Story 195: Schism

He calls me, sometimes, and he tells me that he's disappointed. So, so disappointed. But fuck that guy. I don't need to be in a relationship right now, and certainly don't need an abusive one. The phone rings and I pick it up because I have to, because I can choose not to listen to him but I can't ignore him, not exactly. I hold the handset between my cheek and my shoulder while I watch reality television on the couch and I listen to him berate me, tell me that I should be ashamed of my life. That I need to come back to him, to submit to him. I don't reply except to swear when my favorite contestant gets thrown off of Top Chef. At some point he hangs up but I don't notice for a while. It gets easier every day.

He was always overbearing and demanding but there was a time that he complimented me too. He would tell me that he loved me and that I was special and that out of all the universe I was the thing most important to him and that I would never get caught and I should pick up more manure and gasoline on the way home. They never cook that kind of stuff on Top Chef. And I did what he asked because he did ask, nicely, and the compliments and feelings that I was important kept me warm at night until one day they didn't and I asked him, meekly like a woman should be, if this was really a good idea. And then he yelled.

It was snowing outside, frozen and cold and lonely with the trees like skeletons and what I wanted more than anything was to read a shitty book in a house that didn't smell like homemade explosives - that smell took weeks to go away because it soaked into the nice butcher block counter - and instead he yelled at me for not doing what he asked me to, for questioning him at all. That worked pretty well, at first. It wasn't as warm and fulfilling as being told I was his most perfect love but it absolved me of responsibility. I can't question him, he's yelling! See how authoritative he is? Clearly this isn't up to me.

In bed that night, with my fingertips stained from our vicious cooking project, the lack of his booming anger made the silence open up like a chasm and I could hear my own voice in the darkness saying, "If this is what he does when you say no... it wasn't really asking before." And that voice inside me, just little old insignificant me, was more right than he ever was. So I asked him to do something to prove that he loved me. Something special. That made him mad again, because I was questioning him still after all that we had been through together, but then I pointed out that it never really felt like we were together at all. Certainly I had never seen him. And I hung up the antique phone.

And it rang again, and I answered because that's what you do when he calls. You answer.

But I told him again, do something. Something miraculous, for me. Something to show that you love me, and that you exist, and then maybe we can talk about building more bombs. Only maybe, though, because there's more to life than high explosives and sometimes I could go for a root beer float or something. I felt silly then because it was the middle of winter and I didn't really want anything cold. I didn't even want a miracle, I just wanted him to back off for a while. He yelled that he was The Lord My God and I would listen to him and obey him or be cast into the lake of fire and then of course all I could picture was how nice and warm that would be and how sick I was of Nebraska.

And you know, he didn't do any miracles. He stopped calling for a while, and then when he started again it felt like he was drunk-dialing me. He was incoherent, and emotional, and abusive. I couldn't really do anything about it since the phone was already disconnected - had never worked since I bought it at that pawn shop at all - and if I didn't answer it would just keep ringing forever. I could always throw it out, but then he might start calling on my cell and I go through my minutes fast enough as it is.

I'm too tired to sleep and still on the couch and nothing good is on cable but the sagging springs of the couch have lowered me down into my little nest of blankets and so I'm just watching a rerun of some special on the Travel Channel. The phone rings and I hold it to my ear but there's nothing on the other end. I get this image of him crying somewhere, alone, and I feel sorry for him even though he's abusive and a murderer and the biggest monster that ever lived because deep down I don't know that I have a choice. He made me this way, to love him.

"Are you alright?"
Yeah, he says. But I don't like those new clothes you bought. Your skirts are too short and your necklines are too low. It's immodest.
"I like them. I look good in them. I don't need your approval."
I don't like the world anymore. I don't understand it. Things were better when people just wanted to not die. That's all I wanted, just for people to hunt the other animals and build little shelters or freeze to death or whatever. I don't... I don't understand art. Or humor. It's all stupid.
Then he sighs, like only god can.
"I know. But I'm not going to blow anything up for you."
You could be forgiven, he says.
"Fuck forgiveness. If anyone needs forgiveness it's you. I'm not doing this anymore."
There's just silence on the line.
"No more talk of bombs, or infidels, or ending civilization. But... if you need to talk... you can call. This was nice, not yelling for a change."
He whispers something just before the line clicks and goes dead. I can't be sure but I think he said he lied about not liking my new clothes. I shouldn't encourage him, but I say a little prayer of thanks anyway - just for the good things in my life. He'll probably never change, and talking to him is terribly unhealthy of me, but... at least for now the news isn't about explosions. For now.

Story 194: Risk Averse

WillG: I can't just throw away five years of my life. I've got seniority in this department, and they're talking about maybe getting me that certification next year if they can make the budget work. You've never held down a job more than a year, it's easy for you to suggest something stupid.

Nancy Incredible: This isn't stupid, William. This is the opportunity of a lifetime.

WillG: I know this is hard because you're a high functioning sociopath, but just try to put yourself in my shoes. What would you do if you were here for five years?

Nancy Incredible: You mean five minutes?

WillG: No, five years.

Nancy Incredible: No, you're confused. You mean minutes, maybe days on the outside. Asking me what I would do after five years here doesn't even make sense, it's like asking me what I would do if confronted with a magical wish-granting unicorn in that it has no relation at all to reality.

WillG: Please, just hypothetically...

Nancy Incredible: No, see, you still don't get it. There's not even a hypothetical situation where I would stick around that long. I mean, maybe if some guy had a gun to my head but even then he'd have to sleep some time, right? I'd give it two days of that shit before I tried something foolishly heroic. So, you know, even given some time for the authorities to find my bullet-riddled corpse and process it and everything and then a while to plan the funeral I would say the answer would be that in five years I would have been buried for four years and, like, eleven months. Does that help?

WillG: No.

Nancy Incredible: Well, that's not my fault, it was a stupid question. I mean, really, like the security guard wouldn't do something about someone walking around the building holding a gun to my head? You don't even think about these things before talking, do you?

WillG: I hate you.

Disconnected.

Will rolled away from his computer and picked up the flyer Nancy had left on his desk. It was awful, clearly made in about ten minutes with a basic paint program. There were clip-art of people jumping into the air holding wads of cash, and also for some reason a beach ball. There wasn't a lot of text, and yet somehow it managed to contain every terrible idea known to man. A risky investment, unproven science, and activities that were legal only through an oversight.

The header had too many exclamation points, too.

He knew that Nancy would be stopping by in person soon to try and convince him, but he also knew that due to the extreme disconnect between what sounded like a good idea to her and actual rational thought it wouldn't be hard to resist. He looked at the flyer again, trying to imagine what anyone could possibly see in it. Judging from which words were bolded, the author of the flyer seemed to think the draw involved EUROPA, GENETIC HUMAN ENHANCEMENT, a ONE TIME INVESTMENT, and SPACE. None of those things sounded appealing to Will.

Nancy popped he head around the corner, and he was surprised to see she wasn't smiling.
"Listen, Will. I'll make this quick and I'll be serious. You hate this job, they're never going to approve that certification or invest in you in any way, they haven't given you a raise since you got here, you'll never get around to using any of that vacation you've built up and rumor is that they're going to cap it which means you'll lose most of it at the end of the year. The only difference between this venture and your horrible job is that if it goes wrong it will be a better reason for you to feel sorry for yourself and if it goes right it will be way less likely to kill you. Also, while I personally don't find you attractive I know of several very nice single girls that are signing up for this thing and I know you want to date someone at some point before your soul finishes leaving your body. Get off your ass and do something stupid or so help me I'll get you fired myself. You know I can."

And with that, she was gone. Will just sat there, staring at the empty space she had been occupying. He had been totally prepared to fend off he insane assertions about how fun it would be, but this tactic had him floored. His phone rang, and he answered it still in a stupor.
"Will, yeah, this is Bryant. Listen. The certification is on hold for now because we're still having trouble with the budget, but we want to offer you something else instead. You know how we let Reggie go? Someone needs to do his job and we've got a hiring freeze going on so we can't replace him. It would be a huge help to us if you could step in and do that. We can't give you a raise, but it would look really great on your review which might mean that this certification thing gets pushed through next time. How about that?"

Will crumpled up the flyer and threw it away, sighing. "That would be fine, sir."

Story 193: Wish You Were Here

"I'm skeptical," Mitchell says. "This is me being skeptical. Witness my skeptical face, painted with fresh coats of doubt and apprehension."
Jess is silent, leaning against a tree trunk and watching her breath in the chilly air. Mitchell paces around the cardboard box, fall leaves crunching under the soles of his brand new sneakers. He's the tallest college freshman at Southfalls, six feet four inches, but with the box standing on its end it's still just a little taller.
"It looks like a regular refrigerator box," he says. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his coat because he has forgotten his gloves again, a fact that makes it hard for him to articulate his thoughts. The urge to gesture dramatically with his hands battles with the image of numb fingertips and narrowly loses after consulting with his already frozen earlobes and nose.

Jess strides forward and pushes on one side of the box. A cut-out rectangle nearly the height and width of the box swings inward, but the dim sunlight that filters down past the mostly skeletal trees does nothing to illuminate any contents. She steps inside and gives Mitchell a meaningful look before pushing the flap closed again. Mitchell, for his part, isn't certain what the meaningful look was intended to convey. He waits a moment to see if something is going to happen and then, when it doesn't, a small part of his brain suggests that there is a possibility that Jess wants him to join her in that cramped, dark space. He kicks some leaves idly and wonders if she is aware that he is roughly 97% gay, +/- 3%.

A sudden cold gust of wind upends the box and sends it rebounding off of a tree trunk. It's quite clearly empty. Mitchell attempts to say something profane, but is in such shock that instead he says "Biscuits." without realizing it. His nice new sneakers seem to be rooted to the spot, and for a good five minutes he just stares at the refrigerator box as the cardboard flaps wave in the breeze. He's thinking about what Jess said, on the way to see the box.

"It's magic," she had said. "Or sufficiently advanced technology. Never can tell." When he asked what about the cardboard box was magic she laughed, and told him to wait. "You'll see," she had said. Now, startled back to the present by the sight of a few fat snowflakes drifting down, Mitchell walks hesitantly over to the box and stands it upright. He tries to position it where Jess had, placing the rocks back over the bottom flaps. His fingers start to go numb from the cold as he makes minute and pointless adjustments, second-guessing his placement as he tries to put off what he knows has to happen next.

Finally, carefully, he pushes the roughly-cut door and looks inside. The internal dimensions match the external ones as far as he can tell, so he steps inside. Nothing happens, apart from a slight drop in the wind chill. Pushing the flap closed, Mitchell takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He wonders if there's a hidden camera somewhere, and decides he doesn't care. Nothing continues to happen, and Mitchell is forced to open his eyes and step back out. The snow is becoming a bit more serious, and in the distance between the trees he can see dark fuzzy clouds that promise a serious layer of the stuff.

"Jess," Mitchell says to nothing in particular, "I'm really cold and still suspect this is some sort of trick. So... I'm going inside. I'll see you there. I hope." He trudges up the hill back towards the campus, and pictures seeing Jess in class the next morning laughing at him and telling him how she had tricked him. Another part of his brain pictures her desk being empty, pictures police asking questions he can't answer as the cardboard box collapses under a blanket of white. But for now, until one vision or the other comes true, Mitchell just rubs his icy fingers together and hopes.