Dave Eggers - Your Fathers, Where Are They? And the Prophets, Do They Live Forever?

— I’m sorry.

— Okay. I can see how you see all this. How you see me. But this is just the transitional stage. The pupal stage.

— And then what? You become a butterfly.

— No. Maybe. You know what I mean. We’re trapped right now, both of us, but we can be free. Hold on. Hear that? It sounded like voices.

— You have to know you’ll be caught. I don’t want you dead.

— What’s that supposed to mean?

— There’s a part of me that thinks that’s the proper and right result of all this. Somehow it seems the only way this can end. But maybe that’s just because I read a lot of westerns.

— Why would a woman who walks the beach with a Labradoodle read westerns?

— For one thing, my people have been living out here since 1812. So when I read westerns, I feel like they’re talking about me. The stories tell me how to live. And in those stories, people like you either get hanged or get shot. I’ve come to feel some comfort and satisfaction when that happens. I don’t know if that’s right, or if I’d feel right if that happened to you. But I’m pretty sure it will.

— I have a different plan.

— I bet you do. But I doubt it’s such a good plan.

— No, it’s a very good plan.

— You plan to kill yourself.

— No. But I am dying.

— You’re not dying.

— Of course I’m dying.

— You didn’t say anything about dying. What are you dying of?

— I’m dying. Leave it at that.

— Well, I’m sorry.

— It’s okay.

— That explains a lot.

— Now you understand.

— If I had a limited time to live, I might do something radical.

— We can be together till I go.

— No.

— I find that heartless.

— It’s not heartless.

— Especially given you’re dying, too.

— I’m not dying.

— Of course you are. We all are.

— Oh Jesus. So you’re not sick.

— We’re declining, don’t you see that? The second we reach adulthood we begin dying. There’s nothing more obvious than that. You might live on and on till you’re some doddering ghost but I’m thirty-four and Don’s dead, and my father was forty-one when he left this world. This is my last chance.

— And what if it isn’t?

— That would be horrific.

— Existing beyond thirty-four would be horrific.

— Existing, period — this is what drives men to irrational acts. You know this? I used to worry about something happening to me. That I’d be killed in my sleep by some intruder. That I’d be mugged, maimed, drafted, killed. And then the years went by and none of that happened, and what filled that void was far worse.

— I don’t understand that.

— You don’t know what it’s like to be a man over thirty who’s never had anything happen to him. You spend so many years trying to stay safe, stay alive, to avoid some unknown horror. Then you realize the horror is existence itself. The nothing-happening.

— You were bored.

— I wasn’t bored . I was dying. I am dying. But this week was different. There was alignment and order and a coming-to.

— I don’t know what to say to that.

— You know this land we’re on? Twenty-eight thousand acres of buildings like this. Everything crumbling. They’ve left a thousand of these buildings rotting in the wind. No one has a clue what to do next. This vast military base and it’s just decaying on the edge of the country. There’s no plan for all this. No plan for anything. I found a yearbook for this place — it must have been from the late fifties. Company D, Third Battalion, Third Brigade. And on the cover of this yearbook is a picture of a soldier in a foxhole, watching something explode. They got right to the point: Young men, come and blow things up . It felt right. I felt at home.

— So join the Army.

— Sara, do you ride horses?

— When?

— Anytime.

— Yes.

— On the beach?

— Have I ridden a horse on the beach? Yes.

— Did they let you gallop?

— Did who let me gallop?

— Whoever makes the rules. I don’t know.

— Sure. I gallop.

— You gallop on a horse on the beach?

— Sure.

— Was it good?

— Yes, it’s good.

— It always looked good. Is it hard?

— It takes some practice.

— You learned it yourself?

— I took lessons when I was a kid.

— And they let you gallop then?

— When I was young?

— When you were young.

— Yes.

— I’ve been on horses but we always have to walk around. It’s so meaningless. The horse hates it, and it’s so slow, and we just walk around and everyone sweats. And each time I asked if we could gallop and they always said no, no. Insurance liability, you’ll get hurt, blah blah. But there’s no point in walking around on top of a horse. It gives no pleasure to anyone. The only point is galloping.

— But it takes a while. A lot of practice.

— How long?

— Till they let you gallop? A while.

— See, no one told me that. If someone had explained the steps, I would have had a chance.

— No offense, Thomas, but my guess is you’re inclined toward shortcuts.

— Because I want to get on a horse and gallop?

— Yes. You see something and you want it. But you don’t want to do any of the steps to get there.

— And whose fault is that?

— I’m guessing someone else’s?

— No one told me the steps.

— The steps? No one told you to work hard?

— I had no role models.

— Oh Jesus Christ. Stop.

— So you’re saying it’s about hard work and follow-through and patience and all that shit.

— I guess that’s what I’m saying.

— And what good does that do? You know the astronaut I have over there? Eighteen years of work and preparation and doing all the shit he’s supposed to do, and where is he?

— He’s shackled to a post, I’m guessing.

— Okay, but in general, where is he? He’s supposed to be on the Shuttle, but he’s still picking his ass, waiting to maybe ride on a Russian rocket to some hamster wheel in space. All the things he worked for no longer exist.

— But it would all be better if you could gallop.

— It could be.

— And where would you go?

— I don’t know.

— Thomas, we all get what we work for. Maybe there’s some variation, but still. I worked nine years to be a vet and wanted to work in Boulder. I’m a vet and I work in Monterey. You see what I’m saying? Your friend wanted to be an astronaut and he’s an astronaut. Maybe he’s going on a different spaceship. So what?

— If you knew anything about the Shuttle you wouldn’t say that. There’s a big difference between a reusable spacecraft that can land and maneuver, and a stupid fuck-all stationary space kite like the ISS. Sara, I just want to get something I want. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten any significant thing I wanted. You have no idea how weird it is to envision things and have them come to nothing. No vision has ever come true, no promise has ever been kept. But then there was you, and you were the promise that would obliterate all the disappointments of the past. Everything about you insisted on it. Your color, your hair, the way light projects from every part of you. You were the sun that would burn away all the putrid broken promises of the world.

— I wasn’t that.

— I know that now.

— The helicopters are getting louder. They found you.

— They found us. You know, I really don’t want to be caught.

— Thomas, please let me live.

— I’m not going to hurt you. Wow, they are really getting close.

— Okay. Let’s go.

— What? What do you mean?