO SAVE BEAVERS,” says one headline. “MURDERED BEAVERS SPEAK OF AIR FORCE CRUELTY,” says another.
“We may want to PIDS this,” Mr. Rimney says.
I check the files: There’s a circa-1984 tortoise-related PIDS from a base in Oklahoma. There’s a wild-horse-related PIDS from North Dakota. Also useful is a Clinton-era PIDS concerning the inadvertent destruction of a dove breeding ground.
From these I glean an approach: I admit we harvested the beavers. I concede the innocence and creativity of beavers. I explain the harvesting as a regrettable part of an ongoing effort to prevent Pollution Events from impacting the Ottowattamie. Finally I pledge we’ll find a way to preserve our P.C.D.s without, in the future, harming beavers. We are, I say, considering transplanting the beaver population to an innovative Beaver Habitat, to be installed upstream of the Retention Area.
I put it into PowerPoint. Rimney comes back from break and reads it.
“Innovative Beaver Habitat?” he says.
“I say we’re considering,” I say.
“All hail to the king of PIDS,” he says.
I call Ed at the paper; Jaso
n, Heather, and Randall at NewsTen, ActionSeven, and NewsTeamTwo, respectively; then Larry from Facilities. I have him reserve the Farragut Auditorium for Wednesday night, and just like that I’ve got a fully executable PIDS and can go joyfully home to my wife and our crazy energized loving kids.
Just kidding.
I wish.
* * * *
I walk between Mom and Dad into the kitchen, make those frozen mini-steaks called SmallCows. You microwave them or pull out their ThermoTab. When you pull the ThermoTab, something chemical happens and the SmallCows heat up. I microwave. Unfortunately, the ThermoTab erupts and when I take the SmallCows out they’re coated with a green, fibrous liquid. So I make ramen.
“You don’t hate the Latvians, do you?” Dad says to me.
“It was not all Latvians done it,” Mom says.
I turn on Tape 9, “Omission/Partial Omission.” When sadness-inducing events occur, the guy says, invoke your Designated Substitute Thoughtstream. Your D.S.T. might be a man falling off a cliff but being caught by a group of good friends. It might be a bowl of steaming soup, if one likes soup. It might be something as distractive/mechanical as walking along a row of cans, kicking them down.
“And don’t even hate them two,” Mom says. “They was just babies.”
“They did not do that because they was Latvian,” says Dad. “They did it because of they had poverty and anger.”
“What the hell,” says Mom. “Everything turned out good.”
My D.S.T. is tapping a thin rock wall with a hammer. When that wall cracks, there’s another underneath. When that wall cracks, there’s another underneath.
“You hungry?” Mom says to Dad.
“Never hungry anymore,” he says.
“Me too,” she says. “Plus I never pee.”
“Something’s off but I don’t know what,” Dad says.
When that wall cracks, there’s another underneath.
“Almost time,” Mom says to me, her voice suddenly nervous. “Go upstairs.”
I go to my room, watch some World Series, practice my PIDS in front of the mirror.
What’s going on down there I don’t watch anymore: Mom’s on the landing in her pajamas, calling Dad’s name, a little testy. Then she takes a bullet in the neck, her hands fly up, she rolls the rest of the way down, my poor round Ma. Dad comes up from the basement in his gimpy comic trot, concerned, takes a bullet in the chest, drops to his knees, takes one in the head, and that’s that.
Then they do it again, over and over, all night long.
Finally it’s morning. I go down, have a bagel.
Our house has this turret you can’t get into from inside. You have to go outside and use a ladder. There’s nothing up there but bird droppings and a Nixon-era plastic Santa with a peace sign scratched into his toy bag. That’s where they go during the day. I climbed up there once, then never again: jaws hanging open, blank stares, the two of them sitting against the wall, insulation in their hair, holding hands.
“Have a good one,” I shout at the turret as I leave for work.
Which I know is dumb, but still.
* * * *
When I get to work, Elliot Giff from Safety’s standing in the Outer Hall. Giff’s a GS-9 with pink glasses and an immense underchin that makes up a good third of the length of his face.
“Got this smell-related call?” he says.
We step in. There’s definitely a smell. Like a mildew/dirt/decomposition thing.
“We have a ventilation problem,” Rimney says stiffly.
“No lie,” Giff says. “Smells like something crawled inside the wall and died. That happened to my aunt.”
“Your aunt crawled inside a wall and died,” Rimney says.
“No, a rat,” says Giff. “Finally she had to hire a Puerto Rican fellow to drill a hole in her wall. Maybe you should do that.”
“Hire a Puerto Rican fellow to drill a hole in your aunt’s wall,” Rimney says.
“I like how you’re funny,” Giff says. “There’s joy in that.”
Giff’s in the ChristLife Reënactors. During the reënactments, they eat only dates and drink only grape juice out of period-authentic flasks. He says that this weekend’s reënactment was on the hill determined to be the most topographically similar to Calvary in the entire Northeast. I ask who he did. He says the guy who lent Christ his mule on Palm Sunday. Rimney says it’s just like Giff to let an unemployed Jew borrow his ass.
“You’re certainly not hurting me with that kind of talk,” Giff says.
“I suppose I’m hurting Christ,” says Rimney.
“Not hardly,” says Giff.
On Rimney’s desk is a photo of Mrs. Rimney before the stroke: braless in a tank top, hair to her waist, holding a walking stick. In the photo, Rimney’s wearing a bandanna, pretending to toke something. Since the stroke, he works his nine or ten, gets groceries, goes home, cooks, bathes Val, does the dishes, goes to bed.
My feeling is, no wonder he’s mean.
Giff starts to leave, then doubles back.
“You and your wife are in the prayers of me and our church,” he says to Rimney. “Despite of what you may think of me.”
“You’re in my prayers, too,” says Rimney. “I’m always praying you stop being so sanctimonious and miraculously get less full of shit.”
Giff leaves, not doubling back this time.
Rimney hasn’t liked Giff since the day he suggested that Rimney could cure Mrs. Rimney if only he’d elevate his prayerfulness.
“All right,” Rimney says. “Who called him?”
Mrs. Gregg bursts into tears and runs to the ladies’.
“I don’t get why all the drama,” says Rimney.
“Hello, the base is closing in six months,” says Jonkins.
“Older individuals like Mrs. G. are less amenable to quick abrupt changes,” says Verblin.
When Closure was announced, I found Mrs. G. crying in the Outer Hall. What about Little Bill? she said. Little Bill had just bought a house. What about Amber, pregnant with twins, and her husband, Goose, drunk every night at the Twit? What about Nancy and Vendra? What about Jonkins and Al? There’s not a job to be had in town, she said. Where are all these sweet people supposed to go?
I’ve sent out more than thirty résumés, been store to store, chatted up Dad’s old friends. Even our grocery’s half-closed. What used to be Produce is walled off with plywood. On the plywood is a sign: “If We Don’t Have It, Sorry.”
CommComm’s been offered a group transfer to NAIVAC Omaha. But Mom and Dad aren’t allowed into the yard, much less to Omaha. And when I’m not around they get agitated. I went to Albany last March for a seminar and they basically trashed the place. Which couldn’t have been easy. To even disturb a drape for them is a big deal. I walked in and Mom was trying to tip over the coffee table by flying through it on her knees and Dad was inside the couch, trying to weaken the springs via repetitive fast spinning. They didn’t mean to but were compelled. Even as they were flying/spinning they were apologizing profusely.
“Plus it really does stink in here,” Little Bill says.
“Who all is getting a headache, raise your hand,” says Jonkins.
“Oh, all right,” Rimney says, then goes into my cubicle and calls Odors. He asks why they can’t get over immediately. How many odors do they have exactly? Has the entire base suddenly gone smelly?
I walk in and he’s not talking into the phone, just tapping it against his leg.
He winks at me and asks loudly how Odors would like to try coördinating Community Communications while developing a splitting headache in a room that smells like ass.
All afternoon it stinks. At five, Rimney says let’s hope for the best overnight and wear scuba gear in tomorrow, except for Jonkins, who, as far as Jonkins, they probably don’t make scuba gear that humongous.
“I cannot believe you just said that,” says Jonkins.
“Learn to take a joke,” Rimney says, and slams into his office.
“I hate him,” says Jonkins.
“I feel so bad for his wife,” says Mrs. Gregg.
“First you have to live with him, then you have a stroke?” says Jonkins.
“And then you still have to live with him?” says Mrs. Gregg.
The Dirksen Center for Terror is the town’s great hope. If transferred to the Dirksen, you keep your benefits and years accrued and your salary goes up, because you’re Homeland Security instead of Air Force. We’ve all submitted our Requests for Transfer and our Self-Assessment Worksheets and now we’re just waiting to hear.
Except Rimney. Rimney heard right away. Rimney knows somebody who knows somebody. He was immediately certified Highly Proficient and is Dirksen-bound, which, possibly, is another reason everybody hates him.
My feeling is, good for him. If he went to Omaha, imagine the work. He and Val have a routine here, contacts, a special van, a custom mechanical bed. Imagine having to pick up and start over somewhere else.
“Home, home, home,” says Mrs. Gregg.
“PIDS, PIDS, PIDS,” I say.
“Oh, you poor thing,” says Mrs. Gregg.
“If I had to stand up in front of all those people,” says Jonkins, “I’d put a bullet in my head.”
Then there’s a long silence.
“Shit, man, sorry,” he says to me.
* * * *
The Farragut’s full. I admit, concede, explain, and pledge. During the Q. & A., somebody says if the base is closing, why spend big bucks on a Beaver Habitat? I say because the Air Force is committed to insuring that, postClosure, all Air Force sites remain environmentally viable, prioritizing both species health and a diverse life-form mix.
Afterward Rimney’s back by the snacks. He says is there anything I can’t PIDS? I say probably not. I’ve PIDSed sexual-harassment cases, a cracked hazardous-waste incinerator, half a dozen jet-fuel spills. I PIDSed it when General Lemaster admitted being gay, retracted his admission, then retracted his retraction, all in the same day, before vanishing for a week with one of his high-school daughter’s girlfriends.
