by Vossen, Doug
“Doing what?” asked Callie.
“Military stuff.”
“Did they send you over . . .?”
“They did,” said Trent.
“Wow, I…”
“Whatever, don’t worry about it. It’s fine. It was all bullshit anyway.”
I’m confused. Jessica didn’t fully understand what the adults were talking about.
Trent felt awkward, as he often did when prompted to discuss his past without alcohol in his system. He wanted to change the subject. “So, was it hard to leave Ohio?”
“You know what? Surprisingly, no. Not at all. I mean, it sucks any time you leave something familiar, no matter how shitty it is, but it was totally worth it. Everyone makes it out to be like it’s fucking impossible to start over somewhere and that moving is this huge ordeal. It’s not. Just fucking move if it sucks somewhere. I don’t just mean the bad stuff I was trying to get away from. Look at me. Look at the tats. Look at the clothes. Me living in that region of Ohio would be like living in Saudi Arabia and saying ‘I’m a transgendered she-male who really likes revealing clothing, super gay music, and having sex with dudes. I don’t understand why no one accepts me here!’ I mean, it’s kind of bullshit too. Most people are stupid attention-whores who don’t get it. Their immediate reaction is to fight back and ‘raise awareness.’ This is a huge fucking country, just find a place where there’s people like you and go to that place! I bet you there’s more than one choice; pick the one with your favorite weather. I mean fuck, this shit ain’t Oregon Trail! All you need to do is save up for a plane ticket, not risk dying of dysentery on a Conestoga wagon!”
Wow, that makes complete sense, thought Jessica. She was starting to like this woman.
By mid-morning they were passing the traffic helix leading into the Lincoln Tunnel. It towered over the group, a reminder of the single most notable landmark in Weehawken. Meanwhile, the fractal presence over Lower Manhattan continued to pulsate rhythmically in complete silence. The presence seemed to either reflect or emanate light. No one could tell. The only thing certain was that this entity above the city was completely unidentifiable.
“Dude, what you think that thing is?” asked Callie.
“I have absolutely no idea. This is easily the craziest thing I have ever seen in my life. In fact, there’s been a lot of that going on lately,” replied Trent.
Yeah, no duh you stupid dummy, thought Jessica. I am so scared of the bad feelings that came to us this morning. I just can’t understand why they won’t talk about it. How do they even know we’re going to find something down by where they say they will? My feet hurt. I just want to go home. I miss Mommy so much. A lump hardened in Jessica’s throat. She felt a surge of tears welling and tried desperately to restrain it. I’m a big girl. I can’t just start crying every two seconds. I need to be strong, like mommy told me. She gripped the backpack slung over her left shoulder just to feel the lump of mass belonging to her little stuffed duck, Duckaboo. The tighter she gripped the pack, the calmer she felt. It was as if she felt her mother’s presence in the stuffed animal. I AM strong. Just because I’m a little girl doesn’t mean I have to be a weakling.
Jessica continued walking alongside Callie and Trent, not understanding half of what they discussed. She pretended she was following along; she did not want to feel left out. She always felt left out at home and school. It felt great to be among people treating her as an equal for a change, even if she wasn’t. She glanced at a Jersey Transit bus that had plowed through the protective railing on the corkscrew-shaped on-ramp into the Lincoln Tunnel. There were at least twenty-five bodies around the accordion-shaped bus. Blood and broken glass littered the area. On the side of the bus she saw an advertisement with the message “PROSTATE CANCER does not need to mean the end of intimacy” covering the entire length and height of the vehicle. I know cancer’s bad, but what’s a prostate? I want to ask but I’m afraid they’ll think I’m dumb or just some little kid. Forget it, I want to know.
“Trent, what’s a prostate?”
“Ask your m-” Trent stopped himself.
Callie chimed in. “A prostate, honey, is a magical, walnut-sized gland that all dudes have in their privates.”
“How come we don’t have one?”
“Well, it’s because dudes need it to pass come through their dickholes during sex. We don’t have dickholes. It is also a great source of pleasure for them when they get busy.”
“Jesus Christ Callie! She’s a little kid!” Trent held back laughter at the absurdity of what Callie had just said.
“Oh whatever, Debbie Downer. It’s the end of the world and I’m high as shit. Let the kid learn about fucking. If she’s curious enough to ask, she’s for sure old enough to know. You want to know about sex, dudes, what it’s all about, right?”
“Callie…” said Trent.
Jessica wasn’t sure if she wanted to know any more.
“Well,” said Callie, “babies come from when a man puts his privates into a woman’s privates. It can feel really incredible or not so great. And there’s a lot of ways to do it. The most important thing is that whoever you’re doing it with has your permission. It’s not ugly, it’s not scary, it’s not bad - unless someone does not have permission. Other than that, it’s basically the coolest, best feeling in the world.”
“OK, but what does intimacy mean and why does prostate cancer stop it?”
“Intimacy can mean many different things. I look at it as when I’m really close with someone emotionally. But the bus means putting a dick inside a vagina to feel good or make a baby.”
“Then why does the cancer make it so you can’t do that? Is the prostate in the boy privates?”
“Sort of, honey. It’s up a guy’s butt!” Callie sounded a little too cheerful.
God,I want my mommy so bad right now. “Gross!” said Jessica.
“Not gross at all. Completely normal. I just want you to promise me one thing: you don’t go off and start doing this stuff until you’re much older and we’ve had a few more talks about safety and what to do.”
I’ve known Callie for just today and she’s already treating me like a little sister. What a nice lady. Even if she is VERY weird.
“Now,” said Callie, “do you have any more questions for right now about this stuff?”
“Actually, yes.”
Trent looked extremely uncomfortable.
“Callie, how does something up your butt feel good to a boy and what do you, you know, do?”
“Awww, baby, don’t worry about the science of it. You do something called prostate massage, also known as milking the prostate,” said Callie, making air quotes with her fingers.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” said Trent. “Shut the fuck up. Please, for the love of God.”
Callie and Jess both sensed that it was probably difficult for Trent to listen to a grown woman and a little girl discuss milking a prostate during the apocalypse. They began giggling like misbehaving children flinging spitballs at the back of the teacher’s head.
Callie chose to amp up the intensity. “So, Jessica, to continue before I was rudely interrupted by Mr. Hughes over here - I imagine milking a prostate with your fingers would be very painful for the man if that part of his body was sick with cancer. Especially my fingers, look at my nails. Anything this pointy would hurt like crazy! Either way, black nail polish is a bitch. I guarantee it’ll ruin my manicure if I go shit diving into the great infinity.”
“Callie, I’m not really sure if the bus ad people were looking at it from that angle,” offered Trent.
“What, you think if your prostate was riddled with malignant tumors it would feel good if I massaged it? Do you think you could come like that?”
“Well, it depends what you’re into, but that’s not the point. I mean, ass play is one thing, but going elbow deep in an a-” Trent cut himself off again. The group all shared a good laugh.
“So what’s your story, then?” Callie asked Trent, clearly looking for the next
piece of entertaining conversation. She lit a joint.
“You wouldn’t believe my account of the last few days if there was a gun to your head,” said Trent.
“What the fuck? I woke up in a morgue yesterday, stole dead peoples’ shit, and saw a guy who blew his brains out. Now tell me again that I won’t believe you.” As the cannabis tightened its grip, Callie quickly vaulted into the emotional head space that allowed her to feel more empathy, to be a better listener.
“Well, it all started for me about three days ago. I had a couple days off from work and I had to burn them before they expired. My wife was still working.”
“What does she do?”
“She’s an administrative assistant downtown for an accounting firm that handles high net worth individuals.”
“And you?”
“I supervise construction jobs for a corporate general contractor, also in the city,” said Trent.
“And is that…” Callie nodded in a not-so-subtle manner to Jessica.
Um hello, I’m right here, thought Jessica. You can include me.
“No, Jessica is not my daughter. But I’m taking care of her. She’s a good girl, way too smart for her own good. Isn’t that right Jess?”
“Yeah, I guess. I mean, I guess you’re doing your best. I’m sure Emma would be laughing her head off if she saw you feed me that bag of shit this morning!” said Jessica. I hope no one gets mad I said a bad word. Mom always hated it if I did that.
“I’m growing into the role, it’s been a day,” said Trent.
The adults chuckled as they walked. They couldn’t really enjoy themselves though; all they needed to do was look up and to the east to see the single most unsettling visual image of their lives. The fractal patterns pulsed in the afternoon light. Now that it was brighter outside, light did not appear to illuminate the entity directly; instead, the entity appeared to illuminate itself. It looked as if there were a nearly indistinguishable membrane of light outlining its surface.
“Jesus Christ, it looks like light bends around this fucking thing,” said Trent.
“Yeah,” said Callie, “kind of like if you’ve ever driven down an empty highway in the desert when it’s really hot and those wavy lines are coming up.”
“You’ve driven down an empty highway in the desert?” asked Trent.
Callie giggled. “No, but I watch a shitload of TV when I’m high and trust me, it’s a thing. I definitely know what I’m talking about all the time and you can definitely trust me about everything.”
When she’s high on top of what? Jessica wondered. I don’t get it.
“Fair enough.” Trent laughed.
“What do you really think that is?” asked Callie. “I mean, what is anything? Like a week ago I got home from work and was all wired so I crawled into a YouTube hole and started watching one of those older Big Think videos. It basically explained to this particular high school dropout that we’re made up of more empty space than actual stuff. It also talked about this thing where 97% of all the shit that exists in the universe is invisible not only to the naked eye, but to the vast majority of scientific observation and measurement.”
“Callie, how fucking high are you right now? Hold on a second.” Trent slung his pack to one shoulder, pulled out two of his one-quart canteens. “OK, one of these is for you.” He handed a canteen to Jessica. “It’s important to drink a lot of water when walking long distances.” Trent tossed the other canteen to Callie. “And for the young lady with what is no doubt mad crazy and delicious xerostomia, I bequeath upon you the gift of stagnant liquid.”
No matter what, he doesn’t seem to forget me, Jessica realized. Even if I think he might have. Maybe he meant his promise from before.
Callie laughed in way that could only be described as a cackle. “What the hell is xerostomia?”
“OK, it happened,” said Trent.
“What?”
“I finally understand the sound of the words HYUK HYUK HYUK HYUK when written to describe laughter in cartoons,” said Trent.
“Fuck you man, my laugh is the shit! See? Jessica’s smiling,” Callie said, turning to Jessica. “You like it, right honey?”
This chick is crazy! I like her now. “I do like it,” said Jessica. It reminds me of how I wish I was feeling right now. Maybe it doesn’t matter what’s going on. Maybe I can just choose to be happy like she does. It doesn’t sound like she had a very good day either. Is she just pretending to be happy?
“So what’s xerostomia?” pleaded Callie in a childlike whine.
Trent laughed. “Cotton mouth.”
“Holy dogshit, you nerd.”
“So what about you?” said Trent.
“What about me?”
“Jesus, I gotta get on your level,” said Trent.
“I got a whole bag of herb. Feel like a J?”
“I haven’t smoked weed since I was a teenager. Not really sure how it’ll affect me. I think I’ll pass this time. Maybe when this all blows over,” said Trent.
“Oh no, dude! Trust me! I saw that flask in your bag. You think that gets you by, but it doesn’t at all. And don’t think I don’t realize you slowly changing the subject on me!”
“Seems to work OK for me. Got me through West Point, the back end of two tours, and a MBA while working full time.” Trent realized he now said this hesitantly, as if he didn’t believe it any longer.
“Nah man, booze doesn’t give you the answers you want. It just makes you forget all the questions for a little while.”
Wow, my mom used to say something like that to her last boyfriend all the time and he never listened, thought Jessica. Trent is much nicer than he was.
“Well, all I know is that I’ve seen a lot of potheads not do shit with their lives,” said Trent. “And I’ve seen people get super paranoid on that shit. We were all sitting around in Park Slope a week ago watching the Jets-Buffalo game. My buddy and his wife smoked a bowl in their backyard. All of a sudden the conversation ceased for an hour and a half. I watched his wife sit there, tapping her teeth, looking up at the ceiling until the last quarter. After the whistle blew for the two minute warning she broke the silence and simply informed everyone ‘I don’t like this kind of weed.’ It was fucking hysterical, but also something I don’t think I want to experience.”
“I guess that happens sometimes, but potheads not doing shit with their lives is the same as drunks not doing shit with their lives, or anyone else for that matter,” said Callie. “People attribute too much value to what people do in their personal lives when considering accomplishment or what society deems ‘successful.’ It’s bullshit. People who aren’t doing shit with their lives aren’t doing shit because they weren’t going to anyway. As far as the paranoia, 90% of the shit people call ‘paranoia’ is just things you hate about yourself that the cannabis pushes to the forefront. It’s forcing you to deal with the things your conscious mind usually buries deep in your brain. I’ve always thought this stuff has psychiatric value - if you find the right one for you, it can be a pretty awesome teacher.”
“What about the other 10% of stuff people call paranoia?”
“Well, that’s just stuff you need to have the discipline to tell yourself to shut the fuck up about. Nothing’s perfect,” said Callie.
“Yeah, I guess not. What kind do you use?”
“Well, there’s two major kinds of weed: indica and sativa.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Indica is the laugh-your-ass-off and melt-into-the-couch-watching-cartoons weed,” explained Callie. “It’s probably the type of weed most of the ‘potheads that don’t do shit’ smoke. It can be enjoyable and usually ends in a nap, but I can’t stand the stuff. I feel like I’m getting dumber, nothing gets done, and I wake up like four hours later. Sativa is completely different. It’s basically my favorite thing in the world behind barbeque chicken pizza and episodes of trashy reality TV on TLC. I read books on it. I think about real things when I smoke it, like how to impr
ove my life. I tear down my own ego bit by bit and rebuild it daily. I feel like it’s slowly making me develop into a more generous, compassionate, and otherwise good person. It really puts into perspective what’s important and what’s absolute bullshit. That and it’s a major contributing factor in my not having gone to jail, not having been committed to a mental hospital, and not having gotten fired from my shitty job.”
I am so bored, thought Jessica. “Are we there yet?
The trio walked over the bridge from Weehawken to Hoboken, down Willow Avenue. A little more than three miles remained. It was still early afternoon. They had five hours of daylight left. They definitely wanted to be where they were going before it got dark again.
Trent thought about what Callie was saying. “That I can understand. My friend in Brooklyn tells me something similar. I know this booze ain’t doing me any favors. It’s not something I’m exactly proud of but there’s a constant circus in my brain that just won’t shut the fuck up…”
“Dude, I know only too well what that feels like. I promise this is a better alternative,” Callie offered.
“Look, I don’t think now is exactly the best time for me to do this but I’ll make you a deal. When all of this blows over I’ll give it a shot. My world is already turned upside down, may as well throw another variable into the mix,” replied Hughes.
“I’m holding you to it!” Callie loved helping people and her enthusiasm shone through.
RONAK
“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.” -Friedrich Nietzche (1844 - 1900)
“Terran English language, United States of America, early 21st century dialect selected as default verbal communication setting. Acceleration complete. Terminal velocity reached.”
Ronak barreled through Earth’s atmosphere at approximately fifty-five meters per second. It had been well over one hundred years since a mission had made him feel this uneasy. The uncertainty of the situation was both frightening and invigorating to a Legate of his experience.
