The n-Body Problem (7 page)

I remember Barack Obama. I re-member terrorism. Higgs-Boson. I remember a cure for AIDS. Charity walks for breast cancer. I remember when they told us to sit up straight at computers. To clench and unclench our buttocks while we sat. Guns going off.
Iron Man 4
. It’s strange that you stop thinking about things. Even further back. I remember Iggy Pop. Safe havens in Bosnia. Me as a teenager. I didn’t really know it at the time but there was nothing to it. It’s not that things fade in time. It’s that they were never really there at all. All of it. Light as birthday cards. Gone.We are at the loading dock behind the hardware store. Y has snuck in to steal a blade. Narcotics have encased my bowels in concrete. It’s better than collapsing in shit, but it hurts. It’s hard to move freely.

What I think I have is . . . it’s a cancer that coats organs in the abdominal cavity. Doesn’t enter the lymphatic system. Not for a while. I hope it hasn’t anyway. It starts like a coating on the spleen. A woman’s shawl. And it triggers peritoneal fluid to build up. Ascites. The bells thicken and the cancer cells are released into the fluid-like spores from a bumped fungus. They drape the liver. They drape the colon. The stomach lining. The fluid accommodates this by separating the packed bodies. Creating living space for itself. And the more this cancer silt builds, the thicker and heavier the mucous becomes. Eventually the spleen sloughs off its new deadly skin and releases it as a transparent tube, a hovering jellyfish in a dark thick sea. It is a new part of you. It is a distinct creature looking to live in you. Your body recognizes it. Even in the insensate mash of glue and fatted lungs, it is awake to this new thing, the birth of this tube. And your body trusts its origin. It is a child of the spleen. It is your tissue. It is splendid and structured and hungry. So the body feeds it. That’s how you die. Your body is so desperate that this tube survive that it takes all the blood and oxygen away from what you really are and feeds this new child. This lovely tube-shaped wonder. It flattens and expands and floats. It is free. It is alone in you. It is wonderful. And then you die. Not of cancer. The cancer is just starlight. The cancer is a maker. You die of a neglected liver. Abandoned to necrotize like an old city. You are ruins.

So I’m cutting it out. I’m waiting for Y. I look around for a place to do this. I can’t walk far. I walk bowlegged to a derelict car by the dumpster. I will sit with my feet on the ground and my belly hanging. That way when we cut the base it’ll drain straight away. The cut will have to be big enough for his hand to get in. He’s going to have to pull this out.

Y rolls across the loading dock and drops, crouched, on the dirt. He has something in his hand. Before I look I put four oxys and a couple Lorazapam under my tongue. Liver spot on his hand.

“Here.”

Y holds out a box cutter. Still in the package. Not sure what I was expecting, but I guess nothing’s gonna be great.

“Okay.”

Y bites it open and removes the knife. He pushes the small triangular blade out.

“Is this clean?” I take the knife and smell it.

“Factory fresh. You ready?”

I take my shirt off and push my stomach down closer to the ground.

“Now? Here?”

I hand him back the cutter. “No time like now.”

He takes the knife.

“Is this going to kill you?’

He wants to know what happens to him.

“Maybe.”

We look at each other for long moment. I’m supposed to say something.

“If I die, you have to leave town.”

Sorry, kid. That’s all I got. There’s not much else, believe me.

“You ready?”

He’s holding the cutter like it might jump outta his hand. Good grip.

“Ok. We’ll go easy here. Nothing fast or too big.”

I point to the base of my stomach, where it’s closest to the ground.

“You wanna cut here. The full depth of that blade. Then let’s see what comes out.”

He looks at me expecting more.

“If I pass out, this is what I want you to do. There should be lotsa fluid. Let it drain. You can squeeze the sides of my belly to help it along. But easy! Go easy. You don’t wanna pop my guts out onto the ground. Right?”

He stares.

“Right?”

C’mon. I need you in this moment. He nods.

“Say it.”

“Right.”

I look at the way he’s holding the cutter. Not sure if there’s a right way and a wrong way.

“Cut just enough to get your hand in.”

He’s looking at my massive white belly hanging over the gravel. He looks sick.

“Hang on. I should swallow some antibiotics. Pass the box.”

There’s amoxicillin and tetracycline . . . I take three of each, let them turn to paste, then swallow them.

“You’ll have to flush my guts with the hose. Quick though. Like, seconds. That alone’s probably gonna kill me.”

Y squats in front of me. He is very pale.

“Staple it up when you’re done. I don’t know how aware I’m gonna be.”

I tap the underside of my belly and give Y a quick shallow nod.

“Don’t pull the skin. Let the blade lead the way.”

He presses the point against my skin. A bright pain.

“C’mon. Get in there. That hurts.”

I feel a hot throb and the piercing pain stops. He slides the knife across. It feels like fabric separating.

“Deeper, Y. You gotta reach the stomach.”

He drives it in and I feel a blunt pulse until—pop. The stomach wall.

“That’s it.”

It feels like the claw of a cat drawing a line inside. He stops.

“What’s happening?”

Y is staring down.

“Nothing. Hardly any blood even.”

“Do it again. Same place.”

This time I feel no pain, just a bubbling sensation in my lower back. I can hear splashing on the ground between my feet.

“Okay. Okay. Squeeze that stuff out.”

Y’ s forehead on my chest while he milks the mucous from my torso.

“Good enough. Go in. Stick your hand in.”

I look down and see Y’s hand disappear into my stomach.”

“Look for it. Something loose. Squishy. Don’t pull on anything attached.”

Uh-oh. Okay. World of wonders. Goodbye.

The following chapter is encoded. The code however is not available for this publication and will appear in H.A.M.S. Lesson 4. The publisher’s objection to this gimmick is on record.

Not wanting to die is hardwired into every living thing. Part of the dynamic. You remove that and there’s not much more than a couple crazy days left. I don’t want to die. I know exactly what will happen when I do. I’ll be up there. Right there. Less happy. Naked. In full view of the universe. No. I can’t die.

I am unconscious for three weeks. No dreams. No fitful awakenings. Just an anvil-heavy black. My starless mind. My thinking started up rapidly however. I knew I was surfacing as I did, and it
was
surfacing, I could feel my arms break the top. My face pulled up. Warmth and light and buzzing.

We are in the walk-in clinic. I am on couch in a quiet room. A picture of the inner ear.

I lay my hand on my stomach. I can feel the bones in my back. I look down, my wrists and hands sit up like mantis limbs. Thin bones and crispy yellow skin.

The door opens. Y sees me. Stops.

“You’re awake. Okay. We gotta go. Now.”

Y lowers me carefully into the passenger seat of a red Toyota in the clinic driveway.

I find I can’t move and breathe at the same time. I have no strength to ask what is happening.

There are five bodies on the road. A heavy wire has been strung through their temples and fixed to lamp standards. They hang like blood candles.

“They’re doing pick-ups starting past the Foodland. We can miss them if we stick to Warrington all the way out. They see someone alive they’ll kill us and throw us in. These guys.”

Y is driving. He’s big for thirteen. I remember he said he was thirteen. There is grey in the bristles on his chin. An arrangement of bodies on a lawn. Each has another’s genitals in their mouths. They move in small shakes.

“The Seller got everybody.”

A hydro tower. There are at least a hundred people on a long rope, like fish on a stringer. There are random flips of tails and clapping gills. Blood in a bathtub dragged beneath them. The bathtub sits in a lake of blood.

“I know where he went.”

I lay my thin hands on my hips. The points are sharp. My knees are pointed.

“WasteCorp got here yesterday. They’re picking up everybody. Dead, half-dead, anything. They’re tossing everything in.”

The sky is full of vultures and rain. That always happens. As soon as the animals realize the people are dead, they move in. Take over. Rats. Raccoons. Possum. They disappear into the corpses.

“You okay?”

Y looks at me. Impatience. I’m guessing he almost left me to die. Probably did a couple times.

“I’m not doing that again.”

Y is disgusted. He has contempt. I imagine myself thanking him but can’t. My brain feels dry and hot. I have crammed myself into a very small hole up there. To survive.

Y gives me a suspicious look.

“You better not be dead.”

A long arm with heads nailed into its muscles reaches across the road and crumples the roof. I’m hallucinating. Carnival sounds. The feeling that I am in clown makeup. Why does delirium use such stock figures?

“You better show me you’re alive or I’m rolling you out this car.”

I need anti-psychotics. I need to say something. He’s going to drop me into a sea of bodies. I have to say something.

“
Comme ci, comme ça
.”

“What?”

I try to make saliva.

“
Comme ci, comme ça
.”

Y Laughs.

“Really?
Comme ci, comme ça
?”

I nod.

“Well, okay. You’re doing better than you look.”

There is a wide hole all around me. The underside of ground. Red tree roots and broken mason jars. The snipping teeth of mice. Everything needs to dive. Get below. The bones of dogs. The fat death mask of a grub. The yellow plans of beetles and worms and a moon princess.

Goodbye.