splat chapter thirty

SPLAT CHAPTER THIRTY

 

Suzie drove her loaner Cadillac along the secondary roads toward town. The first thing she discovered about her new ride was that it had a cool little computer display she could punch up to tell her how many miles she could drive on how much gas in how big a tank. She played with that for awhile. The second thing she found out was that the air conditioning was broken. Oh well. She opened the windows all the way down, and drove on, sweating into the leather seat. She third thing she discovered, when she got home, was that the right window was now stuck down.

She had car trouble all the way into town. The car started overheating after fifteen minutes of driving, the idiot temperature light came on, and by the time she got to Turner Field, smoke was coming out of the engine compartment. It smelled electrical. Suzie began to resent Nelson for giving her such a shitty car. Where was her car, anyway? She wanted it back. Fucking loaners, every one of them was trouble.

She drove past Grant Park on the way home, and looked at the new construction at the zoo. Old trees, old houses, a very genteel area, the best of old Atlanta. On the corner, inside the park's new chain link fence, there was a sign for condos. Pre-Selling In The High $500s. Suzie was puzzled. Condos in venerable Grant Park?

Suzie drove the rest of the way home with the car making alarming noises. She parked in front of her building on Seaboard Avenue, and got out to grab the right window with both hands and slide it up, mashing the window control with her foot.

The Cadillac's engine knocked for a couple of minutes after she shut it off. She noticed with annoyance that the owner of the car had a Bush sticker on the rear window. Covering the brake light, how appropriate. She thought about what she could replace it with. Bush Is A War Criminal. No, that's like to get you shot. You have to be more subtle. The Emperor Has No Clothes. Maybe too subtle.

Suzie's neighborhood looked like a movie back lot. The sets were there, props, incidentals, but the people were absent, the houses artificial. Trash blew around like tumbleweeds. She felt everyone was hiding behind false walls where she couldn't see them, all watching her. All letting her walk into whatever trap had been set for her. Suzie, just pawn in game of life. She went and peered around the curtains to make sure nobody was observing the apartment from outside. It was very creepy.

It was still daylight out, and it was sweltering inside. It was also musty and pungent. She went around turning the fans on high to clear out the used bar odor. She put on clean clothes, damp and smelly. Real soon now on the laundry, she thought resolutely.

Suzie whipped food out of the fridge and made herself a sandwich with a sense of real satisfaction. She grabbed a beer from a twelve-pack the guys had left mostly untouched, and wandered into the living room.

She was home in time for the six o-clock news. It felt strange to see Whatshername so early in the evening. Her lime green suit hurt Suzie's eyes. Too perky for dinnertime.

The graphics and music come up. The white middle aged co-anchor is missing. Whatshername looks apologetic and mumbles that he's on vacation. Five to ten? Suzie wonders. There's Darius Gray the science reporter filling in for him. He makes such a shiny new shotgun. He's unbearably handsome and youthful. He runs his hand through his hair and shakes his head impetuously, smiling broadly. Suzie finds him annoying.

Whatshername scowls. 'Our top story tonight is Atlanta's traffic.' A graphic comes up of cars piled up on top of each other, with steam and smoke and angry looking drivers. 'It will go down in history as The Big Mess,' she says. The boy wonder chuckles.

A new graphic dissolves in, a cop car bar of flashing blue lights. 'Traffic ground to a halt last night as a series of rush-hour pileups occurred on the downtown Connector, the west side Perimeter at I-20, the top end Perimeter, Georgia 400, I-85 at Spaghetti Junction, and I-75 both at Windy Hill and down near the airport.' Helicopter pictures show massive lines of stopped cars. It's impossible to tell which of the many traffic jams they are showing.

'The Governor declared a local state of emergency, and all interstates in the Atlanta metro area were closed.' The helicopter films empty highways. This picture looks weirder than the shot of stopped traffic. 'The interstates reopened a few hours ago, just in time for tonight's rush hour, except that rush hour was expected to be unusually light because most workplaces were closed today due to the inaccessibility of downtown Atlanta.'

The graphic turns to flames and smoke. 'A deadly pileup occurred on the Downtown Connecter at the height of the Big Mess last evening, killing three people the driver of a minivan that rolled and caught fire, and two people in a car the driver collided with, that also rolled. Seven others were wounded in secondary collisions. While this was happening, drivers in the northbound lanes of the Connector experienced numerous collisions and fender benders because of rubbernecking. Two people were hurt. The victims were taken to Grady Hospital.' The picture is stock footage of Grady, the Southeast's top first-level trauma center, and where you want them to take you when it's a car accident or a gunshot wound.

The graphic becomes a mushroom cloud. Whatshername continues. 'Over on the westside Perimeter today, workers continued to clear the damage caused by an exploding gasoline tanker that crashed into the I-20 overpass last night.' The screen shows footage of men in hardhats and safety vests down in a hole removing dirt. Suzie recognized Javel, from the Club. They had him digging in the dirt. Wow.

'All but one lane of both highways remain blocked off tonight as workers repair structural damage to the bridge on I-20, and a thirty foot crater in a section of I-285 below.' The screen shows the line of drivers slipping one car at a time around the scene, then pans over a never-ending line of vehicles simmering in the heat.

The next graphic is a crowbar raised in anger. 'In a bizarre twist, angry motorists stopped in yesterday's traffic apparently attacked another driver who they claim was driving inconsiderately. Forty-nine year old Wayne Smith of Kennesaw is in the ER at Northside Hospital this evening, with multiple internal injuries and broken bones. His condition is listed as guarded, and he is expected to make a partial recovery. Police made no arrests, and there is no word as to whether the driver who was attacked, might not himself face charges.'

A map of the Southeast comes up, showing the cities and the road network. 'Traffic was affected all over the South today, from Florida to New York, and west to the Mississippi River. Travelers were backed up and forced to detour through Tennessee, South Carolina, and Alabama to get around...' she pauses and they both say it, 'The Big Mess.'

They smile at each other, then the anchor looks back into the camera and resumes with a serious face. 'The total cost to fix The Big Mess is estimated to top fifty million dollars. Atlanta's businesses fear the loss of millions of hours of productivity. A meeting is scheduled with management of area attractions and retail stores next week, to examine the situation and make recommendations.'

The next graphic shows huddled gray refugees in the rain. It says HEROES in bold yellow letters at the top. 'The Atlanta-based crew of Flight 666 is being honored today for their swift and calm action during an incident on the airport's unfinished Fifth Runway.  Brave crewmembers rescued 138 passengers and led them to safety through yesterday's hurricane force winds.'

There's stock footage of an ambulance in front of an ER. 'Some of the passengers suffered minor scrapes and bruises during the incident, but no one was seriously injured. NTSB officials are investigating. Airport officials would not provide further details.'

He looks at the camera for the bad news. 'All lanes of the south end Perimeter will remain closed until the investigation is finished.'

On another channel, it would be a massive story. They were going to have to dismantle the crashed plane and haul it away in order to clear the unfinished runway and the road surface beneath. It was going to take buckets of money, and weeks of 24/7 work to get everything back on schedule.

However, Atlanta airport officials felt it was a terrible scandal. They feared for Atlanta's reputation as the world's largest transportation hub, and put pressure on the news station's management to tone down coverage of the incident. And so the co-anchor putting a feel-good fluff spin on it instead of doing a hard-hitting investigation into construction flaws, or explosive revelations about airport management corruption.

The graphic changes to a runny paintgun splat on a car door. It's red, like dripping blood. Huge black letters say Sniper. Suzie grew suddenly cold. Whatshername says accusatorily, 'We turn to the dark side of human nature, on the other end of the scale from gallant passenger rescues.' She looks at the camera to deliver bad news. 'There was another sniper attack yesterday.' Suzie's ears began to burn. 'This time it resulted in the death of one of Atlanta's rising stars.'

Suzie felt flushed and feverish. She killed him? 'The attack occurred on Georgia 400 yesterday evening, under cover of the citywide traffic jam. An execution style murder, carried out in cold blood during rush hour traffic.'

Suzie felt horribly guilty. 'Police are sure that this is the work of the Atlanta Sniper, but acknowledge that this attack differs from what they've seen so far, and speculate that this time the Sniper may have known his victim.'

Suzie felt terrible. She deserved to be punished. She reached for Alex's cellphone to call 911 and turn herself in.

The screen flashed his picture. 'The victim is fifty-seven year old Jerry Sweat, a prominent and influential lawyer, and founder of Atlanta's own Reinsourcing America program.'

Suzie stared at his face, his rat eyes, his lanky, cowl of death hair. Her heart filled with hate, and suddenly she felt justifying in killing him. She put the phone down.

'The whereabouts of the Atlanta Sniper remain a mystery tonight.'

The screen shows a blurry cellphone picture taken from somebody's car. 'Police are looking for this person.' Suzie felt afraid. It's a skimpy dressed hooker type wearing a Superman t-shirt, cutoffs, flipflops, and a big bag. Her blonde wig is askew. She appears to be on her cellphone. Suzie relaxed a bit.

'Police are also looking for a black Mercedes SUV.' Nobody would find her that way.

'If you have any information, please call the Atlanta Police Hotline at 1-800-GOT-INFO. A reward of $95,000 is being offered for the apprehension of this suspected terrorist, who police warn is armed and dangerous.'

Oh, damn. Suzie sat there stunned. Inside her head bounced several different reactions. Oh no, Jerry was dead. She'd killed him. It was horrible. She was a bad person. Well, he deserved to die. But his wife, his kids, whatever mistress he had on the side, wouldn't they miss him? They'd be better off without him. He was a slave owner, a pig, a white supremacist. He deserved to die.

The argument continued in her head. The side favoring capital punishment was winning. But she still felt bad. She still felt hollow inside. She still felt wrong. She could feel tears starting to come.

'Coming up,' the co-anchor says. 'What the hurricane left behind.' The scene shows cars stuck up to their windows in flooded streets, and rescue teams in rowboats ferrying drivers to the shore.

An ad comes on. Suzie sat and watched it, her mind in a vacant trance. She stared at the next ad without paying any attention at all. She was successfully blanking her mind out to avoid the guilt lurking around her brainstem.

The news is back on. Whatshername looks fierce. The graphic is a pup tent with Terrorist emblazoned on the side. 'Police announced that they've found a terrorist camp in Southeast Atlanta.' Suzie came alert. 'Atlanta Police, acting on a tip, discovered what they believe is the terrorist den of the Atlanta Sniper.'

The scene shows a clearing in the woods. 'Police swooped down on the camp and discovered tire tracks and this hastily emptied encampment.' Suzie's stomach twisted and began to cramp. My hideout.

'Earlier photographs taken by the survey crew who discovered the site showed a firing range and a suspected drug and explosives lab.' Suzie scoffed. They were so wrong.

'Little remains of the den of terrorism tonight, after Homeland Security  agents, the GBI, and local police finished their investigations.'

The scene showed a display of junk Suzie forgot to pick up. 'Among the items retrieved were targets, ammunition, a sawed off gun barrel, and a plastic jug containing a suspicious liquid, which is being tested.'

It was only ex sweet tea. But the idea horrified Suzie.

The anchor continues. 'Authorities questioned residents in this moderate-income section of southeast Atlanta, who were shocked to learn they had a terrorist camp in their midst.' She looks at the camera reassuringly. 'We'll have more coverage of this story as it develops.'

Uncle Daddy. Suzie frantically called his number, but he still didn't answer. She tried his cellphone. She got voicemail.

The broadcast continues. The graphic is a stop sign behind bars. 'In other news,' the anchor says brightly, 'local law enforcement have been having a field day with the new, stricter traffic laws. Recent roadblocks have resulted in over 500 apprehensions, including DUI, license and registration violations, possession of drugs and unlicensed weapons, unpaid child support, outstanding warrants, assault and attempted flight.' She looks completely innocent.

The next graphic is an apple resting on a Bible. 'Next year, Georgia public school students will be allowed to study the Bible in school. Under a bipartisan plan proposed in the State Senate today, the Board of Education will have the green light to approve course materials for a Bible-based curriculum to be taught from kindergarten through the twelfth grade. These classes will teach Bible history, and explore the Bible's influence on literature, art, culture and politics.'

She glances up at the camera. 'Five protestors were arrested and charged with illegal assembly outside the Board of Education chambers following this announcement.

They cut to an ad and Suzie tried calling again. There was still no answer. She got herself another beer and watched the ad.

The scene opens on an expensive lobby. We're looking at a pair of closed elevator doors. The bell rings and the doors open. Fetid smoke pours out. The well-dressed occupants explode through the doors holding their noses. A shabbily dressed old lady stands in the middle of the now empty elevator, smiling apologetically.

Voiceover. A man's voice booms, 'Ah. You've made a social gaffe.'

'Sorry,' she says sheepishly, looking for the voice.

'There's no need to endure the heartbreak of flatulence,' he says reasonably. 'Now there's a cure for nature's little surprises.' She looks quizzical.

'Prevent unwanted gas attacks with new NoventaTM'. She smiles hopefully. People to get into the elevator, jostling around her and turning to face front as the doors close.

'Most people who take NoventaTM tolerate it well,' he continues. The old lady is the only one who thinks the voice is unusual. 'The most commonly reported side effects were headache, nausea, vomiting, dizziness, and drowsiness.'

The doors open, two people get off, one gets on. 'Other side effects include constipation, irritable bowel syndrome, headache, dry mouth, bleeding ulcers, inability to urinate, halitosis, erectile dysfunction, heart attack, and stroke. See your doctor if you experience these symptoms.'

The doors open again and a bunch of people get off. Three people wait to get on. 'The active ingredient in NoventaTM may affect your ability to remain alert while doing normal daily activities. You should talk to your doctor if you develop significant daytime sleepiness or experience episodes of narcolepsy, or involuntarily falling asleep.'

The doors open again. A crowd of people wait to get on. We glimpse the little old lady, still looking around for the voice. 'A small number of patients taking this medicine have developed symptoms of Tourette's Syndrome. If you or your family notice that you have unusual urges to utter obscenities, talk to your doctor.'

The doors open. Again, everybody rushes out of the elevator in a panic, holding their noses, leaving the little old lady alone, smiling apologetically. The voice booms, 'Isn't it about time you asked your doctor about NoventaTM?'

The news is back on. The graphic is a freight train transporting a huge biohazard symbol in a flatbed car. Darius takes the story. He gathers himself up to be authoritative.

'The Transportation Safety Board,' he says significantly, 'today announced a relaxation of safety restrictions that will make it easier to ship toxic waste through Georgia. According to the Board, this is needed to facilitate the removal and safe disposal of the waste, and will also result in taxpayer savings. Environmental groups,' his mouth twists into a sneer, 'short of an actual protest, issued a cautiously worded criticism of this plan, suggesting potentially adverse effects on populated areas. We asked local law enforcement officials, who said that while these criticisms weren't violations of the protest ban, they were seditious, and the groups are currently being investigated for terrorist ties.'

He looks at the camera with sincerity. 'Do the new transport guidelines make us less safe? Tune in tomorrow for our special report. A primer,' he pauses and smiles winsomely. 'All About Trash.'

He stays with the next story, licking his lips and tossing his hair as the panda graphic comes up. It's his debut as co-anchor and he wants to make an impression. Suzie gets the impression he's pretty smarmy. 'New developments in the redevelopment of Grant Park,' he says. And nervous.

There is film of surveyors and construction workers milling about in the red dirt of an ex hill inside the park. 'Slopes are being graded, trees are being cleared, and new roadways are being staked out,' he says, barking out the story, his eyes ticking from side to side as he reads the teleprompter. 'It's all part of the plan for renovating the Zoo and building the new Grant Park Center.' He forgets to smile as he struggles to present a handsome face to the camera as well as read the news.

The screen shows a graphic, the red line of projected visitor volume running off the top of the chart. The co-anchor continues. 'Officials estimate up to three million people a year will visit the Zoo once it reopens. This has led to an expansion of the project's scope. Permits have been granted for a community center, including a multiplex theater complex to replace the ageing Cyclorama. It will also include conference rooms and banqueting facilities, and a parking deck to handle the massive influx of cars into the neighborhood.'

The camera comes back to the co-anchor. On the whole, he's pleased with his presentation. 'In addition, plans have been approved to build a 535-unit live-work complex and shops in the area.'

He frowns like a theatrical mask. 'On a sour note, more protestors were arrested today outside the park's gates, and charged with making terroristic threats.' He turns to Whatshername, smiling. 'I'd like to live in the new Grant Park,' he says enthusiastically. She nods and smiles stiffly. Her family always has a yearly reunion in that park. 

Suzie switched channels. How was she supposed to pass the evening without the guys? She turned to another news channel and found out all about the plane crash, but still there was no discussion of mistakes and corruption. Suzie suspected a plot.

She watched part of a game show. She watched cartoons. She watched the Weather Channel. She watched MTV. She drank another beer. It was really weird not to have a job to go to.

About eight she wondered what was happening at the club. Was Ed barging into the Jasmine Room for dinner, without Jerry? Without Suzie? Would he be lonesome, or would he hit on whatever poor waitress had to serve him?

She tried calling Uncle Daddy again. She really wanted to know how Auntie Mae was, and did they know anything yet about her diagnosis.

She continued flipping through the channels. Around and around the dial. Not thinking about having killed somebody.

She stopped at an ad with a laugh track. It's a Christian ad for a comedy set in the Middle Ages. Skits include 'Excesses of the Catholic Popes' and 'Love Songs of the Inquisition'.

She stopped at a talk show on the Liberal Channel. A woman in a plain skirt and sweater is whining, 'The Conservatives have had political ascendancy since Reagan was in office, and they still see themselves as underdogs.'

Her male guest in a sweater and khakis agrees strongly, 'That's right. They're still complaining about being the victims of Liberal media distortions. But for the last twenty years, the media has been owned and controlled by Conservatives.'

The woman shakes a finger disapprovingly. 'How can they sit there and act victimized when they're the source of so much distortion and ...'

Suzie resumed her cruise through the channels in haste. Those people were too angry to watch.

An ad. A black screen. Red letters appear: Caution. A male voiceover begins, full of authority. 'Don't watch this announcement if you don't need to lose mega pounds.'

The scene opens on a field of sunflowers all cranked up toward the sun. A woman dances by, so light on her feet she floats. Strings swell in the background. A woman's voice comes up, full of compassion. 'New ConstrictaTM with patented Megaoxygel ATa has been shown in clinical trials to significantly enhance weight loss without dieting.'

The scene switches to a podium where an authoritative man points to a chart. He's an attractive silver haired fox. 'Clinical tests prove new ConstrictaTM is the best fast weight loss product available. Period.'

His voice becomes serious, confidential. 'This product should definitely not be used by people who only need to lose a few pounds.'

The screen fills with the silhouette of an enormously fat naked person. He continues. 'If, due to genetic factors beyond your control, excess body fat is adversely affecting your health and self-esteem, then this may be the cure you've been waiting for.'

The scene switches to a kitchen table where a rotund middle aged woman takes two gel caps at the start of her meal. Using X-ray vision, we see them quickly expand into a mass of goo in her stomach. She smiles.

'Discover how full you feel after just a few bites.' She continues smiling, and pushes back from the table, leaving most of her dinner. Her face looks smoother, ten years younger. She feels great.

She cleans the dishes in fast motion, getting thinner all the time. 'ConstrictaTM's active formula, XanthidreneTM, keeps you at peak energy all day.'

She is now working in the garden, raking the neighbor's yards, cleaning gutters, trimming trees; polishing cars, moving so fast she's becoming a blur. 'You'll be so busy, you won't have time to be hungry.'

Finally she slows down. She's now dressed in red party clothes, she's been to the hairdresser, and she's ready to go paint the town with Handsome. 'New ConstrictaTM with patented Megaoxygel ATa.' The voice pauses. 'From Klein-Smith, a name you trust.'

Suzie kept being distracted by the guy in the apartment upstairs. He was making big noises up and down the stairs. She felt very edgy, and wondered in her paranoia if he could be a cop. When the next ad came on, she put her head out the door and caught him coming downstairs with a box. 'Are you moving out?' she asked. He looked at her, like, duh. She felt silly. 'Well, I just wondered.' She went to close the door.

He said, 'I've got some stuff I'm throwing out, if you'd like to take a look.'

She stopped. 'Hey, that's nice. Sure. Yeah, we've got next to nothing down here.' She was suddenly enjoying herself. It felt so good to be doing something other than watching that stupid box.

'Well, come on up when you've got a moment.' So she followed him out to the moving truck, talking. It was just getting dark out. She followed him upstairs. He was nice, friendly, interesting. Suzie wondered why she hadn't noticed him before. His name was Sebastion.

She stood around awkwardly in his living room. Sebastion pointed out a big trash container full of kitchen equipment and cleaning supplies, and headed back out with another box. Suzie poked around and took a few things to be polite. Then she noticed a cutting board and a chef's knife.

'I'd love to have these,' she said as he came back through the door.

'Yeah, sure. That's a good knife. But I'm moving in with my girlfriend and she's got plenty of kitchen stuff.'

Suzie turned back to the container to hide her disappointment. Oh well. 'Want a beer?'

'Thanks.'

Suzie helped him move a couple of boxes down to the truck, and stopped on the way back up for a couple of beers. They sat and talked for a few minutes.

Sebastion asked about their moving plans. 'Oh, we're not leaving,' she said, nonchalantly. 'Not until they throw us out. Then, who knows?' She drank deeply. She didn't want to think about it.

Sebastion shrugged. 'I lived in a squat in my youth,' he said. 'Seattle. It was fun except in the winter. Then I was a rail kid for awhile.'

She liked the sound of that. 'What's a rail kid?'

'People who hop trains. Like back during the Depression. They go all over, and stay in hobo jungles near the rail yard, or squats in town. There's a lot of fat to live on in this country. You almost never have to buy food.' He lifted his can for another sip. 'It's a great life. You're free. Nobody messes with you.'

Suzie was dubious. 'Is it safe?'

'Well, in the traveler world, it's more dangerous for guys, because they fight. And there's a lot of women riding the rails these days. I'd say it's about forty percent women.'

Hmmm. She took a drink. 'If I ever become homeless, maybe I'll do that. You're sure it's not all homeless guys and tramps?'

'Not homeless. Houseless. Houseless people travel, homeless people don't. And it's mostly young people now. Just a few old-timers, and they're like elders. Everybody respects them. And everybody looks out for each other. The only dangers are falling into the wheels, and the railroad bulls.' He nodded wisely at her. 'They shoot you.' He took another sip of beer. 'I'm curious as to why you're staying. Everybody else is moving out. Surely you must have noticed.'

She looked almost blank. 'Not really.' She still didn't fully believe it. The drug dealer two buildings down was there as usual. There were still cars in the complex, maybe even a few homeless guys still hanging out in the parking lot. She wouldn't know.

'No, really, haven't you seen the moving trucks the last few months?'

No, she hadn't. People were always moving. She didn't want to think about it. Being a late riser, like her roommates, she didn't spend any time going or coming. They either were inside watching TV and hanging out, or they were out slaving at their day jobs, or they were asleep. They were the lost boys, and they weren't ever going to grow up if they could help it. If we keep our knowledge of reality firmly surreal, they figured in the backs of their heads, and pretend we don't notice, it'll all just go away.

Suzie noticed a bunch of brochures heaped up over a trashcan next to the couch. She asked Sebastion about it. 'Oh, that's just stuff I brought home to work on. Proposals, mostly.'

'Where do you work?'

'I'm in the graphics department of Big Behemoth Consulting,' he said, as if the name usually provoked some reaction. 'Big Behemoth Inc.' Suzie was blank.

She recognized a shiny brochure, showing smiling, happy people in business suits and uniforms, posing in front of office buildings and industrial sites. 'I think I served dinner to one of your guys at the White Magnolia Club,' she said.

'That'd be Bob Clark, partner. He's an asshole. His group sells this clunky human resources software, and then the client pays $50,000 a week for months getting it debugged and training the employees.'

She looked at another discarded piece of work. It was a yellow banner on a blue background. He saw her looking at it. 'I'm working on this now. My Labor Force.'

She looked crossways at the graphic. 'You know, it reminds me of those Support Our Troops ribbons people put on their cars.'

'Yeah. That's no accident. The client is real patriotic and the partner wanted to hit all the buttons.'

'It should be Support Our Tyrant, you know. Support Our Military-Industrial Complex. Support Record Oil Industry Profits. Support Our Halliburton.' She was starting to sound like a preacher, her voice droning rhythmically like that guy on TV with the Bible.

He must have thought Suzie was being kind of intense. 'You know,' he said jokingly, 'you could be arrested for treason, talking like that.'

Suzie shut up and looked around the room suspiciously. Maybe there were microphones. She changed the subject. 'I've been thinking. Maybe I want to work in the corporate world.'

He smiled. 'Never. We're hapless slaves.'

Suzie shrugged dismissively. 'We're all wage slaves.'

'No, no,' he protested. 'Real slaves. Chained by debt. Chained by the lifestyle. Consumer slaves.'

Suzie disagreed. 'No, real slaves are the convicts who get put in jail and forced to work.'

Sebastion paused. 'Well, there are many kinds of slavery,' he began.

'We all have to work,' she insisted, cutting him off.

'No, we all have to do something.' Sebastion had thought about this. 'Not necessarily work. Not necessarily other people's work. There are lots of options.' Suzie thought about getting paid to sleep late and ride around taking out bad drivers. Too stressful.

Sebastion looked around at all the things his corporate slavery had bought. He would never really consider quitting his day job and struggling on his own. Getting regular paychecks was too easy. 'It doesn't have to be a bad thing, being a slave.'

Suzie thought about it. 'I guess. You don't have to think.'

'Your daily routine is preplanned. You don't have to do any paperwork, like filing taxes or paying bills.'

'You're part of a group.' Suzie loved the idea of belonging. 'You're anonymous.' She liked the idea of blending in even better.

'You get all kinds of benefits, provided at no out-of-pocket cost.'

'Like three meals a day and a dry place to sleep?' She thought of the homeless guys. Lucky them. 'Medical. And HBO - we don't have HBO.'

'They reward you for doing well. Time off, perks. Advancement.' He drank the last of his beer and stood up. 'And it's guaranteed employment.

'I guess you can't get fired.' Suzie got up. That's where she wanted to work.

Sebastion went back to loading boxes onto the truck. Suzie helped with one box, but then noticed the bumper sticker on the Cadillac. It irritated her abruptly. She felt motivated, so she ran inside her apartment and found an old razor in the bathroom.

It was mostly dark now. The sky was smoky cobalt, but no stars. You don't usually see stars in Atlanta. She stood on her tiptoes and leaned over the trunk with the razor, painstakingly scraping the bumper sticker off. She lay there for a moment staring at the scrape marks, wondering exactly what she was going to put there to replace it.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed shadowy figures moving through the alley between apartment buildings. She shivered slightly and looked around. There was nobody on the street, no cars out. Just the moving van in front of her, and a train across the street, going slowly by on its way into Hulsey Yard. Suzie went inside and had another beer. What the hell. Then she resumed cruising through the channels.

She stopped at a Christian talk show. A curtain, a desk, a couch, a white televangelist running to fat, and his trim black sidekick with just a touch of gray. They're smiling and looking pleasant.

'In fact, Christianity is completely and radically anti-democratic,' the televangelist remarks.

The sidekick nods, 'Amen.'

'We Christians are committed to a spiritual aristocracy,' he explains. 'The ascendancy of the Holy.'

The sidekick leans forward, interested. 'What's our first task?'

The televangelist is glad to tell him. 'The first task in the Kingdom of God will be to vigorously suppress all idolatrous religions.'

The sidekick scoffs. 'That's a tall order, since non-Christians still outnumber us three to one.'

'Not for long.' They both giggle.

The televangelist continues. 'Civil law will be rewritten to conform to the Bible's moral laws. God made them thousands of years ago and never changed his mind.'

'Hallelujah.' The sidekick goes on to observe, 'His laws were intended for all nations, cultures, and societies, all religions and all times.'

The televangelist gets heated. 'We're talking about criminalizing immorality of all kinds - blasphemy, adultery, homosexuality. The penalty is execution.' He looks fierce.

The sidekick looks puzzled. 'Infidelity will be a capital crime, won't it?'

The televangelist looks righteous. 'A woman found in adultery will be stoned to death. The same goes for those found guilty of engaging in same-sex or pre-marital sex.'

The sidekick rubs his hands. 'That's thousands of executions a year.'

The televangelist smiles reassuringly. 'We advocate stoning over burning. We'd like to encourage more audience participation.'

'It gets the lesson learned quicker,' the sidekick agrees. 'What else is in store for us in God's Earthly Kingdom?'

'We're reserving all the important government jobs and judgeships for the righteous among men. Men committed to upholding God's laws and serving His people.'

The sidekick piped up, 'And we mean men. Women won't be able to meddle in important affairs of state anymore.'

The televangelist agreed wholeheartedly. 'We're going to stop the feminist destruction of our nation first thing. Women will go back to being the property of their fathers and husbands, or if sold, their owners.'

'The husband is the head of the family,' the sidekick reminded him.

'I know that's right.' They both laugh.

The sidekick cocks his head to ask something important. 'What about slavery?'

'Well, that's a ticklish question. But the Bible clearly states that slavery is a fact of life.' He shrugged apologetically. 'We're only following Biblical laws here.'

'The Bible specifies that only unbelievers and women should be slaves, doesn't it?' The televangelist nods. The sidekick looks relieved.

'Don't forget,' the televangelist reminds him. 'Jesus said he wouldn't be coming back until Christian soldiers had conquered and converted the whole world in His name.'

The sidekick looks dubious. 'How can we use persuasion alone to create a God-fearing society and a Bible-based government?'

'We can't, of course,' he smiles. 'But we've got some influence. We can start by denying citizenship to anyone who refuses to submit. It's about time this country came into line with other countries around the world that have a compulsory state religion.'

The sidekick nods his agreement. 'And what about our foreign policy?' he wants to know.

'We're going to turn our armies into crusaders, and send them out to conquer in the name of Jesus. A righteous holy war. The Muslims had one good idea, after all.'

The sidekick snickers. 'Yeah, and their idea of Paradise sounds good too.' They both snicker.

Suzie kept cruising. She seemed to be running out of things to watch. She paused at an ad. The voice announces, 'Tonight on Tough Love: New Issues In Prison Reform - Faith-Based Prisons. And, The Rising Tide Of Televised Executions.'

We see the condemned, strapped down. He's peaceful, drugged. The shot tracks backwards to the outside of the chamber, a large white metallic box with black glass and a red digital display.

The camera focuses on the warden, his face severe. He steps back, shuts the door firmly, and then with swift, practiced motions sets the timer - beep beep beep - and presses Start with authority. Stirring music rises to cover the sound of the motor. The light goes on inside the box, and the prisoner begins to rotate, strapped to a plastic table.

'Join us live from Atlanta as we showcase a new tool in the arsenal against crime. Tonight on Tough Love, Ten O'clock Eastern, Nine Central.'

A few channels up, a game show is on. Suspect Politics. It has an English host. 'Welcome back,' he says briskly. 'We're ready to begin the $500 level. The category is Orwellisms - New Takes On Newspeak.' He pauses to look them over. 'This should be a quick round. Good luck, everyone.' The camera pans over to three panelists in front of stands. A middle-aged white teacher, a Black lawyer, and a Chinese businesswoman.

'Here's the first answer.' He reads from a card. 'Democracy and freedom are two euphemisms for this basic economic structure.'

A buzzer rings. 'What is Capitalism,' rushes the Chinese woman.

'Right, Wanda.' The woman smiles.

He reads another card. 'The answer. Using political means to keep a client nation in a position of overwhelming superiority, relative to hostile neighbors.'

A buzzer rings. It's the white lady. 'Yes, you have the question?'

'What is the Peace Process,' she says with excitement.

'Good.' He nods. 'Yes. That's $500 to Margaret.' He continues, shifting cards. 'Here's the next answer. It's the exploitation of resources by outsiders, resulting in great personal wealth, but leaving the inhabitants impoverished.'

'Carpetbaggers,' says the businesswoman promptly.

He hesitates. 'No. I'm sorry, that's incorrect. Anyone else?'

'What is Development,' the lawyer says.

'That's right,' he nods to the black guy. 'You're all even. This is getting exciting.' He takes another card from the stack.

'The answer. Huge profits in the insurance and pharmaceutical industries generated by grossly inflated health care costs.'

They all three go for the buzzer. 'That's a close one. Wanda.'

'Managed Healthcare.'

'Yes, you're absolutely right. And that puts you ahead of the rest.' She smiles proudly. The others look resolute.

'The next answer goes like this. Ending health and environmental safeguards that impact corporate profits, while granting blanket immunity to corporations and executives.'

There's furious stabbing at the buttons. 'Yes, Margaret.'

'What is Deregulation.'

He nods and turns to the others. 'You both knew that one, too, I'm sure.' He tugs at his collar. 'It's really heating up in here. Here's the next answer. A state of powerlessness in the workplace, producing desperate and compliant workers.'

'Ah,' he observes. The camera shows their puzzled faces. 'A hard one. Nobody has a question for our answer?' He pauses, then reads, 'What is a flexible workforce.' They sigh. 'Yes, sorry,' he says sympathetically.

He looks through the cards. 'All right. We're down to the final few answers in this round, and you're ahead at the moment. Here's the next answer. Firing numbers of middle management and support staff, to achieve greater upper management profits.'

'Yes, Tod.'

'What is Restructuring.'

'Very good. And our final answer. Replacing the local workforce with cheap external labor as a cost cutting measure.'

'Outsourcing.'

The Chinese businesswoman wins the round. The camera focuses on her. She claps at herself and the other contestants, beaming. The host remarks, 'Tremendous. A wonderful round. We'll continue the match after this. They all wave at the camera.

Suzie was getting tired. Endless nonsense, and still a dull ache inside, and the feeling that nothing was worth anything. She was definitely depressed, but lacked the energy to get up and go to bed. She lingered at a Spanish station for awhile, listening to some vivacious woman in a sheath dress having an animated discussion about something with a homely looking Latino with a mustache and his belly bulging over his shirt. She couldn't figure out what the topic was. Then she nodded off. Then she had to pee. Then she went to bed, crashing into the walls back to the bedroom, unusually unsteady on her feet. Her head spun when she lay down. Suzie never drank six beers in a night..

As she fell asleep, for one timeless moment, Suzie has a vision. She's lying in a hospital bed in intensive care. Her life is attached to the monitors. A pump does her breathing for her. She keeps having crazy dreams, all on the same theme, all just like her daily life. All complicated, never-ending slow nightmares; accompanied by the pssh of the pump and the beep of the monitors. She keeps having to remind herself that her real life is in intensive care, not in these strange, drug-induced dreams.

She slept heavily, weighed down by the beer. Sometime later in the night she had a dream of doors. A room with three doors. One has a witch, one's a clown, one's a monster. Only one of the doors leads out, and she has to choose. If she's wrong, she's just going to have to do the same dream over and over again until she gets it right. So she choses one, goes inside, and kills the clown. Clowns scare her the most.

It was a full moon. Shit happens on a full moon. She only slept heavily because she was drunk, but her dreams were weird and full of emotion, and she kept rocketing up from a nightmare to catch her breath before it started again.

She and her friends are hiding in some urban section of town, with trash all around, blown out street lights, cars on blocks. It's dark. Bad people are after them, and they're scared. Now they're cornered, and the bad guys are throwing Molotov cocktails at Suzie and her friends. She feels the whoomp, rather than hears it. She feels the heat, the burning liquid splattering all over her body, the sizzle of burning skin and hair and bubbling fat.

Suzie woke suddenly, sweating coldly, in the afterglow of her dreams. It's a wonder she woke up because of all the beer, and it's a no-brainer to say that she woke up feeling nauseous with a headache and a dry mouth. Orange shadows flickered lightly on the wall. The fan sucked smoke through her open window. She realized that she was dreaming real smoke, and stumbled up to investigate. She started to cough. There was smoke everywhere.

She identified not one fire, but four. Three in the next building, and one right above her in Sebastion's apartment. Hmmm. She got dressed and took several trips to the Cadillac with her milk crates, the computer, an armful of clothes, her quilt and pillow. She noticed Philip's climbing gear hanging by the door, and suddenly decided she was going to do that tag, with or without the guys. She went back to get it, and threw his bag of gear and his hook into the trunk. Then she remembered her new knife and cutting board, and went back a last time, turning off the lights and closing the door as she left. She drove off with a feeling of loss, and put her hands over her ears as she passed the fire department coming in from Moreland.

She parked the car at the new Edgewood center, then walked slowly back up the street and over to the train tracks to watch the growing destruction. She felt bad, her gait was unsteady, she was weaving. She had to pee again.

The fire had grown fast in the time it took her to get back. They had begun furiously pumping water at multiple fires. The roar of the flames drowned out any hissing, but it looked like the water was evaporating before it got there. The flames were now at the tops of the trees, and shooting higher. The fire spread. More sirens, more trucks, more helicopters and news vans.

Suzie thought about how much trauma she was being made to endure. What else, God? she wondered. It's a well-known fact that you shouldn't ask God what else, but Suzie was still drunk, and not thinking about how God might answer that kind of challenge.

Time passed. Explosions, trembling ground, winds of flame and smoke. Roofs and walls collapsed. Cars exploded in the parking lot. The fire grew higher. Burning debris fell onto oily dirt from generations of parked and leaking cars, and there were tongues of creeping flame along every burnable trail, smoldering and bubbling along the driveway and across the road to the train tracks of the CSX Intermodal rail terminal at Hulsey Yard.

The dried brush at the edge of the railyard caught fire. Then a scrubby pine tree went up. Then trash on the rails caught fire, underneath a train creeping toward Decatur and points east. Then the drippy stuff coming off the cars caught fire.

This was one of the first legal lethal trains allowed to come right through the middle of a densely populated area and strategic transportation hub like Atlanta. The tower knew about the chemicals and toxins on the manifest, and wanted the train to get the hell away from downtown Atlanta. But the operator knew the rules. The train came to a halt, car by car, with a thousand heavy clanks. The fire grew higher; the stationary cars started to creak and pop. Smoke began boiling out and into the night sky, all lit up by the city lights, glowing. The flames made pretty colors. Greens. Purples. Blues. It was awesome.

It was also deadly. Suzie fled with a panicky feeling in her stomach. And explosive. She got to Moreland before the beer rebelled in her stomach. She puked into a brand new trashcan in the new shopping center and staggered off, feeling like a wino. She was shaking when she got to where the car was parked. She wanted to hold her breath in case something really toxic was being released.

The Cadillac's engine refused to catch at first. She felt panic rising from her stomach to her lungs. The starter whined and strained for a long minute, slowing. She felt her heart being dragged like the motor. She felt her throat tightening, her lungs growing wheezy.

It started, and Suzie limped off to Ghetto Kroger on Ponce, and huddled in her quilt under the glaring lights of the parking lot, trying to fall asleep while being gently hassled by stealthy people at her window. A new siren went by every few minutes.

After several hours of this, she started up the engine and wound her way down the secondary roads to spend the rest of the night in the parking lot in back of Nelson's shop, the car threatening to catch fire the whole time. She smelled smoke. Who says you can't take it with you?

 * * *

next, what kind of fool