A Doomsday Device of Plywood and Twine: Part 2
Here it was opened by whom he did not know. No one else had been in the office that day, yet here his mail sat, with the largest envelope sliced open at the top. Sleep had eluded him of late, and maybe the stopover at Carson’s was a mistake, beer in the morning, beer for breakfast, low had he fallen. The drunks at the bar hadn’t minded his company. He sidled up to the rail and pulled the nearest bar stool beneath him with a hook of his foot. The sour odor from the taps begot a strange temptation and he ordered. Business could wait.
The letter that had been opened was from a recently established client, a Mrs. Nelda Nives. Nelda ... Nives. It’s always disconcerting to find one’s mail opened by someone else. Sometimes it’s the government and there’s not much one can do, but here in the case of Mrs. Nives’ letter, well it could be any number of suspects, from her recently estranged husband to the cabbie she refused to pay on account of his non-deference to ladies. Jasper McSloy never had that option, his workplace couldn’t be physically moved at a whim.
On the evening of her first visit he was cleaning up the place. Loose cigarette butts were picked off the floor and the toilet was scrubbed. Then a knock on the thin plate glass window with his name on it. He had wondered who it was. Business had been mighty slow of late, what with all the new high tech gadgetry, why folks could do their own snooping, their own private-eyeing. Probably just a misplaced pizza order, he surmised. If so he'd take it and eat it. Instead there was this woman at the door, that quintessential broad seeking a private eye, with the fur coat and white wide brim hat and everything. Mrs. Nelda Nives. She introduced herself and presumed to take his opening of the door as an invitation.
What could he do for her, he asked plainly. Various accouterments of cleaning remained about the room, a ragged dust mop, a roll of paper towels, baking soda. What could he do for her at this late hour, asked he. She fetched a menthol cigarette from her purse which seemed petite but still large enough to contain the entire world and its various spent artifacts. The menthol permeated the room and evoked a strong response of desire in Jasper. From then on he stared only at the ground so as to avoid any impropriety. Here was work, real work. This lady Nives had found herself in a bit of a pickle, what with her husband so often locking himself away in their basement, doing god knows what at the devil knows what hour. And then there were the government agents haranguing her at the ladies club. Supposedly her husband, a man of some notoriety in national scientific circles, had taken it upon his shoulders to foray and pioneer into matters otherwise completely forbidden to the public. What these matters were she could not say, but would pay a high price to find out.
One nice thing about living in a living room is the large bay windows opening out onto the back yard. At night I open them wide to let the coolness in, the faint oscillation of cricket chirps, the earthen smell of dew strung grass. It’s like diving into a sea of sleep. But tonight I don’t want to lose those memories just yet, no I never want to let them go.
On TV the war waged on. Violent but bloodless images paraded across the screen, overlayed at top and bottom with scrolling marquee graphics that either foretold of things to come, or bemoaned an innocence lost.
“For Christ’s sake, will you turn that infernal thing off?”
“What is it, Marius? It’s the news, don’t you want to know what’s going on?”
Marius smiled sardonically, puffing out the left side of his lip. “What is the difference between news and propaganda nowadays, eh? No difference. What they show on TV is only what they want you to see: victory; righteousness. Do you think the innocent have been spared in the onslaught? No! They die by the thousands, but you’ll never see that on the TV.”
What happened afterward in that dream? I can’t remember now. What I’m hearing through the “walls” is that particular din of American Football on the big screen television in the front room, intermixed with raucous laughter and shouting from its local fans on the couch. Such noon ritual never appealed to me, nor the bonding necessary to truly fit in with Mannie and his friends. Television itself is a thing that I abhor, and even if I were physically at a game the passivity would drive me mad. This is what constitutes misanthropy today.
On the couch are Mannie and two of his friends from the construction company he works for. Business has been rather slow in that quarter so I’ve gotten used to waking up this way. The house is Mannie’s, or rather his parents’, but they own a number of others. Kade sits to his left and Thorin to his right. I’m lucky this afternoon as they are so engrossed in the game they pay no attention to my passing through; no attention to the noise I create in the kitchen as I make myself some coffee and pour myself a bowl of Mealy O’s.
My other two roommates aren’t here right now, but you’ll meet them soon. We all went to the same high school but were never really friends. Janis works full-time in arcade machine repair and is the only girl I know who is crazy enough to live in a house full of boys. She’s very interesting when she’s around, but I rarely see her. Loy is taking classes at the community college here and doesn’t need to work on account of being bankrolled by his parents. He says the place to be is in robotics, that that’s where he’s headed, to automate more people out of a job. Once I asked him what everyone would do without jobs and he said that’s utopia. An idealist, I suppose.
There’s a commercial playing on the TV now. The couch is temporarily vacated and I’m beset on all sides by Mannie’s cadre, now engaged in the selection of fine cans of light beer from the fridge. Were I smart I’d go back to my room before they start in, but it’s too late--must be halftime. Kade’s leering at me; asking where that girl of mine is. Mannie guffaws and says she ain’t nobody’s girl yet. He’s right.
The letter that had been opened was from a recently established client, a Mrs. Nelda Nives. Nelda ... Nives. It’s always disconcerting to find one’s mail opened by someone else. Sometimes it’s the government and there’s not much one can do, but here in the case of Mrs. Nives’ letter, well it could be any number of suspects, from her recently estranged husband to the cabbie she refused to pay on account of his non-deference to ladies. Jasper McSloy never had that option, his workplace couldn’t be physically moved at a whim.
On the evening of her first visit he was cleaning up the place. Loose cigarette butts were picked off the floor and the toilet was scrubbed. Then a knock on the thin plate glass window with his name on it. He had wondered who it was. Business had been mighty slow of late, what with all the new high tech gadgetry, why folks could do their own snooping, their own private-eyeing. Probably just a misplaced pizza order, he surmised. If so he'd take it and eat it. Instead there was this woman at the door, that quintessential broad seeking a private eye, with the fur coat and white wide brim hat and everything. Mrs. Nelda Nives. She introduced herself and presumed to take his opening of the door as an invitation.
What could he do for her, he asked plainly. Various accouterments of cleaning remained about the room, a ragged dust mop, a roll of paper towels, baking soda. What could he do for her at this late hour, asked he. She fetched a menthol cigarette from her purse which seemed petite but still large enough to contain the entire world and its various spent artifacts. The menthol permeated the room and evoked a strong response of desire in Jasper. From then on he stared only at the ground so as to avoid any impropriety. Here was work, real work. This lady Nives had found herself in a bit of a pickle, what with her husband so often locking himself away in their basement, doing god knows what at the devil knows what hour. And then there were the government agents haranguing her at the ladies club. Supposedly her husband, a man of some notoriety in national scientific circles, had taken it upon his shoulders to foray and pioneer into matters otherwise completely forbidden to the public. What these matters were she could not say, but would pay a high price to find out.
One nice thing about living in a living room is the large bay windows opening out onto the back yard. At night I open them wide to let the coolness in, the faint oscillation of cricket chirps, the earthen smell of dew strung grass. It’s like diving into a sea of sleep. But tonight I don’t want to lose those memories just yet, no I never want to let them go.
We must have walked every inch of the city today, with time left over to take our shoes off at the shore. The water was ice cold, so cold I couldn’t feel the sand mud beneath my feet. Tala waded out and let the waves lap at the edges of her skirt, but no higher. We were baptized in the salt air and then chased back by the rising tide. On the boardwalk we afforded ourselves Miller Lite and giant pretzels, watching the passersby with a new found desire to know them all. Everyone is beautiful and ugly, she said, everyone has a little bit of God and the Devil in them. But I could never see the latter of either in her. For my part, I could never see the former of either in myself.
The last train of the night was full by the time we boarded, and we each hung to the same handle bar, pushing us together in difficult ways; at times my hand would brush across the still wet edges of her skirt. I wiggled my toes to make sure it wasn’t a dream, to see if the sand from the beach still clung to my feet. Her glasses now sat back across the top of her head, serving a secondary purpose of holding her hair in place while the train rumbled on, while strangers pressed against her. Eventually the mass dwindled and we were able to sit down. Our poor legs and feet! But it was all so worth it.
Our stop came and I walked her to her parents’ house. There was a chill in the air and she had her arms crossed over her chest, hunching over slightly. I could tell she was exhausted, but happy. We said goodbye to each other on her front porch.
On TV the war waged on. Violent but bloodless images paraded across the screen, overlayed at top and bottom with scrolling marquee graphics that either foretold of things to come, or bemoaned an innocence lost.
“For Christ’s sake, will you turn that infernal thing off?”
“What is it, Marius? It’s the news, don’t you want to know what’s going on?”
Marius smiled sardonically, puffing out the left side of his lip. “What is the difference between news and propaganda nowadays, eh? No difference. What they show on TV is only what they want you to see: victory; righteousness. Do you think the innocent have been spared in the onslaught? No! They die by the thousands, but you’ll never see that on the TV.”
What happened afterward in that dream? I can’t remember now. What I’m hearing through the “walls” is that particular din of American Football on the big screen television in the front room, intermixed with raucous laughter and shouting from its local fans on the couch. Such noon ritual never appealed to me, nor the bonding necessary to truly fit in with Mannie and his friends. Television itself is a thing that I abhor, and even if I were physically at a game the passivity would drive me mad. This is what constitutes misanthropy today.
On the couch are Mannie and two of his friends from the construction company he works for. Business has been rather slow in that quarter so I’ve gotten used to waking up this way. The house is Mannie’s, or rather his parents’, but they own a number of others. Kade sits to his left and Thorin to his right. I’m lucky this afternoon as they are so engrossed in the game they pay no attention to my passing through; no attention to the noise I create in the kitchen as I make myself some coffee and pour myself a bowl of Mealy O’s.
My other two roommates aren’t here right now, but you’ll meet them soon. We all went to the same high school but were never really friends. Janis works full-time in arcade machine repair and is the only girl I know who is crazy enough to live in a house full of boys. She’s very interesting when she’s around, but I rarely see her. Loy is taking classes at the community college here and doesn’t need to work on account of being bankrolled by his parents. He says the place to be is in robotics, that that’s where he’s headed, to automate more people out of a job. Once I asked him what everyone would do without jobs and he said that’s utopia. An idealist, I suppose.
There’s a commercial playing on the TV now. The couch is temporarily vacated and I’m beset on all sides by Mannie’s cadre, now engaged in the selection of fine cans of light beer from the fridge. Were I smart I’d go back to my room before they start in, but it’s too late--must be halftime. Kade’s leering at me; asking where that girl of mine is. Mannie guffaws and says she ain’t nobody’s girl yet. He’s right.
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