Nicholson Baker - Checkpoint

BEN: It hurts.

JAY: I can’t stand it, Ben! I can’t! I have to do something! You hear the man giving one of his radio addresses, and he has that way he has of slurring his words, as if he’s drunk but he’s not—“Housing sales are at an all-time high”—and you think of the war in the streets over there and of him tearing down what’s left of the country, and you feel murderous, just MURDEROUS!

BEN: Feel murderous, by all means. Rage inwardly. Just don’t actually attempt the murder. That’s the dividing line.

JAY: Okay, well, I’m crossing it.

BEN: He’s a person, try to remember that. A person’s a person, as the good doctor said. He’s a human being.

JAY: No, he’s not, he’s forfeited that status.

BEN: He really hasn’t. He’s got that sudden smile that he makes when he’s answering a question. Have you seen it? It looks like he’s not sure how he’s going to finish the sentence, and there’s a second of panic, his brow furrows, and then — ah! — he thinks of a word that he can plug in there. A big presidential word. He says it, and he flashes that childish smile of relief. It’s a little moment of pride—“I made it, guys.”

JAY: I see fear in his look sometimes. He knows what he’s done.

BEN: I don’t really think he does know, but he may sometimes have an inkling of how lost he is, how utterly at sea. So why’d you come here, Jay? To kill this person?

JAY: Why should he have a couple of hundred Secret Service men protecting him? Why does he deserve rocket launchers on his roof? Who was protecting those people in the Land Rover?

BEN: Nobody was. Nobody.

JAY: I can’t understand why this outlaw, this FELON, who’s killed something like twelve thousand people, should be alive when those girls are dead. It’s just wrong. Not only is he alive, he’s served coffee in special little fancy china cups, he’s flown around in a big airplane with a living room in it, he’s treated with round-the-clock, shit-eating deference! Reporters are out there in the Rose Garden: “Mr. President? Oh, Mr. President? Tootle-ooh!” It’s got to stop.

BEN: Where’s this hammer of yours?

JAY: Under the comforter.

BEN: I don’t see it.

JAY: Other side. Just fold it back.

BEN: Nice hammer.

JAY: Made in Brazil, do you see that?

BEN: Interesting. Yes, it’s just as I thought.

JAY: What?

BEN: This is a special voodoo hammer.

JAY: Don’t mess around, man. I’m not in the mood.

BEN: Bear with me. Let’s take George W.’s picture from the box of bullets and place it faceup on a cushion. Like so. Where did you get the picture, by the way?

JAY: I got it off the White House website. It’s an official photo.

BEN: Of course he’s wearing the little flag pin.

JAY: Oh, that flag pin, it infuriates me. Rrrrr!

BEN: Now, this hammer is known as the Brazilian Mojo Hammer of Justice. Whatever harm you inflict upon an evildoer’s image with this hammer will also be visited upon the evildoer himself.

JAY: I see. Okay.

BEN: So take a good smart whack at his forehead with it. Go on.

JAY: Just lay it on him?

BEN: Yes, put him out of his misery. He needs it. He needs that hammerblow in the middle of his forehead.

JAY: I’m a little hesitant.

BEN: Why?

JAY: I’m scared to do it!

BEN: Just lift the hammer. Good. Now when you bring it down, put your whole strength into it. Really kill him. Ready? Now, GO!

JAY: HHHHHHHRRRRRRAAAAAAAGH! [ Flump! ]

BEN: And again?

JAY: DAMMIT! [ Flump! ] BASTARD! [ Flump! ] RRRRRRRRAAAAGH! [ Flump! ]

BEN: Okay, okay. Wow. So how do you feel now? Any better?

JAY: No, I don’t think so. Well, maybe I do. Actually I do feel a little better. Whoooo! Heh heh heh. For a second I almost felt like I was killing him. I really did, and I even felt sorry for him when I was killing him, that’s the sick thing. He kept on smiling through it. His tie didn’t budge.

BEN: No harm done to the cushion, I hope?

JAY: No, the picture’s a bit torn, but that’s to be expected. Whew, I’m a wreck.

BEN: See that? The only way to find out that you’re not a killer is by killing the guy.

JAY: Yeah, but let’s face it, all I really did was attack a picture. That’s not justice. He’s still wearing his flag pin every day. I want the man to crawl on his hands and knees down the streets of Baghdad saying, “I am so sorry, folks. I am so sorry that I put you through this. Just because I’m a reformed alcoholic and I needed a little war buzz, I destroyed your country, and I killed your families. And I am so fucking profoundly sorry for that.” That’s what he has to say. I won’t rest till he says it. That will be true justice.

BEN: He can’t very well say it if you’ve assassinated him, can he?

JAY: Hmm. That’s an excellent point.

BEN: Where’s your gun? Or do you not have one?

JAY: I told you I had a gun.

BEN: Tell me where it is, then.

JAY: The gun?

BEN: Yeah. Where is it?

JAY: It’s in the closet.

BEN: Where?

JAY: Under the extra pillow.

BEN: Jesus, Jay, this is a gun!

JAY: I know.

BEN: Okay, listen, you freak, we’re going to check out of here.

JAY: I can’t, I’ve got all my stuff unpacked.

BEN: Pack it back up. Right now. Let’s go. We’re going to get out of Washington. This place isn’t healthy for you.

JAY: I have a mission.

BEN: Your mission is over. Now move it, or I’ll — I’ll shoot you in the leg.

JAY: You’re not capable of that.

BEN: Don’t push me, I’ve had a very long afternoon. We’re going to bury this gun somewhere. Ugh, it’s got my fingerprints all over it. We’re going to bury the bullets, too. And the hammer. We’re going to get you home, you demented bum, we’ll get you a chair, you can sit outside in the chair, I’ll lash you to it, you can take your shoes off, put your feet in the grass. It’s beautiful outside! I’ll show you my camera. Now get packing!

JAY: Are you sure you don’t want to take a little walk with me while we’re in town? See the sights?

BEN: No.

JAY: We should at least drive by the White House. I could show you where I marched.

BEN: Absolutely not.

JAY: How about Dick Cheney’s house? The vice presidential mansion, in all its stateliness. Hmmmmm?

BEN: No! Now pack up. And let’s turn that thing off now.

JAY: You sure?

BEN: Really. Off. OFF.

JAY: All right, all right, all right, here we go. Over and out.

[ Click. ]

Nicholson Baker was born in 1957 and attended the Eastman School of Music and Haverford College. He has published six previous novels— The Mezzanine (1988), Room Temperature (1990), Vox (1992), The Fermata (1994), The Everlasting Story of Nory (1998), and A Box of Matches (2003) — and three works of nonfiction, U and I (1991), The Size of Thoughts (1996), and Double Fold (2001), which won a National Book Critics Circle Award. He lives in Maine with his wife and two children.