Atticus Lish - Preparation for the Next Life

Her pay was less than it had been last time even though she had worked more hours. She took her envelope to the office in the back.

Look, Little Zou is here. What does Little Zou want? Your pay is wrong? You let me see.

He held his long hand out. She gave him her envelope and he looked inside it.

Why do you say your pay is not correct?

It’s not enough, it can’t be. What about the added hours? To make more, that’s why I came here. You know — she tried to say — there had to be something she could do. Working hard was not the problem.

He let her talk.

May I have Little Zou’s permission to speak? Have you learn the menu? You do not know it. Sassoon say you have not learn the menu. Why not? So that is one. There is two. Two is, the next step is serving on the line. In society, we are one step, another step, another step, another — very orderly. The gentle motion of his large, smooth, long-nailed hand. It is not chaos. He laughed, How can you not understand? I am here, he showed her, making a claw. I am one jump to top of mountain — one jump to sky — to heaven! You think it is real? No. No such thing. One at a time is real. We make small money today, big money tomorrow.

She disagreed, saying that she had been working on the line but that Sassoon kept sending her to the back.

What was the date?

The date when I worked on the line?

Yes. Date, hour. I check with Sassoon.

She was at a loss to give him the exact dates when she had worked on the line. I mean, there was a Sunday. Zhuojin was here.

Zhuojin is not a manager, he said.

What are you trying to do to me? Are you trying to rip me off?

I discover that Little Zou doesn’t really have military attitude. The military attitude: Yes, Sir! No matter what, follow the orders. Right? Not question them. Question, question, I have question — more like Angela. Not the traditional girl.

I do have military training.

Oh, I see. What military training was that? Maybe I don’t understand.

Mrs. Murphy’s door opened and she called down the stairs.

Skinner? Could you come up here a minute?

He went up to her kitchen where she was sitting behind her table reviewing him, her cigarette going in her hand.

I’ve got some mail for you.

There was a letter from the Department of Defense. He took it off her table.

I hear that things are a mess down there. Is that true?

No. Only in my area.

What do you mean your area?

Like my room.

The room’s a mess?

It’s not a mess. It’s messy. It would be fine if I put everything away.

Well, I’m hearing it’s more than that.

What are you hearing?

I’m hearing that the room is getting damaged. There are beer cans all over the floor and it smells like pot. You wanna tell me about that?

Tell you what about it?

That you’re doing drugs in this house.

Not me.

Not you?

No, he said. No. No way. Clean and sober.

I’ve heard that before.

No, really. He pulled his shirt off and turned around, ignoring her instruction to keep his shirt on. Take a look, he said. An evenly spaced line of large red boils formed a train track through the keloid scar on his ribcage and tapered off into purple marks higher up on his shoulders half-camouflaged within his tattoo, left there by surgical staples. You see that? I’m taking painkillers for that.

She put her hand up. Do me a favor, put the shirt back on.

He continued pleading his case as he struggled to pull the shirt back on.

We’re not going to get anywhere talking about it. You’ve been told.

He nodded vigorously.

You’ve been given a warning.

I got it.

She told Erin later, he’s lucky the warning came from me. He’s got smut magazines down there, from what I hear. Patrick would have thrown him out, as in thrown him out.

Smut magazines?

Nude smut opened up right on the floor. And he’s got pills, don’t forget pills. I can’t get down there myself to see this, thank God. Jimmy was the one who brought it to my attention about the pot smoke. So heavy he got a high from walking in the room. He goes, ma, it gave me a contact high from going in.

The women looked at each other.

Yeah. My thought exactly. If it gets his attention, it’s gotta be good. So that’s what’s downstairs.

If you think about it, she added, there is a good side though.

What?

The fact of who I heard it from.

Like as far as?

That it’s coming from Jim. Instead of Jim keeping it to himself so he could have a buddy down there to get high with. Which is what would have happened ten years ago.

He was wearing a brown nonmilitary t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off and he was sweeping his floor. She could see where his army tan ended at mid-bicep. He was sweeping the lightweight plastic broom into the dustpan, trying to get the dust, which was sticking to his bristles, up off the linoleum. His clothes had been picked up, his bags were packed, and the sun was coming down through the grate.

He dumped his dustpan in a Hefty bag he had in the corner. He replaced his broom and dustpan against the wall. Almost everything that used to be scattered around the room was packed away in his two bags — the camouflage duffle and the assault pack. She also noted that the window was open. Was he spring cleaning?

Field day.

I think you are going somewhere.

No. Just neatening up.

It’s very neat.

Did I do good?

You are good, she said. But I think you go somewhere.

I’m not going anywhere.

I know I have to go somewhere. Somewhere far. I always know.

You mean China?

I don’t know. Maybe I go more far. Maybe go to America. Meet a man. A man his arm has the tattoo, tattoo of American flag. A man who sweep his room.

They lay down on his poncholiner together to rest, not have sex.

I was picking up my bags, he told her.

He showed her what he meant, getting up and slinging the bags on his shoulders while she watched from the bed. The sun was going dark and it was getting chilly in the room. He stood awkwardly burdened in this way for several minutes. She got up and joined him. She put her arm around his neck and stepped into his arms and he picked her up and held her. He held all his belongings and her as well for as long as he could while the sun went down.

There was no proof that anything had happened to his magazine except the fact that he couldn’t find it. The last he had seen it, it had either been on his night table or in the john. He was bad about locking his room door even when he left the Berretta at home and it would have been easy to take. On the other hand, it was just as possible he had misplaced it. The only thing he knew was he didn’t have it anymore. It was, or had been, hardcore pornography, before it disappeared.

He unpacked his gear looking for it, wondering if he was crazy. As he pulled his clothes out of his duffel bag, they smelled like pot. He looked at his pills and tried to figure out if he had taken too many and done something to his head, had a blackout. He found another prescription bag of medications with three full pill bottles in it, which he had not known he even had, and set them on his bedside.

He found the letter from the Defense Department that Mrs. Murphy had given him and for the first time he opened it and read it. An army med board had determined that his psychological trauma had not been caused by the war and he wouldn’t be getting any money for it.

Fuck you, army doctor motherfuckers.

He went around the basement motherfuckering them for a long time, talking aloud and steadily, picking things up and putting them down. He was looking for something but he had forgotten what it was.

You didn’t come to work.