Rene Gutteridge: Listen

“You’re not going to be saying that when they take over the world and start hunting us for food.”

“Funny. If that happens, they’re going after you first because you don’t even know how to turn one off.”

“Now you’re being mean.”

Frank laughed. “You’d score huge points with Hunter if you showed him you were at least open to the idea of computers.”

“Computers are doing nothing but dumbing down our society.”

“Well, at least you’re keeping the resource department open at the library.”

“You should darken the door of a library once in a while. You might like it.”

“Yes. The Dewey decimal system is infinitely fascinating. Pull up a chair.”

Damien sighed as Frank yanked the string on the lightbulb. “I promise I’m not going to try to sell you on anything. But I found this on the Web and thought it was interesting.”

“Of course the Antichrist is interesting. That’s what makes so many people fall for him.”

Frank rolled his eyes. “No matter how many ways you spin it, www does not add up to 666. Now, stop fearing Armageddon and check this out.”

Damien leaned in. “What is it?”

“It’s called a Web site.”

Damien cut him a look.

“Just read it for a second.”

Damien moved in closer and silently read for a minute or so. “Okay, not really getting it. Is this a blog? Because it seems like endless nonsense.”

“I’m not sure what it is,” Frank said. His tone seemed a little more subdued. “It appears to be people’s conversations. They’re typed out, like transcribed or something.”

“What people?”

“That’s the question. But look at the top of the page. It’s a warning to our town. It specifically says Marlo.”

Damien squinted. “I’ve got to get glasses. What is that type, eight point?”

I have listened to you for a long time now, Marlo. Longer than I should. I have tried not to listen, to tell you the truth. I’ve covered my ears, but your words are like flaming arrows. They pierce through anything, including, maybe, my good judgment.

I have hoped for more from you. I have given you the benefit of the doubt. I have stood near you and watched your faces, hoping to see light. Goodness. Anything.

But there are only words. So many. Too many. Or maybe not enough. I’m not sure. All I know is that they hang over all of you like the eye of the storm. It seems peaceful, doesn’t it? Like blue skies and calm winds?

The storm is coming, and it will sweep you away. The destruction will not end. Even when you call for help, it will not come. Because you have not listened.

My words are finished here. I will not speak again.

From this day forward, all you will hear are your words.

Life and death are in the power of the tongue.

www.listentoyourself.net

“It seems like somebody in Marlo is going around randomly recording conversations and then posting them to this Web site.” Frank looked at Damien as if waiting for him to say something.

“Terrific. I’m going to eat more wings.”

“Wait.” Frank grabbed his arm. “Seriously, this is weird.”

“There is no normal on the Web. It’s where every freak in the world is celebrated.”

“Look, I know you hate the Web. But don’t you think this is strange? I mean, posting people’s personal conversations? Sometimes there are five or six posts a day, and it’s just conversation after conversation.”

“Which was exactly what I was hoping for tonight. Mountain Dew and good conversation with my lifelong friend, Frank, who continues to faithfully mourn his ex-wife every year on their ex-anniversary and then celebrate, with his best friend and a bucket full of wings, the fact that he’s still rolling along.” Damien turned. “So let’s go.”

Frank sighed and followed him upstairs. “You’re in kind of a bad mood, aren’t you? I’m the one supposed to be sulking.”

“I’m actually in a good mood,” Damien said, returning to the couch. “I got promoted to investigative reporter.”

Frank stopped, his hand halfway to the bucket of wings. “You’re kidding.”

“Why would I be kidding?”

“Because you love your opinion and you love writing about your opinion.”

“I know. And I’ll still be doing that. But I thought maybe trying something new would put some life back into my work. It’s not quite as exciting as yours. I don’t get to hang out in school zones and wait for the principal.”

“You heard about that.”

“Surprisingly, news also travels the old-fashioned way these days. It’s called gossip.”

Frank grinned. “It was a fine moment.”

“I wish I could’ve seen the look on his face.”

“Back to your big news. So what does this mean? A big raise?”

“Actually it’s twice the amount of work for the same pay.”

Frank groaned. “That’s just like you, to get excited about something like that.”

“Words excite me. What can I say?”

Frank’s mood dampened. “Maybe I’m not as fond of words as you are.”

“Yes, well, words on the Internet are substandard words, Frank. They’re like the ugly stepchildren of all things literary.”

“Just shut up and take a chicken wing before I threaten to destroy all your eight-tracks.”

Damien arrived home to a quiet house, but he knew Hunter was upstairs by the glow of his bedroom light from outside. He dropped his things and pushed the answering machine button. They had to buy an answering machine because Damien refused to get the voice mail off the phone.

“Hey, it’s me. Jenna and I are still at the game. Went into overtime. Not sure when we’ll be home. Hope you had fun at Frank’s.”

The iron wall clock in the living room said fifteen minutes after ten. He climbed the stairs and tapped on Hunter’s bedroom door before swinging it open.

“Dad!” Hunter shot up, hit his leg against his desk, toppled the chair over, and tumbled to the floor. “What are you-?” From the floor, he reached up to his computer and clicked the mouse.

Damien froze, his legs spread wide, one hand on the doorknob and the other raised like something dangerous might be flying his direction. But no, all the excitement erupted from a speedy entrance into his son’s bedroom. Which caused Damien to instantly think the worst.

It was probably showing on his face by the way Hunter suddenly grinned wildly. “Sorry. You just scared me to death.”

“Oh? How would I do that?”

“I wasn’t expecting you; that’s all. I was… uh… concentrating on something here.”

“What?”

“Some math stuff. There’s a… uh… Web site that we can get on for math help.”

“Need some help right now? I’d be happy to-”

“No thanks. I got it figured out. I was just going to bed.” Hunter pulled off his socks and hopped onto his bed, fully clothed. “So, good night.”

A sudden sorrow swept over Damien. It was unexpected and frightening, as if his son were miles away and he couldn’t reach him. He and Kay had discussed not allowing Hunter his own computer in his room, but Kay had argued that they should trust him. Plus, the kid’s life revolved around computers and technology. Damien figured Hunter would probably make a great living at it someday.

If he didn’t turn out to be a reprobate. Damien whimpered as the word crossed his mind. How could he even think that? He glanced at Hunter, who stared at him from his bed all the way across the room. Maybe he was being too hard on the kid. After all, he didn’t have cold, hard facts. If he was going to be an investigative reporter, he needed to have the facts.

He slowly let go of the death grip he had on the doorknob and smiled, about three and a half minutes too late. Now he just looked awkward or intoxicated. But a determination set in. No, he was not going to let Hunter fade away into the screen-saver sunset. He and his son had always been close. He took a few steps into the room.