The School on Heart's Content Road (43 page)

He'll be docked. He may be fired, maybe not. Whatever. Since he started
job two
at the sub shop, there's that funny little overlap—not really an overlap, but the time between jobs has a shape and size into which he has tried to fit things that don't fit, like a quick trip home, or stopping to mail back that pair of shoes that didn't fit his oldest girl, Elizabeth. And now, with Erika working at the day care, and their own kids in the other day care and the after-school-care, this car, their only car, needs to run like a rocket, but
chunka chunka chunka
.

He sits in the car now, in the parking lot of the Chain, staring at the busy glassy store entrance and the puddles, dimpled with rain, a lighter rain than a few minutes ago. Headlights on. Windshield wipers
whapping. Gauges lit in green, yellow, and blue. He is late and getting later by the minute.

But the pressure inside him is worse than outside him. It's like inside him, pushing at the skin, is a muscled thing the size of a man twice his height: arms, chest, organs, all hurting with hardness. He can't fight anymore. He is just turning into a rock. Soon he will be a petrified man.

He has moments of zest, whenever he has worked himself up to put his plan into action. He has everything ready: vacuum cleaner hose, everything. But like everything else he's tried to do lately, he fails. But he is going to do it. Before the week is out he is going to do it. He doesn't have a bye-bye note. He doesn't need one. Nobody will have to guess why this piece of shit wanted out. 'Cause, man, he's doing
everybody
a favor.

WOW! WOW!

The economy! See it grow! See it GLOW. Wow! Wow! See how lucky we are to have a great economy now, after that recession a few years back, which was so hard on everyone. Wow-eeeeee. Grin. Grin. See all the people in other countries living in cardboard. See how lucky
weeee
are. We. We. We. Grin. Grin.

In a major city in America.

Several thousand professional liberal-type people and a sprinkling of labor-union folks again march and rally to show deep discontent. Again, big banners about government corruption and corporate power (one and the same?). Again, huge puppets bow and prance. Again, streets are blocked with peaceful protestors. Faces are smashed into the sidewalk. Tear gas. Pepper spray. Hundreds of FBI, thousands of cops. Cops beating plainclothes cops,
oops!
FBI and cops trying to arrest each other,
oops!
Warehouse doors bashed down again, as in other protests; the big puppets who talk must be silenced! Silence is a must. Too much noise in America.

The screen moans.

Not again? This small group of extremist troublemaking rioters and violent types bothering police . . . throwing tear gas back at police, tipping
over Dumpsters. Why do people keep doing this? Haven't they got anything better to do? See here, an interview with a nice man trying to get to work, but traffic was snarled by the silly protesting violent rioters. Something very terrible could happen with all these blocked streets.

The screen breathes a sigh of relief.

Today, the city is back to normal. Oh, well. Just silliness. The
real
news is that Senator James McVie is proposing another investigation concerning you-know-who in that lust scandal. STAY TUNED!

Mickey speaks.

Doc wasn't at the meeting today. He doesn't come to many meetings 'cause he works most weekends. I guess God is different for different people. I always pictured God to be this big giant squishy white-cloud guy, kinda like a snowman. No eyes. But he could
see
everything, see how everything was going.

Doc . . . I bet if you asked Doc what God looked like, he'd describe himself. Little shithead with fat red lips and mean-looking ears and black hair with a spot of bald on top—small spot. Hair looks wet. Eyes brown and bulgy. No beard. Just face.

Rex doesn't get tough with Doc. Not like you see him do with Willie. I wish he did. I don't like it that maybe Rex likes Doc. I want him to think Doc's a problem. I can't tell what goes on in Rex's brain. Except for Willie and Rex's brother, the teacher, Rex doesn't talk about people much. He's all business, all militia. That's okay. I don't give a shit. I just wish he'd give a sign that Doc's brain ain't like his brain.

Okay, so I ain't all for queers . . . you know, the queer thing. Men and men. Women and women. But I don't spend a lot of time thinking about it. Who gives a shit? As long as they use their own sheets. And then, with Doc, it's abortions and rock 'n' roll and movies with sex and divorced women and—oh, yes—welfare people. Doc wants all these people crucified. I mean it. He said he wants them
nailed
to crosses in the middle of town so everybody can walk by and learn from this.

He says the Constitution will make this possible. I'm not real good reading the kind of words that are in the Constitution, but this other guy, Art, he's got all the amendments memorized and . . . you know . . . like some people tell jokes, he tells amendments. None so far say anything about crosses.

You won't see me argue with Doc. I don't say anything to him, not even “Hi.” Nobody argues with him. In fact, nobody argues at meetings. Sometimes there's quiet spots where I think someone is pissed at somebody. And I know there's talk behind backs, a
lot
of talk behind backs. Rex is probably the only one that don't talk behind backs.

Anyway, so Doc also likes to say God wants the
fags
and
whores
and
liberals
and all people of
false religion,
especially Jews, to die bad, to die slow. And he says, if we don't do God's will, God will be mad at us, that leaving these people to their own sin makes us sinners too. Makes us
cohorts.
So we gotta stop them.

Makes me nervous. I start feeling like . . . like he might think
I'm
a fag, and every time I move I think he's watching me with his bulgy mean eyes to see if I do something faggish. Like I say, I never thought much about those kinda guys before, but now I think about them . . . how I gotta be sure I don't make some impression like I'm a fag supporter. I just don't think God gives a shit about those kind of guys one way or the other. After all, God made them. If God is so perfect, then he doesn't make mistakes, so fags aren't mistakes. They're just . . . you know . . . weird. If God is really just a big cloud man, snowman or somethin', he probably thinks
all
the ways
all
people do sex looks pretty hilarious.

Anyway, Doc wasn't at today's meeting. We are planning a buncha things. Like the food drive, which involves the Maine Militia too, which is upstate. And maybe we're gonna meet with the White Mountain Militia. I ain't met any of those guys in New Hampshire yet. We also've got plans to do a winter survival bivouac after Christmas—a weekend, maybe three days. We went to the preparedness expo in Bangor last weekend, so we had to talk about that.

Finally, when the meeting was fizzing out—two guys were asleep—Rex announces that nine Settlement guys are joining our militia officially, including Gordon and his son Cory, who I met. He looks like an Indian or Japanese, but I'd say Indian.

Rex then said it again that we ought to all go up to the Settlement at some point to see their shortwave setup, which is better than Willie's. When it's ready, they can do a pretty good radio show. I figure it'll be a good opportunity to see the Prophet's wives up close. I wonder if Samantha is one of them. Bree, the one with the stretched face, was acting horny over him, I think. It's going to be like going to a circus. Man.

The screen philosophizes.

Without me, you would be cut off. With events, I am on top. And I am fast. Without me, you'd be lost. Without me, there is shame, a low score for you, so to speak. An F in staying abreast.

Mickey speaks.