Make Something Up (4 page)

“Satisfaction is here for the taking,” said Monkey. “Absolute bliss can be yours for free!” Only the smell of the cheese kept Duck and Ox from seizing her, from grabbing Monkey and tossing her bodily from the building, but Grizzly Bear shouted obscenities at her through cupped paws, and Parrot pelted her with stinging pennies.

No one stood on Monkey's side. She stood alone, armed only with her faith.

Monkey was still a team player, but now she was the only one on her team.

Chaos broke out. The herd rushed her table, overturning it, and her samples tumbled to the dirty floor. On the dusty concrete, where Monkey had envisioned herself dead only the day before, her sacred cheese was being trod upon. This cheese which she loved more than her own life, now it was ground under the hooves of Reindeer and smeared beneath the paws of Tiger. A huge hand closed around Monkey's arm and wrenched her toward the door. It was Gorilla, dragging her in the direction of the rest of her Llewellyn Foods career, where she could sleep every night. Sleepwalk through every day. A future where she need never fully awaken.

The only cube that was left was the cheese stabbed on the toothpick in Monkey's hand. It was her sword and her grail, and Monkey thrust it at Gorilla's eyes. She thrust the toothpick deep into the back of Gorilla's mouth, and he choked and gagged and spat out the cheese, but Monkey caught the wet, white cube as it fell. She lifted the slimy cheese cradled in the palm of one hand and slapped it between Gorilla's lips. With the stampede of animals lifting them both and carrying them toward the exit, Monkey kept her hand muzzled across Gorilla's mouth, her eyes meeting his eyes until Gorilla chewed and swallowed. Until she felt the huge muscles of his struggling arms relax and go slack with understanding.

It was Griffin Wilson who proposed the Theory of De-Evolution. He sat two rows behind me in Organic Chem, the very definition of an evil genius. He was the first to take the Great Leap Backward.

Everybody knows because Tricia Gedding was in the nurse's office with him when he took the leap. She was on the other cot, behind a paper curtain faking her period to get out of a pop quiz in Perspectives on Eastern Civ. She said she heard the loud “Beep!” but didn't think anything of it. When Tricia Gedding and the school nurse found him on his own cot, they thought Griffin Wilson was the resuscitation doll everybody uses to practice CPR. He was hardly breathing, barely moving a muscle. They thought it was a joke because his wallet was still clenched between his teeth and he still had the electrical wires pasted to either side of his forehead.

His hands were still holding a dictionary-sized box, still paralyzed, pressing a big red button. Everyone's seen this box so often that they hardly recognized it, but it had been hanging on the office wall: the cardiac defibrillator. That emergency heart shocker. He must've taken it down and read the instructions. He simply took the waxed paper off the gluey parts and pasted the electrodes on either side of his temporal lobes. It's basically a peel-and-stick lobotomy. It's so easy a sixteen-year-old can do it.

In Miss Chen's English class, we learned, “To be or not to be…” but there's a big gray area in between. Maybe in Shakespeare times people only had two options. Griffin Wilson, he knew that the SATs were just the gateway to a big lifetime of bullshit. To getting married and college. To paying taxes and trying to raise a kid who's not a school shooter. And Griffin Wilson knew drugs are only a patch. After drugs, you're always going to need
more
drugs.

The problem with being Talented And Gifted is sometimes you get
too smart.
My uncle Henry says the importance of eating a good breakfast is because your brain is still growing. But nobody talks about how, sometimes, your brain can get just
too big.

We're basically big animals, evolved to break open shells and eat raw oysters, but now we're expected to keep track of all three hundred Kardashian sisters and eight hundred Baldwin brothers. Seriously, at the rate they reproduce the Kardashians and the Baldwins are going to wipe out all other species of humans. The rest of us, you and me, we're just evolutionary dead ends waiting to wink out.

You could ask Griffin Wilson anything. Ask him who signed the Treaty of Ghent. He'd be like that cartoon magician on TV who says, “Watch me pull a rabbit out of my ass.” Abracadabra, and he'd know the answer. In Organic Chem, he could talk String Theory until he was anoxic, but what he really wanted to be was happy. Not just not-sad, he wanted to be happy the way a dog is happy. Not constantly jerked this way and that by flaming Instant Messages and changes in the federal tax code. He didn't want to die, either. He wanted to be—and not to be—but at the same time. That's what a pioneering genius he was.

The Principal of Student Affairs made Tricia Gedding swear to not tell a living soul, but you know how that goes. The school district was afraid of copycats. Those defibrillators are everywhere these days.

Since that day in the nurse's office, Griffin Wilson has never seemed happier. He's always giggling too loud and wiping spit off his chin with his sleeve. The Special Ed teachers clap their hands and heap him with praise just for using the toilet. Talk about a double standard. The rest of us are fighting tooth and nail for whatever garbage career we can get, while Griffin Wilson is going to be thrilled with penny candy and reruns of
Fraggle Rock
for the rest of his life. How he was before, he was miserable unless he won every chess tournament. The way he is now, just yesterday, he took out his dick and started to jerk off during morning roll call. Before Mrs. Ramirez could hurry us through the S's and the T's—people are answering “here” and they're answering “present,” too slow, snickering and staring—before Mrs. Ramirez can rush down the aisle and stop him, Griffin Wilson shouts, “Watch me pull a rabbit out of my pants,” and he sprayed hot baby gravy all over a bookcase full of nothing except a hundred
To Kill a Mockingbird
s. He was laughing the whole time.

Lobotomized or not, he still knows the value of a signature catchphrase. Instead of being just another grade grubber, now he's the life of the party.

The voltage even cleared up his acne.

It's hard to argue with results like that.

It wasn't a week after he'd turned zombie that Tricia Gedding went to the gym where she does Zumba and got the defibrillator off the wall in the girls locker room. After her self-administered peel-and-stick procedure in a bathroom stall, she doesn't care where she gets her period. Her best friend, Brie Phillips, got to the defibrillator they keep next to the bathrooms at the Home Depot, and now she walks down the street, rain or shine, with no pants on. We're not talking about the scum of the school. We're talking about the class president and the head cheerleader. The best and the brightest. Everybody who played first string on all the sports teams. It took every defibrillator between here and Canada, but, since then, when they play football nobody plays by the rules. And even when they get skunked, they're always grinning and slapping high fives.

They continue to be young and hot, but they no longer worry about the day when they won't be.

It's suicide, but it's not. The newspaper won't report the actual numbers. Newspapers flatter themselves. Anymore, Tricia Gedding's Facebook page has a larger readership than our daily paper. Mass media, my foot. They cover the front page with unemployment and war, and they don't think
that
has a negative effect? My uncle Henry reads me an article about a proposed change in state law. Officials want a ten-day waiting period on the sale of all heart
defibrillators.
They're talking about mandatory background checks and mental health screenings, but it's not the law, not yet.

My uncle Henry looks up from the newspaper article and eyes me across breakfast. He levels me this stern look and asks, “If all your friends jumped off a cliff, would you?”

My uncle's what I have instead of a mom and dad. He won't acknowledge it, but there's a good life over the edge of that cliff. There's a lifetime supply of handicapped-parking permits. Uncle Henry doesn't understand that all my friends have already jumped.

They may be “differently abled” but my friends are still hooking up. More than ever, these days. They have smoking-hot bodies and the brains of infants. They have the best of both worlds. LeQuisha Jefferson stuck her tongue inside Hannah Finerman during Beginning Carpentry Arts, made her squeal and squirm right there, leaned up against the drill press. And Laura Lynn Marshall? She sucked off Frank Randall in the back of International Cuisine Lab with everybody watching. All their falafels got scorched, and nobody made a federal case out of it.

After pushing the red defibrillator button, yeah, a person suffers some consequences, but he doesn't know he's suffering. Once he undergoes a Push-Button Lobotomy a kid can get away with murder.

During Study Hall, I asked Boris Declan if it hurt. He was sitting there in the lunchroom with the red burn marks still fresh on either side of his forehead. He had his pants down around his knees. I asked if the shock was painful, and he didn't answer, not right away. He just took his fingers out of his ass and sniffed them, thoughtfully. He was last year's Junior Prom King.

In a lot of ways he's more chill now than he ever was. With his ass hanging out in the middle of the cafeteria, he offers me a finger to sniff and I tell him, “No, thank you.”

He says he doesn't remember anything. Boris Declan grins this sloppy, dopey smile. He taps a dirty fingertip to the burn mark on one side of his face. He points this same butt-stained finger to make me look across the way. On the wall where he's pointing is this guidance counselor poster that shows white birds flapping their wings against a blue sky. Under that are the words “Actual Happiness Only Happens by Accident” printed in dreamy writing. The school hung that poster to hide the shadow of where another defibrillator used to hang.

It's clear that wherever Boris Declan ends up in life it's going to be the right place. He's already living in Brain Trauma Nirvana. The school district was right about copycats.

No offense to Jesus, but the meek won't inherit the earth. To judge from reality TV the loudmouths will get their hands on everything. And I say, Let Them. The Kardashians and the Baldwins are like some invasive species. Like kudzu or zebra mussels. Let them battle over the control of the crappy real world.

For a long time I listened to my uncle and didn't jump. Anymore, I don't know. The newspaper warns us about terrorist anthrax bombs and virulent new strains of meningitis, and the only comfort newspapers can offer is a coupon for twenty cents off on underarm deodorant.

To have no worries, no regrets, it's pretty appealing. So many of the cool kids at my school have elected to self-fry that, anymore, only the losers are left. The losers and the naturally occurring pinheads. The situation is so dire that I'm a shoo-in to be valedictorian. That's how come my uncle Henry is shipping me off. He thinks that by relocating me to Twin Falls he can postpone the inevitable.

So we're sitting at the airport, waiting by the gate for our flight to board, and I ask to go to the bathroom. In the men's room I pretend to wash my hands so I can look in the mirror. My uncle asked me, one time, why I looked in mirrors so much, and I told him it wasn't vanity so much as it was nostalgia. Every mirror shows me what little is left of my parents.

I'm practicing my mom's smile. People don't practice their smiles nearly enough so when they most need to look happy they're not fooling anyone. I'm rehearsing my smile when—there it is: my ticket to a gloriously happy future working in fast food. That's opposed to a miserable life as a world-famous architect or heart surgeon.

Hovering over my shoulder and a smidgen behind me, it's reflected in the mirror. Like the bubble containing my thoughts in a comic strip panel, there's a cardiac defibrillator. It's mounted on the wall in back of me, shut inside a metal case with a glass door you could open to set off alarm bells and a red strobe light. A sign above the box says “AED” and shows a lightning bolt striking a Valentine's heart. The metal case is like the hands-off showcase holding some crown jewels in a Hollywood heist movie.

Opening the case, automatically I set off the alarm and flashing red light. Quick, before any heroes come running, I dash into a handicapped stall with the defibrillator. Sitting on the toilet, I pry it open. The instructions are printed on the lid in English, Spanish, French, and comic book pictures. Making it foolproof, more or less. If I wait too long I won't have this option. Defibrillators will be under lock and key, soon, and once defibrillators are illegal only paramedics will have
defibrillators.

In my grasp, here's my permanent childhood. My very own Bliss Machine.

My hands are smarter than the rest of me. My fingers know to just peel the electrodes and paste them to my temples. My ears know to listen for the loud beep that means the thing is fully charged.

My thumbs know what's best. They hover over the big red button. Like this is a video game. Like the button the president gets to press to trigger the launch of nuclear war. One push and the world as I know it comes to an end. A new reality begins.

To be or not to be. God's greatest gift to animals is they don't get a choice.

Every time I open the newspaper I want to throw up. In another ten seconds I won't know how to read. Better yet, I won't have to. I won't know about global climate change. I won't know about cancer or genocide or SARS or environmental degradation or religious conflict.

The public address system is paging my name. I won't even know my name.

Before I can blast off, I picture my uncle Henry at the gate, holding his boarding pass. He deserves better than this. He needs to know this is not his fault.

With the electrodes stuck to my forehead, I carry the defibrillator out of the bathroom and walk down the concourse toward the gate. The coiling electric wires trail down the sides of my face like thin, white pigtails. My hands carry the battery pack in front of me like a suicide bomber who's only going to blow up all my IQ points.

When they catch sight of me, businesspeople abandon their roller bags. People on family vacations, they flap their arms, wide, and herd their little kids in the other direction. Some guy thinks he's a hero. He shouts, “Everything is going to be all right.” He tells me, “You have everything to live for.”

We both know he's a liar.

My face is sweating so hard the electrodes might slip off. Here's my last chance to say everything that's on my mind so with everyone watching I'll confess: I don't know what's a happy ending. And I don't know how to fix anything. Doors open in the concourse and Homeland Security soldiers storm out, and I feel like one of those Buddha monks in Tibet or wherever who splash on gasoline before they check to make sure their cigarette lighter actually works. How embarrassing that would be, to be soaking in gasoline and have to bum a match off some stranger, especially since so few people smoke anymore. Me, in the middle of the airport concourse, I'm dripping with sweat instead of gasoline, but this is how out of control my thoughts are spinning.

From out of nowhere my uncle grabs my arm, and he says, “If you hurt yourself, Trevor, you hurt me.”

He's gripping my arm, and I'm gripping the red button. I tell him this isn't so tragic. I say, “I'll keep loving you, Uncle Henry…I just won't know who you are.”

Inside my head, my last thoughts are prayers. I'm praying that this battery is fully charged. There's got to be enough voltage to erase the fact that I've just said the word “love” in front of several hundred strangers. Even worse, I've said it to my own uncle. I'll never be able to live that down.