A Doomsday Device of Plywood and Twine: Part 1
One day I’ll have a real chair, one that doesn’t cut the circulation off at the knees. This one’s made of wood and straw, and my back doesn’t quite fit, but it will have to do for now--she’s coming over.
Have you ever known an impossibility? You can’t hold it. It’s not like fire or ice, or anything you will feel, in fact you won’t feel a thing as it will never touch your hands to begin with. Tala. I shouldn’t know you.
We met so long ago in elementary school; neither of us have made it out yet, out of this town. I remember you saying how you’d move to New York, or even San Francisco, that there was life. Here everyone is dead or dying. Even if they are healthy as jackrabbits they are dying. Fricasseed before the TV sets in their bedrooms.
This beer I snuck out of the fridge, it’s got an awful taste, but Tala will drink it. Not to say she has bad taste, quite the contrary. But it’s a rare event when she has money to spend, even on alcohol. Tala, you shouldn’t come here. I doubt Mannie will notice the missing bottles.
I moved out of my parents’ house last year; found a room for rent, well, it’s not really a room, not as most people would think of one, with a door. I’m living in the living room, I guess you could say. I’ve done my best to provision for walls and soundproofing, but it’s kind of hopeless in that regard. I have three roommates, each with a real room. But money’s an issue for me too, so I deal, for now.
Mannie was pretty miffed that I would want to keep my piano here, I don’t play it much on that account. It was inherited from my grandmother. She thought I had talent; willed it to me. Oh grandmother. Talent?
I’m out of work. Well, there was a recent gig at the local movie theater, but so many folks are looking for work it kind of lowers the standards of treatment. They had me mostly cleaning bathrooms. I quit to write my book.
Do I think I can survive by selling my book? Well, I haven’t written it all yet. I know what it’s about. When she gets here you can listen to what I’ve got so far. If I do have talent, you can say so; if I don’t, well, I’d rather not know. I’m going to try this and if it doesn’t work out I guess I’ll get a job serving coffee somewhere, if the robots haven’t taken that over now too. Have they?
The doorbell rings and I announce that it’s for me; I’ll get it. It’s her, I know it is. She called me to say she was coming over. Tala, what do you see in me? Do you think I have talent? Oh god if only that were true, we wouldn’t have to worry anymore.
The front door is inlaid with painted glass; I can see a human form on the other side. Whoever it is has long hair that falls down to the shoulders. Tala’s is long and dark, and falls farther than that. It’s her. For a poor girl she has exquisite taste. She wears her perfume so smartly that I practically have to beat Mannie back in order to open the door. And now Mannie gets to see her too. She’s wearing a short skirt of all things, with sandals so her legs are exposed more than they should be. But I know it’s hot, and this is how poor girls dress. If I have talent, Tala, I’ll buy you whatever you like, whatever dress you’d like.
Her bangs hang over her forehead as is fashionable here. I don’t have a problem with that at all. She’s smiling. She says something, a greeting, but I don’t hear. Something, a ringing buzzing droning is in my ears. I went to the doctor once about that, thought my head was going to explode, but evidently it’s just blood rushing to my brain. Why would that happen now?
She’s wearing those big, movie star sunglasses that are so trendy nowadays. But I know they came from the Amoco on the corner. They have this whole display of glasses that look just like the expensive kind, but are only about two bucks each. She’s stepping across the threshold, exposing each knee, and I can hear Mannie panting in the background. Luckily, I happen to know he’s not her type. I also happen to know what that is: the artsy type. If I have talent she could love me.
We walk past Mannie to my “room” and close the “door”. The door is real, but there aren’t any hinges so it’s kind of like sliding a boulder over the entrance of a cave. She goes immediately to the piano; it’s her favorite possession of mine. She’s sitting on the bench, sliding the keyboard cover up and back, ceremoniously, sanctimoniously. She can’t play with both hands at the same time yet, but she does have a knack--a talent. She’s talented and artsy. Anything she tries she’s good at. Tala, don’t you know that the world can’t stop you, can’t obliterate you. No matter where you go you will rule through the hearts of men.
I go to my desk and open my laptop. There on the screen is my book. As she plays she says I should read aloud what I have so far.
“When we get to the corner of the glade, I want you to run. You got to run until you see your sister, hear?” The old baseball cap, loose and leaning down on his forehead, seemed to vibrate as he spoke. It didn’t have a word printed on it. It was red and spongy in front, with white mesh in back, and had one of those straps you adjust by lining up the rivets on one side with the holes in the other.
“But pa, I can’t run fast as you!”
“You had better do what I tell ya! Ol’ Williams an’ his dogs’ll be onto us before you can say hop, skip, and jump!”
“Yes--yessir.” Cem put his hand into the one his father had proffered before him. In it he could feel a sweat and an agony, as if the words just spoken were coursing out through his bloodstream; pumping through the small veins in his fingers. The daylight was waning, and they had long lost sight of Sadie. Sadie was a runner; she could move like the wind.
“Let’s go, boy!” The words had an invigorating effect on Cem. How he floated across the rock croppings in his path, how he flew over the gnarled tree roots, even as they grasped at the sneakers on his feet. Everything became a blur.
Sadie stood in a pool of moonlight, solemnly, much like her mother. With that same solemnity she looked from father to brother, back to father, noting the sweat pouring off his brow, dripping down and off his chin, noting the baseball cap now turned sideways, grabbing up a tuft of his white gray hair from the back and bunching it up in a pig tail. She didn’t say anything, not with her mouth anyway--it was all with her eyes--all the blame.
“Sadie, girl,” the man heaved the words out, panted them out. “You’re alright ... good.”
“I’m alright, papa.” Something welled inside her and she shut her eyelids to hold it back.
“Pa,” Cem said. “Where we goin’? Why ain’t we takin’ the road like normal folks?”
Sadie opened her eyes. “Yeah, tell ‘im papa. I need to hear it said as well.”
Their father stood thinking for a moment, before he told them why they were on the run, and why their mother wasn’t with them now. He avoided Sadie’s red glare; Cem had that lost look in his eyes. “Well, about that ...”
Tala stops her piano playing so I stop reading. She’s looking at me now, and it feels wrong for some reason, I shouldn’t love her or want her, but she’s in my “room” staring at me. She asks what the title is. It’s just a working title. For now it’s called “A Doomsday Device of Plywood and Twine”. She thinks that’s poetic. She wants to know when we start hearing about the doomsday device, and what I had in mind when I came up with that string of words. Without her playing, without that soundtrack, my voice seems to ring across the hardwood flooring, through the door we slid over that aperture to the hallway. I’m sure Mannie is in the kitchen now, laughing at me. And that reminds me of the beer. It’s barely noon, but Tala doesn’t mind the taste at all.
I tell her I’m no Poe. This title wasn’t crafted by some intent or design, it just kind of bubbled up and I ran with it. Yes the plot device is an actual doomsday device, but not in the way you might think, that’s the trick, and I can’t just reveal the thing right away. She thinks this is clever. God, she shouldn’t be here, staring at me, drinking Mannie’s beer that I stole.
Park, she says my name. Park, Park, let’s go to the city today. We both know neither of us have money enough to do much there, but we can walk around and maybe have a beer or two. I’m closing my laptop.
There’s barely anyone on the train at this hour, so most seats are empty, but she followed right behind me as I selected a particular row and sat down. There’s an awkward moment where we vie for ownership of the armrest between us--I let her win. Selecting a seat on the train has become quite a challenge of late, they all seem to have some leftover tidbit of a meal stuck on them, but the ones I chose were clean in that regard. We’re both staring out the window as the train moves forward. I forgot to bring sunglasses so I’m having to squint, but Tala has her movie star glasses on; besides the slight tilt of her head I can’t tell what she’s looking at. In the reflection on the window I’m looking into her eyes intently, or where I think are her eyes. She smiles.
Before we get to the city we must stop at every town along the way. Only a few depart or board at each interval. Men in business suits with leather attache cases; women in prim sun dresses with their children in tow. No one seems to speak once they board. Tala is humming one of her songs, still staring out the window through those glasses that obscure most of her face, yet make her seem more beautiful.
Will I ever write a story about her, she’s asking. Maybe I can work her into the doomsday device story somehow, she says. Lady you will save the world, not end it, don’t you see that? I say that this book, it’s not just one story but many that all intersect at a certain event across time and space. I tell her I’ve only just started, so, sure, I can work her in--someone like her. To this she replies with one of those cute half laugh-half hums of hers. Lady I could write a lifetime on just your mannerisms.
Have you ever known an impossibility? You can’t hold it. It’s not like fire or ice, or anything you will feel, in fact you won’t feel a thing as it will never touch your hands to begin with. Tala. I shouldn’t know you.
We met so long ago in elementary school; neither of us have made it out yet, out of this town. I remember you saying how you’d move to New York, or even San Francisco, that there was life. Here everyone is dead or dying. Even if they are healthy as jackrabbits they are dying. Fricasseed before the TV sets in their bedrooms.
This beer I snuck out of the fridge, it’s got an awful taste, but Tala will drink it. Not to say she has bad taste, quite the contrary. But it’s a rare event when she has money to spend, even on alcohol. Tala, you shouldn’t come here. I doubt Mannie will notice the missing bottles.
I moved out of my parents’ house last year; found a room for rent, well, it’s not really a room, not as most people would think of one, with a door. I’m living in the living room, I guess you could say. I’ve done my best to provision for walls and soundproofing, but it’s kind of hopeless in that regard. I have three roommates, each with a real room. But money’s an issue for me too, so I deal, for now.
Mannie was pretty miffed that I would want to keep my piano here, I don’t play it much on that account. It was inherited from my grandmother. She thought I had talent; willed it to me. Oh grandmother. Talent?
I’m out of work. Well, there was a recent gig at the local movie theater, but so many folks are looking for work it kind of lowers the standards of treatment. They had me mostly cleaning bathrooms. I quit to write my book.
Do I think I can survive by selling my book? Well, I haven’t written it all yet. I know what it’s about. When she gets here you can listen to what I’ve got so far. If I do have talent, you can say so; if I don’t, well, I’d rather not know. I’m going to try this and if it doesn’t work out I guess I’ll get a job serving coffee somewhere, if the robots haven’t taken that over now too. Have they?
The doorbell rings and I announce that it’s for me; I’ll get it. It’s her, I know it is. She called me to say she was coming over. Tala, what do you see in me? Do you think I have talent? Oh god if only that were true, we wouldn’t have to worry anymore.
The front door is inlaid with painted glass; I can see a human form on the other side. Whoever it is has long hair that falls down to the shoulders. Tala’s is long and dark, and falls farther than that. It’s her. For a poor girl she has exquisite taste. She wears her perfume so smartly that I practically have to beat Mannie back in order to open the door. And now Mannie gets to see her too. She’s wearing a short skirt of all things, with sandals so her legs are exposed more than they should be. But I know it’s hot, and this is how poor girls dress. If I have talent, Tala, I’ll buy you whatever you like, whatever dress you’d like.
Her bangs hang over her forehead as is fashionable here. I don’t have a problem with that at all. She’s smiling. She says something, a greeting, but I don’t hear. Something, a ringing buzzing droning is in my ears. I went to the doctor once about that, thought my head was going to explode, but evidently it’s just blood rushing to my brain. Why would that happen now?
She’s wearing those big, movie star sunglasses that are so trendy nowadays. But I know they came from the Amoco on the corner. They have this whole display of glasses that look just like the expensive kind, but are only about two bucks each. She’s stepping across the threshold, exposing each knee, and I can hear Mannie panting in the background. Luckily, I happen to know he’s not her type. I also happen to know what that is: the artsy type. If I have talent she could love me.
We walk past Mannie to my “room” and close the “door”. The door is real, but there aren’t any hinges so it’s kind of like sliding a boulder over the entrance of a cave. She goes immediately to the piano; it’s her favorite possession of mine. She’s sitting on the bench, sliding the keyboard cover up and back, ceremoniously, sanctimoniously. She can’t play with both hands at the same time yet, but she does have a knack--a talent. She’s talented and artsy. Anything she tries she’s good at. Tala, don’t you know that the world can’t stop you, can’t obliterate you. No matter where you go you will rule through the hearts of men.
I go to my desk and open my laptop. There on the screen is my book. As she plays she says I should read aloud what I have so far.
“When we get to the corner of the glade, I want you to run. You got to run until you see your sister, hear?” The old baseball cap, loose and leaning down on his forehead, seemed to vibrate as he spoke. It didn’t have a word printed on it. It was red and spongy in front, with white mesh in back, and had one of those straps you adjust by lining up the rivets on one side with the holes in the other.
“But pa, I can’t run fast as you!”
“You had better do what I tell ya! Ol’ Williams an’ his dogs’ll be onto us before you can say hop, skip, and jump!”
“Yes--yessir.” Cem put his hand into the one his father had proffered before him. In it he could feel a sweat and an agony, as if the words just spoken were coursing out through his bloodstream; pumping through the small veins in his fingers. The daylight was waning, and they had long lost sight of Sadie. Sadie was a runner; she could move like the wind.
“Let’s go, boy!” The words had an invigorating effect on Cem. How he floated across the rock croppings in his path, how he flew over the gnarled tree roots, even as they grasped at the sneakers on his feet. Everything became a blur.
Sadie stood in a pool of moonlight, solemnly, much like her mother. With that same solemnity she looked from father to brother, back to father, noting the sweat pouring off his brow, dripping down and off his chin, noting the baseball cap now turned sideways, grabbing up a tuft of his white gray hair from the back and bunching it up in a pig tail. She didn’t say anything, not with her mouth anyway--it was all with her eyes--all the blame.
“Sadie, girl,” the man heaved the words out, panted them out. “You’re alright ... good.”
“I’m alright, papa.” Something welled inside her and she shut her eyelids to hold it back.
“Pa,” Cem said. “Where we goin’? Why ain’t we takin’ the road like normal folks?”
Sadie opened her eyes. “Yeah, tell ‘im papa. I need to hear it said as well.”
Their father stood thinking for a moment, before he told them why they were on the run, and why their mother wasn’t with them now. He avoided Sadie’s red glare; Cem had that lost look in his eyes. “Well, about that ...”
Tala stops her piano playing so I stop reading. She’s looking at me now, and it feels wrong for some reason, I shouldn’t love her or want her, but she’s in my “room” staring at me. She asks what the title is. It’s just a working title. For now it’s called “A Doomsday Device of Plywood and Twine”. She thinks that’s poetic. She wants to know when we start hearing about the doomsday device, and what I had in mind when I came up with that string of words. Without her playing, without that soundtrack, my voice seems to ring across the hardwood flooring, through the door we slid over that aperture to the hallway. I’m sure Mannie is in the kitchen now, laughing at me. And that reminds me of the beer. It’s barely noon, but Tala doesn’t mind the taste at all.
I tell her I’m no Poe. This title wasn’t crafted by some intent or design, it just kind of bubbled up and I ran with it. Yes the plot device is an actual doomsday device, but not in the way you might think, that’s the trick, and I can’t just reveal the thing right away. She thinks this is clever. God, she shouldn’t be here, staring at me, drinking Mannie’s beer that I stole.
Park, she says my name. Park, Park, let’s go to the city today. We both know neither of us have money enough to do much there, but we can walk around and maybe have a beer or two. I’m closing my laptop.
There’s barely anyone on the train at this hour, so most seats are empty, but she followed right behind me as I selected a particular row and sat down. There’s an awkward moment where we vie for ownership of the armrest between us--I let her win. Selecting a seat on the train has become quite a challenge of late, they all seem to have some leftover tidbit of a meal stuck on them, but the ones I chose were clean in that regard. We’re both staring out the window as the train moves forward. I forgot to bring sunglasses so I’m having to squint, but Tala has her movie star glasses on; besides the slight tilt of her head I can’t tell what she’s looking at. In the reflection on the window I’m looking into her eyes intently, or where I think are her eyes. She smiles.
Before we get to the city we must stop at every town along the way. Only a few depart or board at each interval. Men in business suits with leather attache cases; women in prim sun dresses with their children in tow. No one seems to speak once they board. Tala is humming one of her songs, still staring out the window through those glasses that obscure most of her face, yet make her seem more beautiful.
Will I ever write a story about her, she’s asking. Maybe I can work her into the doomsday device story somehow, she says. Lady you will save the world, not end it, don’t you see that? I say that this book, it’s not just one story but many that all intersect at a certain event across time and space. I tell her I’ve only just started, so, sure, I can work her in--someone like her. To this she replies with one of those cute half laugh-half hums of hers. Lady I could write a lifetime on just your mannerisms.
Across the window flash those signs that we’ve been watching for, they say we’ve almost arrived. The train begins to slow and other, parallel tracks come into view, each with its own parked series of cars and engines. We hear the whooshing of hydraulic brakes and the screeching of metal wheels. Below the police are getting ready with their dogs.
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