The man following me could pass for any ordinary bum, except that he has a top-grade mask. At least the government takes care of its surveillance team. It started a week after distribution of the last volume. I may be imagining and paranoid. How do they know it's me? Is it really them? Am I the one turning myself in circles, chasing after my own tail.
I turn into Jamie's building with Danita's hand in mine. We ride the elevator to the penthouse, feeling the pressure burrow in our ears then finally bursting like a puff of soufflé. The skylight spotlights us as we speed upwards, in the mirror I see the shadows of fake tree leaves leaving a fine ornamental imprint on our faces as we stare into space, lost in our own thoughts.
I hear talking and laughing as I enter the apartment. It's Jamie, his friend and Madlon. They're working on the next issue in the office. It won't release for another month. I have nothing to do with it and don't want to. Madlon loves the idea of being a journalist so she will help Jamie interview potential whistle blowers and capture their stories. And his friend will handle most of the printing as usual.
They don't know that I was the informant. I've told them that I have no interest in that type of business, that I'm not very intellectual or political. That I'm just interested in hanging out, watching Danita and being Jamie's girlfriend. That's my cover. It's true, but it's only a smidgen of me, the only part I want to share with others I don't know very well. This is how I protect myself from the prying eyes of the world.
I assume I've put everyone in danger by telling, and it rakes me. My story, my news has been the one that has increased distribution and interest in the paper. I believe it's because the dust effects everyone's life and health, not just those of groups we don't feel much empathy for, like jailed prisoners. It's also something so shocking and unexpected, unlike the government surveillance we all assume happens with or without our consent. The paper's ecology and footprint grows, as does my fear and paranoia.
We set our bags down in the living room and join the gang in the office. Madlon squeals with delight when she sees Danita and tells him she has a treat for him. He accepts it shyly, peeking short glances at her as he chews the candy. I believe he has a small crush on her. My connection with him is quiet telekinesis, heart to heart osmosis. But her liveliness and humor engage him, tickle his imagination while slitting the tight drum around him.
Lesson #5:
Look for a mate who is a friend. Avoid impulsivity in yourself and others.
Be with someone you can be yourself around. Someone who accepts you for who you are, good and bad. Choose someone who is your best friend and who knows how to be a close friend to you and others.
Avoid people who aren't fair minded and who can't apologize. They will think they are always right, which is a selfish, domineering way to approach relationships.
Avoid people who don't have general impulse control. They will make impulsive decisions throughout their life that could potentially harm you physically, emotionally and/or financially. They are a broken record, dealing with the same problems over and over because of a general lack of impulse control.
Avoid people who don't have any close friends. They don't have to have a million friends, just a few close friends. Someone who doesn't have any close friends doesn't know how to be a partner to you.
Stay away from someone who loves to charm people. Stay away from someone who puts you down, even if it's subtle. Stay away from someone who abuses you physically, emotionally or mentally. Stay away from someone who acts in a dramatic fashion, it'll be fun and passionate at the beginning, then draining and tedious towards the end. You may be drawn to these types because of something in your childhood or past, but force yourself to just say no and turn away. It's for the best. Force yourself to look for someone who knows how to be a good friend and grow a friendship with them.
Who would've known Jamie and I would fall in love. No one on the outside would've guessed. I wouldn't have, I was too wrapped up in my world of despair and longing, looking from the outside in. Now, I have one foot on the inside, though I know I'll always feel like an outsider of sorts. It's simply my nature.
I remember the time we sat next to each other on a bench in a museum. We quietly watched people pass by, smelled the gallery air, its new paper scent. And I realized we let each other be, even in silence. It was the first time I felt completely comfortable with a guy, as if I were by myself, but I was with him. He turned and smiled after a while, enjoying and understanding. Saturated in us.
I remember telling him how I thought the dust ruined so many lives. And not only physically, but emotionally. It ripped us apart from our dear friends and family, from aspirations and hopes and magic. From what made us human. That it made us hunched over droids in a world we have less and less control over. I saw it alight in his eyes. He told me I was an old soul. Someone who already knows.
I remember wondering how we fell in love. It seemed to happen overnight yet still over time. As if years had passed between us, but in a combustible second. What was the calculus of the experiences that added up to love. If one of us had said something else or done something different... would that have changed the equation. Would we have fallen in love if I had worn something different that time? If I hadn't gone bowling? If the other guy on our bowling team had liked me too? If I had played games instead of being myself. It bewilders me.
How did his geography fit mine so perfectly, our continental drifts sailing together.
How did we find each other and slide into a bathwater embrace so warm and loving.
How did we know we would heal each other’s privations.
I imagine us as strangers, meeting for the first time in another setting, perhaps at a dull, sterile office job where everyone dresses in stiff, generic corporate clothing to disguise personality and individuality. Perhaps as complete strangers at a local bar, waiting in line for the robo-kiosk to take our drink order, the music beats pulsating in our ears so we can barely talk, the alcohol fueling our flights of fancy. Would the formula still apply and generate the same result? I search for a secret, aged alchemy that can never be fully uncovered. We melted lead into gold and it happened in the dark, in secret, the way pearls become.
I stand next to a man in an impeccable, tailored suit. Navy and lean with the sheen of sophistication. The lapel hewn just so, not too sharp, just a subtle comma. On a long, wood table, an architectural sculpture of a city sits before him. Shaped like a mound.
The floor of the sculpture is covered in grass and small, spindly, mini-trees. Gold skyscrapers stand a foot high. Hills roll through the park. Dark, smooth streets wind around. An idyllic cityscape on a high hill. He takes the corners of the sculpture, pinches the turf of hard and wiry grass, waits a moment. It's the downbeat before a magician performs the trick, filled with the shivers of waiting, your bated breath.
He lifts the turf up quickly, as if it were a handkerchief, flings it in the air outwards and forward. The sculpture crashes to the table, jangled metal shaking the wood, the buildings still glued to the grass and swaying lopsided and sideways. Trees lay on the table, still rooted to the crumpled turf. His slim, smooth hands hang in the air, frozen in time, as if composing invisible symphonies. The violin wand waits to strike.
And what is exposed is the thing under the city, a black, steel object made of whirring gears and levers. The thing that makes the city churn. An oily, greasy, dirty motor that would slice your fingers off if you dared to reach in.
A metallic taste seeps in, wets my dry sponge of a mouth.
I stare and step carefully behind the man so he doesn't see me. He thinks he's alone. I walk backwards to the door to slip out quiet and invisible. I want no part of this, even in a dream. My indented footsteps in the plush carpet track behind me, creating low textured, sleepy murmurs.
SHEARING ATOMS
It wasn't the last time like I thought.
The men follow and bound around in circles. I know it.
It's a yes, I know it. We'll be
done.
I don't know what to do. Game theory moves and the cunning.
My insides pound my outsides, wanting to scream, confront, run and run and run.
Zig zag. Crossing over me.
Swarms swallow me so I'm lost. The slippery gloved hand missing me.
“Are there men following me?” I ask frenetic.
“I don't know.” Dr. M looks away.
“You know something? You have to tell me. I can feel it, it's close. And I don't know what to do.”
He turns. “I don't know anything. We can't meet anymore. I can't help you. I'm done.”
I'm astonished. How could he drop me after goading me into telling. What is the game. My heart pounds, my mind is shocked quiet. I should've expected this.
“There's a machine at work that's hungry and greedy. It will do anything to win. You need to know.”
I take it in, try to know what it means. My soul understands, but I can't quite actualize what it means in the real world. His face is full of despair, he regrets helping and encouraging. I stare speechless. It's all rushing towards me, landing punches on my face.
“I want out, but there's nowhere to go. Once you start, you can't stop.” He's a cornered charlatan, not seeing a way out.
“This is the last time,” he says with a look that could burn through me, his pointed finger a fierce sword at me. His eyes glassy, on the edge of his world.
I take a step back to absorb the waves of blunt trauma. Then I slowly step forward again to face him. To show him there's no going back now. We may never talk like this again, but he needs to learn.
I am quicksand, knowing the inevitable in my heart but not my brain, sick to my stomach. Nauseous, sick, sick, quaver darkening sick.
Danita plays with spaceships on the living room floor. Human-motor sounds spit out from the side of his mouth, flush with verve and vibration. I try to follow the play action to sooth myself, find a way out of the circle of fear, spiral into hell.
Madlon plays an imaginary character to his, play acting aloft the heights of the other world. And I wonder if our lives are play acting something someone else has thought up for us. Before we were born. I'm engulfed in my thoughts and revelations when Madlon says she's tired and sits next to me on the couch, reaching for her drink. Danita continues vrooming and skittering across the soft, dense landscape of rug.
“So, how's everything with Jamie going?” She asks, taking a sip of steaming tea.
I'm jolted to the present. “Sorry, what?”
“Oh, I was just asking how things were going with Jamie. Do you think maybe marriage?” Giggly and girl-like.
“I haven't really thought of it. I guess I'm just taking it a day at a time.... But I'm crazy about him.” I smile large and genuine.
“He's a great guy. Easy to talk to.”
“Yeah, the best.”
“Does he ever talk about the informants?”
“Not really. We don't discuss the paper much. He'll just warn me about something he's heard of if he thinks it's dangerous or something.”
“What about the last one? He said the guy had a shady vibe even though he seemed honest. Do you think Jamie's safe?”
I'm dumbfounded, my mind and face are a moonscape, blank and unyielding of its mysteries. “He hadn't mentioned that. Jamie seems to take precautions so I'm sure it'll be fine.”
“I'm worried though... did he say anything about who the guy was? How he found him? Maybe we could find him and see if he's... dangerous.”
“Well, if Jamie says it's fine, then I'm sure it's OK... We don't need to worry...” My voice trails as my face forms a placid smile and my fluttering hand gestures indicate I don't want to get involved. I'm a ditzy female and I'm blowing it off. “Anyway, how's everything going with you guys? Are you living together yet?” I ask excited and girlish and knowing in my pivot. I'm hoping the conversation segues into giddy excitement, hopes and dreams of a happy future. I'm truly excited for her, for us. That we found men who fit us in the best way possible. That amidst all this dust and change, we are loved and cherished by men we love. But I don't want to talk about the paper.
The media has grasped the story. It has gotten too big to ignore amongst the public in our city. Their angle is that this is an outright lie. Sure, the government could make top-grade masks more available for the poor, but overall, they protect us and keep us informed. Their intentions are wholesome. The salacious rumors spread by the upstart paper are underhanded and anti-patriotic. The writers and founders of the paper are not good citizens, they can't even show their faces and stand by their words in front of the world. It's all over the newscasts and online. The media's blustery, stormy approach is a tornado of accusations and the velocity of new smears take me off guard. It's surprising how efficiently the machine cycles.
We are called a “conspiracy paper”. The kind that lobbies with lies and anger to destabilize all the work the government has done for us. Emphasis on “for us”. The kind that likes to watch cities and civilization burn without a plan to rebuild, just because we like to watch fire. We like the sound of the match catching into flame. The rebel alternative that is borne of ignorance, hate, poverty. The poor are once again vilified.
We are called “beasts” over and over. Unstable beasts, immoral beasts, raging beasts, beasts with no heart and empathy for our society. Cowardly beasts.
It invigorates the team to fight on and expose more untruths. I stay out of it, pretend to be incognizant and only focused on the jigsaw puzzle of myself. A dumb girl. A selfish girl. Sheltered one. The one humming and quietly decorating the room or reading a book while the ship sinks. I can't help it, I don't want to be involved, I want to separate and wall off my fear as much as I can. Sift a fine, sparkling sugar on everything to bury the burnt, crisp frontier. Otherwise, it'd be too much for me to bear. I could seize and grind to a halt.
We eat and talk, the team has left for the night. Danita and I will leave early tomorrow morning so Jamie can meet his parents for breakfast. They don't know about Danita, how we play house with him and us. We are our own family unit, creating rhythms, tones, mythologies and ceremonies as time endures. When Danita and I eventually move in, we'll muddle and sire our own family pheromone. The scent unique to each family, the one you immediately sense lurking under the room deodorant when you enter a home.
I talk about something Danita said earlier and he leans in, wiping his finger on my cheekbone with padded intent. It's an eyelash, on his fingertip, thick and dewy curled. He blows it away, past my face, into the air. His sweet, warm breath brushing past the fine hairs on my skin. I want to remember. This time, this current shearing atoms off me.
TO THE STUNNING
I haven't heard. For a day. Panic shudders through me as we climb the front steps of his building. He would've called last night after his parents left. Tonight, the cold air hangs still, shouts loud in its silence. I grip Danita's hand tightly, never daring to let go, impatient with the elevator as it glides north. Faster, hurry. I want to land in his arms, be assured it's all OK.
The doors open with a tiny bing and I see it. An ant hill of people entering and leaving. Official looking ones, I don't know. I walk slowly towards the hive of commotion in a dream, not hearing sound, fear drowning me, closing my neck tight. My spine braces for the brunt of bad and ugly. The small, fragile bird in me hopes and prays, makes deals and pleads. Flails its wings to rustle strength and lift from this nightmare. No, no. Let him be safe, healthy, happy. Let me fall into the arms I know so well.
I stand in the doorway as I scan for him. The ants turn to look, then swivel back. They go through his things, paw at them, making them theirs.
“Jamie! Jamie!” I call out.
And Madlon seems to step into view out of nowhere, my eyes myopic and confused in my panic.
“You!” I say exasperated, on the edge of angry. “Where's Jamie? Who are these people?”
Her demeanor is cold and professional, and she ignores Danita. Her laser
eyes penetrate, her smile wrinkles lay flat, the corner of her mouth pulls tight and unforgiving. She's seemingly inhabited by a stranger. “He's gone. We arrested them both last night.”
“For what?! Why?” I scream and shake, my stomach falling. I've let go of Danita to rattle the truth out of her.
“For treason.” Her voice bumps and bounces as I shake her.
“How could you?? After everything? How could you?!” I go after her, shove her down, my fingers catching her long, stringy hair. Pulling and grabbing to inflict pain. “We trusted you! Liar!” I slap and pound on her as the rage and desperation gush from me.
Large, metallic seeming hands pull me off and hold me in a vise until I throw him off.
She composes herself. “You're lucky I didn't go after you. I could've.” Her voice flows fluid like oil.
“You have nothing on me, you bitch. I didn't do anything and you know it.” I hiss.
A titanic wedge of despair and fear splits me in two. I look around, Danita has gone missing. I see the last edge of his coat blowing past the front door like a ghost's trailing sheet. He runs down the hall to the elevator, repelled by the drama. I call after him in the chaos, hold in the crying that wants to hyperventilate and screech out of me. A pyre of anger begins to burn me up. I'm so angry... I'm crying. Danita, Danita, I whisper when I reach him and smooth his hair from his face. We enter the elevator and I crouch in the corner devastated, clinging to Danita under the glaring spotlight, which exposes all the harsh, sharp edges. There are no shadows to hide in.
Free Beast Page 12
