Monkeytown

by Chris Vola

  The door opens. Jean-Paul – wearing a medical face mask – pushes in the food tray. Whatever’s on top is covered by a blue plastic tarp. I gag when the smell circulates. Jean-Paul stops near the center of the room. Two other Canadians with shovels nudge the contents of the tray onto the floor. Harry’s headless body rolls from the tarp. His clothes deeply stained, skin gray and scaly.

  Everyone starts to leave, taking the scanning equipment and the plastic bags, some of them laughing, grimacing, covering their noses. Titus hands me a cheap digital watch he’d been carrying his breast pocket. 8:57 a.m.

  “Meeting starts at eight tomorrow morning,” he says before he turns to go. “Take a right into the hallway and it’s the fourth door on the left. Don’t be late.”

  SIT UP IN bed, groggy, stare at the steaming dinner tray that must have just been wheeled in. When did I pass out? Ask Harry if he wants me to pour him some soup? The stink rears up. The rot of vomit piles stinking under a Death Valley heat for weeks, deep-fried cockroach eggs, incineration and loss. Something flutters and I black out.

  I wake up and Harry’s body is accordion-slumped, the neck hole twisted at an awkward angle, as though, minus the missing head, he’s sleeping off a rough night of boozing on the now-brown carpet. My first dead body – the parents’ funeral was closed-casket – and besides the smell, it’s not alarming. Curiosity overcomes what used to pass for terror. I trace Harry’s corpse from the bottom up – the worn loafers splayed outward, the stiff legs under the stained fabric, the blue shirt that extends down to gnarled fists. A peaceful contrast to yesterday.

  My arm is draped over the side of the bed, my fingers playing with one of the rusty coils in the bed spring. It snaps off. A little blood drips from my palm. I pick up the severed coil, study it, look back at Harry’s arm. There was a show on MSNBC, Lockup, where prisoners in Georgia were whittling pieces of soap into figurines of animals and cars and selling them on eBay. The business was shut down by the prison’s warden after he discovered that the same inmates were manufacturing shanks with the metal tools they used to make bunny rabbits and selling them for prison hooch, tins of mackerel.

  I unwind the copper until it’s completely straightened out, and an idea presents itself, one that’s sickening.

  Yes, yes it’s sick, but there’s a dead British terrorism expert rotting 10 feet away.

  Harry’s arm. Uncarved block. Harry would want to help. He tried, whispered to Titus when he was on the table. I’d be able to get it past the metal detectors.

  BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

  The digital watch’s alarm. 7:48. I stretch, stand up, pull the ski mask over my face.

  THEY’RE SITTING ON folding chairs set up in four rows of six, facing a small podium. Whitewashed walls, hardwood floor, electrical outlets to plug in film equipment. Blank space at a premium.

  A couple of the men look up, briefly interested while I find a seat, go back to their conversations. Evian bottles have been placed under each chair. Everyone’s wearing the same white tee shirt, cargo pants, and work boots, a few with flannel or canvas Carhartt jackets. About half of them have their ski masks draped crookedly on their scalps, maybe an ironic fashion statement but probably early morning laziness. All the men appear to be some shade of Caucasian, indistinct faces, still-bulked-up, has-been athlete bodies. The aroma of deodorant-less pits.

  I find an empty seat in the back row, next to an enormous creature, in a wool lumberjack coat, who reeks of WD-40. He smiles, nods. Everyone’s relatively hushed, a few whispered exchanges floating around under the floodlights. This could be a typical staff meeting at any warehouse or public works department. I scan the unfamiliar faces. No Davis, Kane.

  Titus walks in, trailed by Philippe and Jean-Paul in matching navy pinstripe suits and slick wavy locks, and everyone shuts up. They step behind the podium. Titus sips from a coffee mug that has a silhouette of a cow with the words UDDERLY DELICIOUS! scrawled under it.

  “Morning, dudes,” he says, flashing gleaming dentures. “I’m getting right to it. We have a busy week. The negotiations on the new contract have progressed much faster than I anticipated. Everything should be finalized by this afternoon.”

  Mumbles of surprise. Eyes are rubbed and watches glanced at. A man in the front row begins to slide his mask over his head, automatic reflex.

  “What this means,” he says, “is that you’re only going to have one or two days to memorize because, like I said yesterday, this is a time-sensitive job and we need to get from here to editing ASAP.” He motions at Philippe and Jean-Paul, who are now each holding thick piles of paper. They move around the room distributing packets.

  “Hoping it’s not more of that moral reinforcement crap,” the lumberjack mutters when he passes me my copy. The cover page says DFIC – 072909.01 in a small font across the top.

  “I hear you, man,” I hear you, man? I must sound like a… But the lumberjack ignores me.

  “Names, studio schedules, and correct pronunciations have all been highlighted,” Titus says, “because I know there was some confusion last time, especially during the Al-Baqarah segment.”

  Grunts of laughter. A few of the bottles are kicked over by accident. Titus holds up his thick, liver-spotted hands.

  “OK, that may have been totally funny,” he says, “but we’re on a much tighter schedule this time and there won’t be the same sort of leeway regarding minor, ah, slip-ups. We’re going to be wrapped and ready to go in four days at the most.”

  “Seriously?” the lumberjack moans. “Four days?” Other grumbles circulate.

  “It’s going to be hard,” Titus says, ignoring the barks and growls. “That’s why I’m giving you the morning to study the packet, to make sure we’re all on the same page. Unless anyone has any new business, it’s time to get to work. Oh, and don’t forget the waters. Stay hydrated, guys, it’s a truth we can all live by. Any questions?”

  He flashes one last manicured smile, turns and exits.

  Stare down at the packet, where the sweat from my hands has soaked the paper in a leopard-spot pattern. The lumberjack pats my shoulder.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, “He’s bluffing. No way we’ll have the time to be done in four days. Job like this, I give it a week and a half, minimum. A lot of staring at the wall waiting for nothing, waiting for those moron Canadians to get their shit together. But you get used to it after a while, no big deal.”

  THE PACKET’S TABLE of contents is divided alphabetically by the names of the scenes we’re going to film. The titles sound Arabic (or Middle Eastern, I guess) – Abu Sayyaf, Harakat ul-mujahidin, Mustafa Muhammad Ahmad. Below the table of contents is a sub-index, one column of the actors’ names and another listing the pages numbers for their scenes. I recognize two others besides XXXXXX, JOSHUA – RIDGEWAY, DAVIS and HARPER, KANE. Are Billy and I the only casualties?

  Of the five scenes in which I’m scheduled to appear, two of them don’t include any dialogue, just a series of vague directions – Scream or laugh mockingly as necessary; Stand (menacingly) approximately three feet behind ‘prisoner’; Lift rifle on director’s cue. My lines in the others are short – “Get down on your knees!” “Repent! Repent now!” “Show me your face!” – easy to remember.

  I glance at Harry’s body, at his stiffening arms. I put the packet down, scuttle across the carpet and sit cross-legged next to him, flick a large water bug off my boot. Touch his left forearm – cold, gangrenous – and begin peeling the fabric back, exposing the gray skin. The straightened coil is in my cargo pocket. No, that can’t work…maybe?...yes, yes it could. I run my fingers along the forearm, prodding the hard bone underneath the rotting muscle. The uncarved block. I scratch at the skin, watch it separate in dull orange-peel fragments, stop when I remember the camera peering out of its black eye. Always the cameras. But...remember what Harry said – no night vision.

  I roll the shirt sleeve fabric back down, humming out of nervousness. The hum becomes a song – “When the lights go down,
when the lights go down in the city, and the sun shines on the ba-ay…” Laugh at the utter inappropriateness of a Journey song right now, not even one of their best. For the next few hours I’m on the edge of the bed, the packet spread out like homework – rocking back and forth, chuckling, hugging myself, humming. When the lights go down, when the lights go down, when the lights go down in the city…

  I PEEL THE fabric back in the blackness, roll the sleeve just above where Harry’s elbow bends awkwardly toward his body, the lump of petrified skin-bark. I lift the coil, twist it between my thumb and index finger. I listen for sounds, a movement in the hallway. Nothing. The coil springs forward, slices easily through the rough meat.

  17

  Vola

  THE CAFETERIA’S LIGHTS are warm, almost natural, reflecting off the metal – stainless steel trays, eating utensils, tables, chairs, and most of the floor – in the large circular hall. Other agents in white tee shirts and quasi-military cargo pants hunch around at other tables, gulping down hot plates of pancakes, eggs, and sausages, cups of coffee. Others lean against the stainless steel buffet, deciding what to get for breakfast. A warped industrial high school lunch room scene for nondescript white guys, minus the dozens of flatscreen TVs that hang directly above eye-level, beaming out an eclectic array of programming. Paula Abdul refusing to appear on any more seasons of American Idol. A Taliban video of a captive (and terrified) 23-year-old soldier from Idaho. A fan in a David Beckham jersey trying to jump the stands to stab the actual Beckham after a game in Los Angeles.

  “You gonna eat that?” Agent Thompson nudges an untouched sausage link on my plate with his fork. The unbuttoned sleeve of his lumberjack shirt grazes the still-steamy meat.

  “Go for it,” I mumble, “not that hungry.”

  “What’s the deal, X?” he asks, stabbing the link. “You been looking bummed out for the last couple days.” The other agents sitting with us stop eating for a moment, nod. My co-workers. In the same videos, at the same morning meetings, collect the same paychecks made out to made-up names. Their beds are in a hallway that’s adjacent to mine, never been there, haven’t had a reason. Gruff and distant, polite in the way that fraternity brothers are polite to freshmen who go to their parties but won’t be getting a bid. Not that I’m trying.

  Agent Fortune, to my left – a very loud, red-faced hick who looks like a UFC mid-weight with scabies and a wiry red goatee. Next to him is Agent Miller, all thin sulking mouth and cropped black and silver hair, smells like formaldehyde. A group favorite. Across the table: Norwood, Clark, and Sheridan, nearly indistinguishable identically shaved heads, olive to peanut skin, squint-brown eyes, aw-shucks grins. They’re younger, ambiguous. No more than a nod or two outside of when we’re filming. They eat fast. Rogers and Carter share the far end of the stainless rectangle. Rogers, sullen with an old-school box-top hair cut and a gut that rivals Thompson’s. Miller’s the only one who looks older than forty.

  It’s obvious that I don’t fit. Not the physical differences so much as the naturalness with which they spend the work days. The order of things, how negligible the scenery feels. There are more glaring discrepancies. The agents have been given Anglo family names. Some common responses to XXXXXX: “Damn, whoever does the names is getting lazy! How you supposed to pronounce that?” or “Agent X! Sounds like some stupid comic book shit. You a superhero, Agent X?” They might think it’s funny (Josh: To tease, banter, trick in a good-natured way. A joke.). Just as unsettling that Davis and Kane can exist outside the compound when we’re already dead.

  Miller has been staring since I sat down, something in his glazy eyes trying to scrape through. “Your problem, X,” he says, in between mouthfuls of scrambled eggs, “is that you’ve only been hanging out with the old hippie and the Canadian clown posse.”

  “Fucking Canucks,” Rogers grumbles, wiping his double chin with the neck of his tee shirt.

  “Can it, ’tard,” Fortune slaps Rogers' arm. He rubs his thumb against his forefingers, makes the cash-money sign.

  “Yeah, whatever.” Rogers shudders, folds his hands over his gut.

  “What you need to do,” Thompson says in a faux-enthusiastic tour guide voice, “is let us show you how this whole shindig really works. What the military wing lacks in the modern amenities of your standard cyber-age modern office space, it makes up for in a lot of surprising ways.”

  The stainless steel cafeteria with its overabundance of high-definition monitors and sheer décor seems modern, but I get what he means. No laptops or desktops. No talking at or typing on a BlackBerry. The camcorders and electrical equipment we use to make the videos are laughably outdated. No clocks, and the watches don’t have a date function. Real time, the pace of the world, doesn’t apply.

  “No decent porn, though,” Rogers cuts in, “just a few crappy early nineties Hustlers lying around. The bushes on those girls. Jesus.” Nods of agreement. “Ah, to see Jenna Haze or Gianna Michaels slurping on a fat hog in 4G, now that…” he trails off, sighs. Headlines on the TVs: 35 Children Found Wandering Alone in Mexican City. Los Angeles Warns Against Icicles.

  “We’ve got the real thing,” someone says.

  “You’re calling them the real thing?” Rogers sneers. “I’d rather stick my dick in a corpse.”

  “You won’t be saying that tonight,” Fortune grins. Rogers sighs again, nods grudgingly, slurps down the last of his coffee. About to ask Fortune what he means by tonight when the alarm bell goes off. Work. The clamor and scrape of trays and chairs as the twenty or so agents get up and head to the conference room to pick up their assignments. Off to school, kiddies! The high-school cafeteria aura at its most palpable.

  I stand up and feel a flannel-covered arm wrap around my shoulders. “Back on the grind, Agent X,” Thompson says, his coffee-breath reeking. “You busy tonight?”

  Busy? I snort.

  “Didn’t think so,” he says. “If you’re looking for something to do, we’re having a party in Fortune’s room. Should get pretty wild.”

  “Where is that?” Is Davis invited?

  “I assume you’re in Hallway C,” Thompson says, “so what you do is take a right at the south end of the corridor and it’s the fifth door on the left. Things kick off around nine. You in?”

  “What about lights out?” Always the cameras.

  “Curfew?” Agent Thompson snickers. “You really are a rookie, X. We need to cut loose. This thing is just a job. We need freedom off the clock. You need to be social, have friends. Otherwise you go nuts down here.”

  We’re standing outside the open door to the conference room. Titus is behind the podium, talking quietly to Davis, who’s seated, sipping coffee. They both laugh about something. The stomach lump starts to swell.

  “So we can count you in?” Thompson releases his sweaty grip.

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Great. It’s gonna be a shitshow.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  TODAY’S SCENE IS easy – I’m not even on camera. The stars of this show are three meth freaks, all men, all in various stages of bodily rot. They’re dressed up like Marines, full gear. We’ve positioned them in front of a green screen that will make it appear as if they’re in the desert when the film goes through editing. Fortune’s grinning, holding a glass pipe in one hand and a Zip-Lock bag filled with syringes in the other. Miller works the camcorder, the RECORD light gleaming, tense and concentrated.

  There isn’t much here in terms of plot. Fortune and I take turns getting the meth heads high and Miller films them. Editing takes care of everything else. The point, Fortune thinks, is to portray American soldiers as drugged-morons, incompetent, impotent. I’m assuming that it’s a recruitment tactic – make the enemy look like easy fodder, a simple target, while simultaneously enraging those timeless fundamentalist impulses. Allahu akbar!

  The only problem is that they aren’t really doing anything. A hollowed-out, Brillo-hair grunger named Bud keeps wandering off the set and jamming his finge
r into his ear until Fortune, bow-legged and ape-ish, creeps behind him and dangles a syringe in front of his face, the carrot-on-a-string trick, leading him back to the set where he’s free to inject and let his eyes play pinball.

  The other two are less entertaining. One of them, possibly Mexican, just stands around, scratching imaginary bugs off his arms and stomach, his muscles tweaking in redneck ecstasy. The third, maybe 15 years old with crooked shoulders and a broken nose, hunches over a fake rifle like a Neanderthal with a Game Boy, straining to take it apart piece by piece until his fingernails start bleeding. The only halfway interesting part is when Bud, back from one of his adventures and freshly ripped, steps on Rifle Boy’s left hand, scattering the plastic rifle bits everywhere.

  This doesn’t go over too well. Bud gets a firm punch in the balls. He screams, reels around, doubles over and pukes bile on the imaginary-bug scratcher. Now that his body issues aren’t solely in his head, Mexican Bug Man really freaks out and scampers crab-like to the bolted door on the far side of the room, grating his fingers on the metal as he hyperventilates a series of half-human grunts. Fortune holds him down as I press the pipe to his lips until his eyes glass over into a state that, for him, is awesome. Crisis averted. Bud passes out on the sand that’s spread across the floor, sucking air through caked lips and near-toothless gums. Rifle Boy goes back to reorganizing the plastic screws and bolts.

  “That just might work,” Miller says, squinting into the viewfinder.

  I’m having trouble focusing. Thinking about the party, what Thompson said. There’s more freedom off the clock than what you think. Enough freedom to do what? No one’s contemplating leaving. Even the meth freaks seem relatively content. Maybe I’m looking at this all wrong. Josh is dead outside of the compound. In any case, I’m going to find out as much as I can tonight.