Marty’s out front of the doublewide playing catch with a little kid.
I sit against a tree and start my paperwork.
“Great catch, son!” Marty says to the kid. “You can really catch. I would imagine you’re one of the very best catchers in that school.”
“Not exactly, Dad,” the kid says. “Those kids can really catch. Most of them catch even better than me.”
“You know, in a way I’m glad you might quit that school,” says Marty. “Those rich kids. I’m very unsure about them.”
“I don’t want to quit,” says the kid. “I like it there.”
“Well, you might have to quit,” says Marty. “We might make the decision that it’s best for you to quit.”
“Because we’re running out of money,” says the kid.
“Yes and no,” says Marty. “We are and we aren’t. Daddy’s job is just a little, ah, problematical. Good catch! That is an excellent catch. Pick it up. Put your glove back on. That was too hard a throw. I knocked your glove off.”
“I guess I have a pretty weak hand,” the kid says.
“Your hand is perfect,” says Marty. “My throw was too hard.”
“It’s kind of weird, Dad,” the kid says. “Those kids at school are better than me at a lot of things. I mean, like everything? Those kids can really catch. Plus some of them went to camp for baseball and camp for math. Plus you should see their clothes. One kid won a trophy in golf. Plus they’re nice. When I missed a catch they were really really nice. They always said, like, Nice try. And they tried to teach me? When I missed at long division they were nice. When I ate with my fingers they were nice. When my shoes split in gym they were nice. This one kid gave me his shoes.”
“He gave you his shoes?” says Marty.
“He was really nice,” explains the kid.
“What were your shoes doing splitting?” says Marty. “Where did they split? Why did they split? Those were perfectly good shoes.”
“In gym,” says the kid. “They split in gym and my foot fell out. Then that kid who switched shoes with me wore them with his foot sticking out. He said he didn’t mind. And even with his foot sticking out he beat me at running. He was really nice.”
“I heard you the first time,” says Marty. “He was really nice. Maybe he went to being-nice camp. Maybe he went to giving-away-shoes camp.”
“Well, I don’t know if they have that kind of camp,” says the kid.
“Look, you don’t need to go to a camp to know how to be nice,” says Marty. “And you don’t have to be rich to be nice. You just have to be nice. Do you think you have to be rich to be nice?”
“I guess so,” says the kid.
“No, no, no,” says Marty. “You don’t. That’s my point. You don’t have to be rich to be nice.”
“But it helps?” says the kid.
“No,” says Marty. “It makes no difference. It has nothing to do with it.”
“I think it helps,” says the kid. “Because then you don’t have to worry about your shoes splitting.”
“Ah bullshit,” says Marty. “You’re not rich but you’re nice. See? You were nice, weren’t you? When someone else’s shoes split, you were nice, right?”
“No one else’s shoes ever split,” says the kid.
“Are you trying to tell me you were the only kid in that whole school whose shoes ever split?” says Marty.
“Yes,” says the kid.
“I find that hard to believe,” says Marty.
“Once this kid Simon?” says the kid. “His pants ripped.”
“Well, there you go,” says Marty. “That’s worse. Because your underwear shows. Your pants never ripped. Because I bought you good pants. Not that I’m saying the shoes I bought you weren’t good. They were very good. Among the best. So what did this Simon kid do? When his pants ripped? Was he upset? Did the other kids make fun of him? Did he start crying? Did you rush to his defense? Did you sort of like console him? Do you know what console means? It means like say something nice. Did you say something nice when his pants ripped?”
“Not exactly,” the kid says.
“What did you say?” says Marty.
“Well, that boy, Simon, was a kind of smelly boy?” says the kid. “He had this kind of smell to him?”
“Did the other kids make fun of his smell?” says Marty.
“Sometimes,” says the kid.
“But they didn’t make fun of your smell,” says Marty.
“No,” says the kid. “They made fun of my shoes splitting.”
“Too bad about that smelly kid though,” says Marty. “You gotta feel bad about a kid like that. What were his parents thinking? Didn’t they teach him how to wash? But you at least didn’t make fun of his smell. Even though the other kids did.”
“Well, I sort of did,” the kid says.
“When?” says Marty. “On the day his pants ripped?”
“No,” the kid says. “On the day my shoe split.”
“Probably he was making fun of you on that day,” suggests Marty.
“No,” the kid says. “He was just kind of standing there. But a few kids were looking at my shoe funny. Because my foot was poking out? So I asked Simon why he smelled so bad.”
“And the other kids laughed?” says Marty. “They thought that was pretty good? What did he say? Did he stop making fun of your shoes?”
“Well, he hadn’t really started yet,” the kid says. “But he was about to.”
“I bet he was,” says Marty. “But you stopped him dead in his tracks. What did he say? After you made that crack about his smell?”
“He said maybe he did smell but at least his shoes weren’t cheap,” says the kid.
“So he turned it around on you,” says Marty. “Very clever. The little shit. But listen, those shoes weren’t cheap. I paid good money for those shoes.”
“Okay,” says the kid, and throws the ball into the woods.
“Nice throw,” says Marty. “Very powerful.”
“Kind of crooked though,” says the kid, and runs off into the woods to get the ball.
“My kid,” Marty says to me. “Home on break from school. We got him in boarding school. Only the best for my kid! Until they close us down, that is. You heard anything? Anything bad? I heard they might be axing Sheep May Safely Graze. So that’s like fifteen shepherds. Which would kill me. I get a lot of biz off those shepherds. Needless to say, I am shitting bricks. Because if they close me, what do you think happens to that kid out there in the woods right now? Boarding school? You think boarding school happens? In a pig’s ass. Boarding school does not happen, the opposite of boarding school happens, and he will be very freaking upset.”
The kid comes jogging out of the woods with the ball in his hand.
“What are you talking about?” he says.
“About you,” Marty says, and puts the kid in a headlock. “About how great you are. How lovable you are.”
“Oh that,” the kid says, and smiles big.
18.
That night around nine I hear a sort of shriek from Janet’s Separate Area.
A shriek, and then what sounds like maybe sobbing. Then some louder sobbing and maybe something breaking, possibly her fax?
I go to her door and ask is she okay and she tells me go away.
I can’t get back to sleep. So I fax Louise.
Everything okay? I write.
In about ten minutes a fax comes back.
Did Dr. Evans ever say anything about complete loss of mobility? it says. I mean complete. Today I took the kids to the park and let Ace off the leash and he saw a cat and ran off. When I came back from getting Ace, Nelson was like stuck inside this crawling tube. Like he couldn’t stand up? Had no power in his legs. I mean none.That fucking Ace. If you could’ve seen Nelson’s face. God.When I picked him up he said he thought I’d gone home without him. The poor thing. Plus he had to pee.And so he’d sort of peed himself. Not much, just a little. Other than that all is well, please do
n’t worry. Well worry a little. We are at the end of our rope or however you say it, I’m already deep into the overdraft account and it’s only the 5th. Plus I’m so tired at night I can’t get to the bills and last time I paid late fees on both Visas and the MasterCard, thirty bucks a pop, those bastards, am thinking about just sawing off my arm and mailing it in. Ha ha, not really, I need that arm to sign checks.
Love, Me.
From Janet’s Separate Area come additional sobbing and some angry shouting.
I fax back:
Did you take him to Dr. Evans? I say.
Duh, she faxes back. Have appt for Weds, will let you know. Don’ t worry, just do your job and also Nelson says hi and you’re the best dad ever.
Tell him hi and he’s the best kid, I fax back.
What about the other kids? she faxes back.
Tell them they’re also the best kids, I fax back.
From Janet’s Separate Area comes the sound of Janet pounding on something repeatedly, probably her desk, presumably with her fist.
19.
Next morning in the Big Slot is no goat. Just a note.
From Janet:
Not coming in, it says. Bradley lied about the tooters and bought some you-know-what. Big suprise right? Is in jail. Stupid dumbass. Got a fax last night. Plus my Ma’s worse. Before she couldnt get up or her lungs filled with blood? Well now they fill with blood unless she switchs from side to side and who’s there to switch her? Before Mrs Finn was but now Mrs Finn got a day-job so no more. So now I have to find someone and pay someone. Ha ha very funny, like I can aford that. Plus Bradley’s bail which beleve me I have defnitely considered not paying. With all this going on no way am I caving it up today. I’m sorry but I just cant, don’t narc me out, okay? Just this one last time. I’m taking a Sick Day.
She can’t do that. She can’t take a Sick Day if she’s not sick. She can’t take a Sick Day because she’s sad about someone she loves being sick. And she certainly can’t take a Sick Day because she’s sad about someone she loves being in jail.
I count out ten Reserve Crackers and work all morning on the pictographs.
Around noon the door to her Separate Area flies open. She looks weird. Her hair is sticking up and she’s wearing an I’m With Stupid sweatshirt over her cavewoman robe and her breath smells like whiskey.
Janet is wasted? Wasted in the cave?
“What I have here in this album?” she says. “Baby pictures of that fucking rat Bradley. Back when I loved him so much. Back before he was a druggie. See how cute? See how smart he looked?”
She shows me the album. He actually does not look cute or smart. He looks the same as he looked the other day, only smaller. In one picture he’s sitting on a tricycle looking like he’s planning a heist. In another he’s got a sour look on his face and his hand down some smaller kid’s diaper.
“God, you just love the little shits no matter what, don’t you?” she says. “You know what I’m saying? If Bradley’s dad woulda stuck around it might’ve been better. Bradley never knew him. I always used to say he took one look at Bradley and ran off. Maybe I shouldn’t of said that. At least not in front of Bradley. Wow. I’ve had a few snorts. You want a snort? Come on, live a little! Take a Sick Day like me. I had three BallBusters and half a bottle of wine. This is the best Sick Day I ever took.”
I guide her back to her Separate Area and push her sternly in.
“Come on in!” she says. “Have a BallBuster. You want one? I’m lonely in here. You want a BallBuster, Señor Tightass?”
I do not want a BallBuster.
What I want is for her to stay in her Separate Area keeping very quiet until she sobers up.
All day I sit alone in the cave. When the quality of light changes I go into my Separate Area and take out a Daily Partner Performance Evaluation Form.
When I was a kid, Dad worked at Kenner Beef. Loins would drop from this belt and he’d cut through this purple tendon and use a sort of vise to squeeze some blood into a graduated beaker for testing, then wrap the loin in a sling and swing it down to Finishing. Dad’s partner was Fred Lank. Lank had a metal plate in his skull and went into these funks where he’d forget to cut the purple tendon and fail to squeeze out the blood and instead of placing the loin in the sling would just sort of drop the loin down on Finishing. When Lank went into a funk, Dad would cover for him by doing double loins. Sometimes Dad would do double loins for days at a time. When Dad died, Lank sent Mom a check for a thousand dollars, with a note:
Please keep, it said. The man did so much for me.
Which is I think part of the reason I’m having trouble ratting Janet out.
Do I note any attitudinal difficulties? I do not. How do I rate my Partner overall? Very good. Are there any Situations which require Mediation?
There are not.
I fax it in.
20.
Next morning in the Big Slot is no goat, just a note:
A question has arisen, it says. Hence this note about a touchy issue that is somewhat grotesque and personal, but we must address it, because one of you raised it, the issue of which was why do we require that you Remote Attractions pay the money which we call, and ask that you call, the Disposal Debit, but which you people insist on wrongly calling the Shit Fee. Well, this is to tell you why, although isn’t it obvious to most? We hope. But maybe not. Because what we have found, no offense, is that sometimes you people don’t get things that seem pretty obvious to us, such as why you have to pay for your Cokes in your fridge if you drink them. Who should then? Did we drink your Cokes you drank? We doubt it.You did it. Likewise with what you so wrongly call the Shit Fee, because why do you expect us to pay to throw away your poop when after all you made it? Do you think your poop is a legitimate business expense? Does it provide benefit to us when you defecate? No, on the contrary, it would provide benefit if you didn’t, because then you would be working more. Ha ha! That is a joke. We know very well that all must poop. We grant you that. But also, as we all know, it takes time to poop, some more than others. As we get older, we notice this, don’t you? Not that we’re advocating some sort of biological plug or chemical con-stipator. Not yet, anyway! No, that would be wrong, we know that, and unhealthy, and no doubt some of you would complain about having to pay for the constipators, expecting us to provide them gratis.
That is another funny thing with some of you, we notice it, namely that, not ever having been up here, in our shoes, you always want something for nothing.You just don’t get it! When you poop and it takes a long time and you are on the clock, do you ever see us outside looking mad with a stopwatch? So therefore please stop saying to us: I have defecated while on the clock, dispose of it for free, kindly absorb my expense. We find that loopy. Because, as you know, you Remote Locations are far away, and have no pipes, and hence we must pay for the trucks. The trucks that drive your poop. Your poop to the pipes. Why are you so silly? It is as if you expect us to provide those Cokes for free, just because you thirst. Do Cokes grow on trees? Well, the other thing that does not grow on a tree is a poop truck. Perhaps someone should explain to you the idea of how we do things, which is to make money.And why? Is it greed? Don’t make us laugh. It is not. If we make money, we can grow, if we can grow, we can expand, if we can expand, we can continue to employ you, but if we shrink, if we shrink or stay the same, woe to you, we would not be vital. And so help us help you, by not whining about your Disposal Debit, and if you don’t like how much it costs, try eating less.
And by the way, we are going to be helping you in this, by henceforth sending less food. We’re not joking, this is austerity. We think you will see a substantial savings in terms of your Disposal Debits, as you eat less and your Human Refuse bags get smaller and smaller.And that, our friends, is a substantial savings that we, we up here, will not see, and do you know why not? I mean, even if we were eating less, which we already have decided we will not be? In order to keep our strength up? So we can continue making sound decisions? Bu
t do you know why we will not see the substantial savings you lucky ducks will? Because, as some of you have already grumbled about, we pay no Shit Fee, those of us up here. So that even if we shat less, we would realize no actual savings. And why do we pay no Shit Fee? Because that was negotiated into our contracts at Time-of-Hire.What would you have had us do? Negotiate inferior contracts? Act against our own healthy self-interest? Don’t talk crazy. Please talk sense. Many of us have Student Loans to repay. Times are hard, entire Units are being eliminated, the Staff Remixing continues, so no more talk of defecation flaring up, please, only let’s remember that we are a family, and you are the children, not that we’re saying you’re immature, only that you do most of the chores while we do all the thinking, and also that we, in our own way, love you.
For several hours Janet does not come out.
Probably she is too hungover.
Around eleven she comes out, holding her copy of the memo.
“So what are they saying?” she says. “Less food? Even less food than now?”
I nod.
“Jesus Christ,” she says. “I’m starving as it is.”
I give her a look.
“I know, I know, I fucked up,” she says. “I was a little buzzed. A little buzzed in the cave. Boo-hoo. Don’t tell me, you narced me out, right? Did you? Of course you did.”
I give her a look.
“You didn’t?” she says. “Wow. You’re even nicer than I thought. You’re the best, man. And starting right now, no more screw-ups. I know I said that before. But this time, for real. You watch.”
Just then there’s a huge clunk in the Big Slot.
“Excellent!” she says.“I hope it’s a big thing of Motrin.”
But it’s not a big thing of Motrin. It’s a goat. A weird-looking goat. Actually a plastic goat. With a predrilled hole for the spit to go through. In the mouth is a Baggie and in the Baggie is a note:
In terms of austerity, it says. No goat today. In terms of verisimilitude, mount this fake goat and tend as if real. Mount well above fire to avoid burning. In event of melting, squelch fire. In event of burning, leave area, burning plastic may release harmful fumes.