[Client shouts something unintelligible, rising from his seat and exhibiting highly agitated and somewhat threatening behavior. Session terminated.]
Junior
Sawyer comes down the hall sometime on the afternoon of a day I am certain is not Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday. It’s been roughly two months since the last time Sawyer was here. I know it’s him because the wooden soles of his oxfords echo smartly through the cell block. The only other people I see during the course of my endless days are the guards, and they wear tactical boots with rubber soles that hiss and whisper on the concrete floors.
Sawyer’s footfalls stop outside the door to my cell. He slides the eye-level partition aside and says, simply, “Junior.”
“You again,” I say. “How long has it been?”
“Long enough that I have been ordered to come to this desolate place and speak with you once more.”
“No, seriously,” I say. “How long has it been? I’ve lost track of the day of the week.”
“It’s Friday,” Sawyer says.
I wonder how I could have been so far off. “So what brings you around, Sawyer? Things starting to resemble The Road Warrior out there?”
There’s the static blast of a two-way radio being keyed. “Control,” Sawyer says. “Open four, if you would, please.” The lock buzzes, and Sawyer swings the door open, steps in with his head bowed to avoid smacking the frame, and closes the door behind him. It clicks, locking Sawyer in with me, but he has nothing to fear. Even if I presented a threat, which I do not, Sawyer is massive by most standards, not to mention a 5 dan black belt in Krav Maga. Given reason, he could and would wad me up like a typo-ridden sheet of paper.
“No,” Sawyer says, “no problems. In fact it is, in spite of your best efforts, business as usual.”
“No one believed me,” I say.
“No one believed you,” Sawyer agrees.
“Despite the evidence Ross and I put together.”
“Despite all that,” Sawyer says. “Good, compelling, easy-to-digest evidence. Solid science, as I’ve told you before.”
“But no one picked up the ball after you guys disappeared us.”
Sawyer sits splay-legged on the stool against the wall. The cuffs of his pantlegs ride up to reveal red, white, and blue argyle socks, a surprising dash of pizzazz for such a dry and utterly colorless man. “Well, a few . . . fringe-dwellers, I guess you’d call them,” he says. “A population so large and diverse, they’re always going to be out there. They present no real threat, though, because they can never settle on a conspiracy theory or whacked-out alternate religion long enough to get really organized. They’re too eager to move on to the next cauldron of Kool-Aid. And of course if they did manage to organize, we have options for dealing with that.”
“Waco,” I say.
“E.g.,” Sawyer agrees, “though that’s sort of a poor example, since we usually prefer to maintain a somewhat lower profile. Also, believe it or not, we’d rather avoid wholesale killing when possible.”
“Hmpf.”
“After all, this is America,” Sawyer says. “Well, this, where we are right now, the prison in which we find ourselves at this moment, is not, in point of fact, America. But you know what I mean.”
“I’m glad you mention that,” I say. “Because I’ve been asking but can’t get an answer: Where exactly is here?”
“Can’t tell you.” Sawyer pulls a mint from his breast pocket, pops it out of its cellophane wrapper, and parks it between his cheek and gum. “I can give you a few hints, though, if you’d be willing, in exchange, to listen to a proposal.”
“Okay,” I say. “The hints first, though. Then I’ll listen.”
“Former Eastern Bloc,” Sawyer says. “Savage history under Soviet rule. Harsh winters. Gorgeous young women.”
“You’ve just described every former Eastern Bloc country.”
“Well I’m not going to make it too obvious. And don’t forget, sometimes Cuba and Vietnam were included in the designation ‘Eastern Bloc.’ ”
“Great,” I say. “So I know I’m not in Cuba or Vietnam. We’re really getting somewhere.”
“And now that I’ve held up my end of the bargain,” Sawyer says. “If I may.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’m leaving tonight for Washington,” Sawyer says. “I propose that you accompany me.”
“For what?”
Sawyer laughs. “For what! For what,” he says, entreating the cinder-block wall to share in his incredulity. “What do you think, for what?”
“I’m guessing it’s not to have dinner at the White House.”
“To save the world, Junior,” Sawyer says. “Only that.”
“From?”
He stares, bemused. “You’re joking, yes?”
“You’re saying you believe me?”
“Of course we do, Junior,” he says. “We’ve always believed you. We picked up C/1998 E1 when you first started making noise and have been tracking it since. It’s real. It’s happening. You were right.”
“So then why did you kidnap me?”
Sawyer smirks. “Because you went around telling people,” he says. “Which in my opinion, not to mention the opinions of many other people whose opinions matter quite a lot, was a terribly irresponsible thing for you to do. Both as a person and as an American.”
“What could being an American possibly have to do with this?”
“I’ll get to that in a minute. First, it was irresponsible of you as a person because of minor potential side effects such as, I don’t know, pulling things out of my hat here: unrest, mass panic, the resultant damage to infrastructure and economy, the collapse of all civilization. Stuff like that.”
“None of which came to pass, evidently.”
“True,” Sawyer says. He crunches the mint between his teeth. “It was irresponsible of you as an American, however, because until you started running your mouth our enemies had no idea about C/1998 E1. If you’d done the patriotic thing and kept this to a handful of eyes-only Agency personnel, that would have given us months, perhaps years, to turn the situation to our advantage.”
“I’m not following,” I say. “How exactly do we turn a planet-killing comet to our advantage?”
“Oh, grow up, Junior.” Sawyer stands and paces the cell. This is not easy, considering that the cell is only eight feet long. “We could develop systems to break up the object, then project which countries we’re most likely to be in conflict with around the time of impact, and aim the shards in their direction.”
“The silliest fucking thing I have ever heard.”
“Not so silly,” Sawyer says. “We’ve got a team at UVA working on it as we speak. Some of our best. They tell us it’s feasible, with proper funding.”
“Of course,” I say. “The funding is the thing.”
“Or,” Sawyer continues, “or, we could have gotten a jump on extraterrestrial emigration technologies, then announced C/1998 E1 and used our head start as leverage with the world’s problem children. Want a seat on the bus, Pakistan? Cease and desist with the nuclear testing. Need a ticket off the planet, Saudi Arabia? May we suggest you give Christianity another look.”
“You’re serious.”
“As dengue fever,” Sawyer says. “We’re still pursuing these possibilities, but thanks to you we have no idea how much of a head start we’ve got on the others.”
“What others?”
“There’s no way to confirm this, but it’s safe to assume that at least a dozen foreign entities—some friendly, some not-so—are aware of C/1998 E1 and the threat it poses.”
“I thought you said no one believed me.”
“No civilians. But intelligence services? Militaries? They look into these things, no matter how outrageous they may seem at first blush.”
“So maybe,” I say, “it’s time to consider the benefits—the possible necessity—of looking at this as something other than just another geopolitical battle royale.”
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“Spoken like a true liberal,” Sawyer says. He stops pacing, puts one foot up on the stool, and hikes up a fallen sock. “But why bother cooperating when we’ve got something no one else can match?”
“And that is?”
Sawyer stares. “Why, you, of course.”
And it becomes clear suddenly, though it should have been earlier: the invitation to Washington is conditional upon my agreeing to help. I lace my fingers behind my head and make a show of considering. “What makes you think I care enough to help?”
Sawyer pops another mint, grins at me as he arranges it between his cheek and gum. “Your Chicken Little media tour would seem to suggest you care,” he says.
“That was a long time ago. I’ve had—well, Sawyer, I guess only you know for sure just how long I’ve been in this place—but let’s say I’ve had plenty of time to reflect. Ruminate. Come around to a different way of thinking.”
“Two years,” Sawyer says. “Almost two years. And I’m not buying, Junior. You wouldn’t let that girlfriend of yours die. Or your brother. Or your parents.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I say. “Just ask her; I’m sure she’d tell you in no uncertain terms.”
Sawyer plunges his hands into his hip pockets. “Perhaps I could appeal to your self-interest?” he says. “Say yes, and this will be the last day you have to look at these walls.”
“Not good enough,” I say. “You’ll have to do better. Consider it compensation for me doing my patriotic duty and languishing in this hole for two years.”
“This isn’t a negotiation, Junior,” Sawyer says. “Listen: We know about your involvement in the Chicago Social Security bombing. Your brother’s credit card was used for the handicapped van rental. He could be in a great deal of trouble.”
“That might be an effective threat if it had even the tiniest little baby teeth. You’re forgetting that Rodney has a perfect alibi, and a few hundred thousand people to corroborate: he was on a West Coast road trip with the Cubs. So you can’t touch him. As for me, what are you going to do—throw me in some concrete box in the backwaters of Eastern Europe and hold me there, without due process, for years on end? Wow, would that ever be terrible. I don’t think I could stand it. Whatever horrible thing you decide to do to me, please don’t let it be that.”
Sawyer grins. “You’re good,” he says. “I’m enjoying this. Would you like a mint? I’ve got pocketsful.”
I shake my head. Wait. Watch.
“Okay,” he says finally. “What’s it going to take?”
“Make Amy love me again.”
Sawyer crosses his arms. “How are we supposed to do that?”
“I’m sure you’ve got methods,” I say. “Mind-control cocktails. Precision lobotomies. The particulars don’t really matter.”
He rubs his chin, considers. “I’ll have to make some calls,” he says. “Honestly, Junior, that’s a tough one even for us. I’m not sure exactly how we would—”
“Sawyer, I’m having fun with you,” you say. “I’ve got no interest in a Stepford girlfriend.”
“So, what then?”
“I want my parents set up financially.”
“Done,” Sawyer says without hesitation.
“You can’t just show up in a black Explorer and hand them a briefcase full of money, though,” I say. “My father won’t accept it. You can’t have the bank make a clerical error. My father will march right in there and show it to them.”
“What kind of idiot would turn down millions of dollars just because it didn’t belong to him?”
“Careful,” I say. “You want to be careful, Sawyer, because listen, life has never been any great fucking shakes in my opinion. In fact, it’s always seemed a messy and heartbreaking and overall pointless affair. And it’s not like I have a lot to go back to. So if you make me angry I might just say forget it, and you can leave me here to rot and figure out this problem on your own.”
Sawyer holds his hands up, miming surrender. “Touchy,” he says.
“The point is, you’re going to have to be creative. They’ve got to come into the money in a manner that leaves my father no easy out.”
“What about the lottery?”
“Maybe,” I say. “Though I know my father has never so much as bought a scratch ticket. Which leaves my mother. Considering the state she was in the last time I saw her, that might be a bit of a stretch. I’m not even sure she leaves the house anymore.”
“Right,” Sawyer says. “That situation has not improved in your absence.”
“So what, then?” I ask.
“For God’s sake, we’ll figure something,” Sawyer says. “Do we have a deal? Can we please get out of here now?”
“Believe me, I’d like nothing better.”
Sawyer pulls the two-way radio from the holster on his belt and raises it to his lips, then hesitates. He turns back toward me. “There is one other concern,” he says. “One other small stipulation I forgot to mention.”
“I’m listening.”
“You can’t drink. You’ll be no good to us if you fall back down the rabbit hole we pulled you out of.”
I wasn’t expecting this. It goes without saying that the prison has served, however unintentionally, as the world’s most effective detox, and after two years of forced sobriety it’s been a while since I’ve even thought about having a drink, let alone craved one.
“Shouldn’t be a problem, Sawyer,” I say. “Obviously I’ve been dry since the day I got here.”
“Noted. But I’m sure you’ll agree there’s a difference between staying sober in an old Soviet gulag, and staying sober in Maryland.”
“As I said, it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“I’m going to need your word on that.”
“Jesus. You’ve got it.”
“Very good.” Sawyer keys the two-way radio, and there’s an electric buzzing from inside the door, then a click. “After you,” he says, motioning toward the door as it swings slowly open.
John Sr.
The last thing I’d be doing, if I was you, is standing here loading these trucks, Dan Coyne says. You see earlier tonight when that fucking tree trunk came through? I kid you not, a big section of fucking tree, wrapped in twine like for handles. Twine. Must have weighed three hundred pounds. And here we’re not supposed to be lifting more than seventy-five.
Guys at the warehouse go on for hours talking about what they would be doing in my position.
If I had your money I wouldn’t be loading goddamn trees for anyone, Dan says. You’re foolish to be putting up with this when you don’t got to.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe not. Either way, I’m always willing to consider the possibility that I’m a fool.
If I felt like I had to defend my decisions to Dan, I’d tell him I’ve cut back on hours at the bakery. Not that it was my choice—Mr. Miller hired a new guy after the Megabucks thing. When I asked him why, he said he didn’t expect that with all that money I’d be sticking around much longer. I told him not to worry about that, I wasn’t going anywhere, but he said maybe it was time for me to think about taking it easy.
Learn golf, he said. Buy yourself some nice collared shirts and go up to Natanis, rub elbows with the other blue bloods. He winked and patted his belly and blew smoke out of his nostrils.
Golf, I said. Even if I had two good hands, forget about it. Besides, I’m not old enough to make those pants work quite yet.
Mr. Miller pulled on his cigarette and eyeballed me. John, you’ve taken what, three weeks off in the past ten years? Something like that?
Something like that.
Give yourself a break, son, is what I’m saying. You don’t need to bust your fucking hump anymore.
This from a man twenty years older than me, who hasn’t taken a day off ever, as far as I know.
You’d think it’d be great to have a bunch of money and never work again, Mr. Miller, I said. But try it. Give it a week, and see if you’re not clawing your own eyes
out trying to figure what to do with yourself.
He just puffed and winked some more. He probably thought I was talking out of my ass, because he didn’t know I’d tried a week off from the warehouse. It was terrible. I came home from baking and couldn’t sleep more than two or three hours—I’d be awake at noon, no alarm, ready to shower up and head to the warehouse. There was no warehouse shift to go to, so I’d just sit around drinking coffee. Read the paper twice, front to back, back to front. Actually did the crossword a couple of times, or tried to. I’m not much for TV, so that was no help. Debbie mostly watched her soaps and as usual didn’t say much. The third day it snowed, thank God, and I shoveled our driveway, the Josephs’ next door, the widow Mrs. Biche down the street. Shoveled paths for the oil and mailman, cleared off all the cars, spread rock salt. Everything. Took about four hours. It wasn’t nearly enough; I still had six hours to fill before heading to Miller’s.
This was around the same time I started having the spells. My chest goes tight and my vision gets dark and I have to grab onto something because it feels like I might go down and smash my head.
There are only a few things I’ve ever been afraid of. My old man. Taking a round in the throat, saw that happen to a guy and it scared me. My baby boy being dead. And these frigging spells.
Mr. Miller’s new guy is named Mike, seems like a good kid, though the word from Monica is he’s a drinker. But who cares as long as he’s getting his work done and doesn’t get an arm ripped off in the mixer or fall head-first into the Hobart. I worked with him his first week and he’s not lazy or sloppy; if he was drinking I didn’t notice. Besides, it’s not like he’s the first baker in the history of the world to drink on a shift. Or on every shift, for that matter. Maybe a little young for that, but the sad truth is we start them young around here. I started and stopped young.
Part of me wishes Mike’s drinking was a problem. I wish he’d burn the rolls and screw up the rainbow cakes, because he’s working three of the shifts I used to have, This leaves me just four overnights, plus my shifts at the warehouse. Which means more coffee and crosswords and sitting next to Debbie on the sofa staring at Guiding Light.