The Protocol: A Prescription to Die (2 page)

Chapter 1

To his mother, Betty Lou, he was Evan. Sometimes just simply Ev when she remembered. But he was acknowledged only with perplexed, concerned eyebrows when recognition could only creep towards the tip of her tongue. To most everyone else, including himself after all of this time, he was Eat. He wasn’t Eat because he was overweight.

He wasn’t.

Eat was precisely 73.301 inches tall and had a 31.124 inch waist. He considered himself very proportional, yet bordering on skinny. He had neither six-pack abs nor a chiseled chin. His hair was like his eyes, brown. However, his eyes were not like his hair, curly. When he was nervous, Eat had a favorite pen that he repeatedly clicked and twirled in his right hand.

It was his version of a blankie.

Sometimes he didn’t even realize that the pen was twirling and clicking away. His right hand sometimes had a mind of its own. Eat was discovering that, like others his age, his hair was moving from where it belonged on his head to his back, ears, and nose. When described by someone other than his mother, as she used to be somewhat biased, most would admit that he was rather cute. Sometimes this was qualified with, “in a professorial sort of way.” At 155.617 pounds, he definitely did not overindulge in the verb form of his name. Although yesterday he was a disappointing 155.625 pounds, and he spent way too much time commiserating on the mathematical reasons of his unexpected weight gain. Ultimately, Eat had attributed it to not having spit out all of the toothpaste foam from his mouth at the time when he hopped on the scale. It was the only reasonable explanation; he had made sure to pee beforehand, and had even shaken himself the requisite three times.

Anything more would have been playing.

He was surprised he weighed as much as he did, really, as he tried to avoid stopping work to perform the verb that was his moniker a huge waste of his time. He made exceptions, though, for Cookie Crisp cereal and Hot Pockets.

Why was he Eat?

He was Eat because thirty-five years ago, his parents didn’t stop to consider his initials when they completed the form for his birth certificate and Social Security card.

Evan Anderson Teague.

Eat.

Forever and ever.

Hallelujah and amen.

Growing up, Eat was certain that the name on the placard Velcro’d to the front of his Lucite crib in the hospital nursery had “Baby Boy Evan Anderson Teague” at the top then “EAT” directly below in giant, thick letters enclosed by even bigger quotation marks written using one of those fat, blue Sharpies. Then, it was surely further punctuated with a giant, marker-drawn, smiley face below that.

Obstetrical nurses with a sense of humor.

Definitely an interesting concept.

He always tried to find the bright side of things, though. It was his nature. Eat was extremely thankful that his parents didn’t name him Timothy Ian Teague. He often blushed at the thought of the birthday presents he could have received if that were the case. A Playtex bra at ten. Nursing pads as sixteen. An edible bra made of strawberry Fruit Roll-Ups at twenty.

Eat often wondered if his parents, or at least his mother, had ingrained, psychological issues regarding food and its consumption at the time of his birth. Her initials, after all, were BLT. Believe it or not, although a saint among women, she had trouble mastering the skills to boil water, let alone create the sandwich her initials defined. Throughout their marriage, all forty-three years of it, Eat’s father, Anderson, did all of the cooking except when they collectively said, “screw it” and went out for dinner. He cooked not out of his intrinsic desire to prepare food, but more because of the human necessity for nourishment, and the sheer avoidance of carbonized grilled cheese sandwiches that were his wife’s special delicacy. They were sandwiches where the bread was fried until it turned to carbon, while leaving the cheese inside solid, unmelted, and, more often than not, still cold. It was a culinary conundrum Eat and his father never did solve.

His father was Anderson Charles Teague.

ACT.

Eat received his middle name from him.

Unlike Eat and his mother, the verb that was his father’s initials, did in fact define him. He had the drive and desire to succeed like no other man Eat had ever met. He acted. He moved. He got things done.

Eat missed him dearly.

It had only been a few weeks without him around. Eat missed being able to pick up the phone and talk. He missed being able to bring over a large latte on Sunday morning, fight over control of the paper, and share the most interesting and entertaining comics.

When it came to personal relationships, Eat was not the one anyone instinctively called to positively influence the jocularity quotient at a party. Nor was he the one called for culinary or even the simplest fashion advice, but things were on the upswing. Eat’s name probably didn’t come close to the top of the list of those invited to watch a football game, have a burger, or put down a few beers. Eat was the “tertiary thought” friend, the one that most people considered to invite at the last minute and only because the hostess had a gratuitous sense of pity. When he did get an invite, it was generally a result of a third or fourth round of the “who do we invite to our party” draft pick. It was much like the last person to be called in high school phys-ed, who fidgeted against the wall while everyone else was picked, and then ultimately disappeared to the back of his assigned team, glad that he now had a home.

In the end, it made things easy for Eat. Not being invited made it possible for him to not have to take the time to RSVP. Eat wasn’t trying to be rude, he was just shy. Eat completely understood his shortcomings, and he realized that social interactions were definitely not one of his attributes. He also could never drink as much as those at the parties. Liquor generally hit him hard and fast. He was the typical geek sans pocket protector and black, horn-rimmed glasses. Eat had laser eye surgery three years ago, and was able to throw away his glasses. Unless the interaction consisted of a discussion around the implications of binary data transfers within a super-cooled, multi-processor, computing environment, he, like most geeks, avoided unnecessary and uninitiated human interaction at all costs.

Eat had a gift.

He could make numbers sing. He had designed and built software used by the DOD, DOE, and almost other every federal acronym. His patented algorithms relating to artificial intelligence were quoted, debated, and evangelized throughout the digital world. Put him into a group setting, and he became a mouse scurrying around the baseboards trying to find a hole in the wall to wriggle into.

Much to Eat’s dismay, though, his preferred level of human interaction was about to change.

Why?

Because they had struck first blood.

*

It was a Saturday morning when the war began.

Eat was standing on the banks of the Saint Croix River not far from the Franconia Landing. His father had named it “The Flanding” years ago. The day was significant because Saturdays were when Eat and his father used to go fishing, and those days meant the most to both of them. He wouldn’t have chosen any other day of the week. When he was young, before he moved away to attend college, Eat and his father spent time fishing at that very spot at the Flanding. It was his father’s favorite, and the precise locale, as his father continually expounded, that was home to the world’s largest smallmouth bass, however oxymoronic that sounded. They came here several hours before sunrise on most Saturdays throughout his youth, and would fish until the sun peeped above the hills on the Wisconsin side of the river. Regardless of the activity of the fish, Eat’s father performed the same ritual indicating that he was done for the day. He would reel in his line, close his bait box, pull off his baseball cap to run his fingers through his hair, and then scratch his butt. Next, he would walk over to where Eat stood, put his arm on his shoulder and proclaim that there was a booth reserved at the St. Croix Diner. Eat often thought the fishing trips were a mere excuse for going out to breakfast once a week, and letting his mother sleep in.

“Time for pancakes, Ev. Let’s call it a day. I can already smell the coffee,” he would say as he stuck his nose into the air. He would often cup his palm and push the air into his face trying to catch the wayward scent of pancakes and coffee.

He never once called him Eat. To his father, he was always Ev.

“I love your mother dearly, but you know she can’t cook.”

The memories always brought a smile to Eat’s face. He could remember the soothing sound of his voice, and the comforting weight of his arm on his shoulder.

Eat’s father was right though, his mother couldn’t cook worth a damn. They both loved her dearly, and never failed to let her know. Eat was her baby and, for him, she belonged on the highest pedestal of pedestals.

But that was then.

Things were very different now.

*

As he had done every Saturday for the past month, he stood at the river’s edge holding a small wooden box in his hands. He waited for the sun to make its way over the horizon into Minnesota, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath desperately hoping to finally smell the aroma of brewing coffee that his father always said emanated from the diner a mile down the road. Eat could never find the scent his father proclaimed existed. He probably needed a dog.

The sky was slowly brightening, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. He pulled his phone from his coat pocket, and pressed the button to activate the main screen. The World Clock GPS app showed that the sun would make its presence known over the Wisconsin border and peek into Minnesota in approximately five minutes and thirty-two seconds.

He was ready.

Today was turning out to be the perfect day. It would be one his father would have loved.

The box he held was made of agarwood. Eat had had it custom crafted just for his father. It was precisely eight inches square, and sealed with high-gloss enamel that locked in and enhanced the wood’s dark color. The interior of the box remained raw, and he could smell the wood’s strong, distinct aroma. It reminded him of the incense the church would burn on certain high holy days. The top of the box was held secure with two solid gold hinges, and three delicate, gold, locking clasps; one on each side, and one in front. A precisely centered, engraved gold plate was fastened to the top of the cover with what seemed to be microscopic screws. The plate read in precise script:

Anderson Charles Teague

December 15, 1945 – February 20, 2010

Sealed within a plastic bag contained within the box was Eat’s father.

All three cups of him.

Legal or not, he intended to scatter the ashes onto the river and bury a small amount at the spot they once fished. Each previous attempt he had made, however, proved unsuccessful.

He could never follow through.

He could never bring himself to push the three gold clasps that protected the contents of the box from the outside world. The box and its contents were a connection to his father, and without them he felt that the connection would be lost.

The day was turning out to be no different than his other attempts, and the indecision knotted his stomach as it had every time in the past. However, as if the sun provided the courage needed, the moment it popped over the horizon, he had made up his mind.

Eat was determined to follow through.

Today was the day.

Eat unfolded his director’s chair, and sat down with his feet outstretched towards the St. Croix. He held the box tightly between his knees so he could use both of his hands to maneuver the locks. Reverently, Eat pushed back the three clasps that locked the cover, and gently eased it back on its hinges so that the wooden cover rested gently on the back of the box. Inside was a clear plastic bag. The excess plastic at the bag’s top was tightly wound, and further secured with a wire twist covered in white paper. He carefully unwound the wire to remove it from the bag’s neck, and tucked it into his coat pocket when it was free. Whoever had spooned his father’s ashes into the bag, had wound the bag clockwise. Using both hands, and being as quiet as possible, he slowly unwound top of the plastic bag counter-clockwise until it was open, and revealed its powdery contents. Eat didn’t understand why he was trying to be quiet. There was no one around to wake up, and his father, after all, was already dead.

There were six inches of plastic from the top of the bag to the ashes. Gently, he rolled the plastic’s edge down an inch then wrapped the remaining five over the top of the box. It was exactly what he did whenever he put a new bag into the kitchen garbage can. Eat pulled the plastic tight to minimize the wrinkles, and to provide his hand a clear path to the contents held within.

It was definitely a morning of firsts.

It was the first time he had opened the box since the funeral home had delivered it to his office. Until now, except for the wayward weekends when he’d previously attempted to scatter his ashes, the box had rested on a shelf in his office next to a picture of the two men holding the largest fish they’d ever caught, a walleye. The world’s largest smallmouth bass that his father longed to catch was destined to have a very long life.

It was also the first time he’d ever seen the cremated remains of a human being. He completely understood the process, having studied it very closely before signing on the dotted line on the authorization form required by the funeral home, the state of Minnesota, and the federal government.