George Saunders: Pastoralia

I continue to count the tiles but as I do it try to smile. I smile in the dark and sort of nod confidently. I try to positively and creatively imagine surprising and innovative solutions to my problems, like winning the Lotto, like the Remixing being discontinued, like Nelson suddenly one morning waking up completely cured.

16.

Next morning is once again the morning I empty our Human Refuse bags and the trash bags and the bag from the bottom of the sleek metal hole.

I knock on the door of her Separate Area.

“Enter,” she says.

I step in and mime to her that I dreamed of a herd that covered the plain like the grass of the earth, they were as numerous as grasshoppers and yet the meat of their humps resembled each a tiny mountain etc. etc.

“Hey, sorry about yesterday,” she says. “Really sorry. I never dreamed that little shit would have the nerve to come here. And you think he paid to get in? I very much doubt it. My guess is, he hopped the freaking fence.”

I add the trash from her wicker basket to my big white bag. I add her bag of used feminine items to my big white bag.

“But he’s a good-looking kid, isn’t he?” she says.

I sort of curtly nod. I take three bags labeled Caution Human Refuse from the corner and add them to my big pink bag labeled Caution Human Refuse.

“Hey, look,” she says. “Am I okay? Did you narc me out? About him being here?”

I give her a look, like: I should’ve but I didn’t.

“Thank you so much,” she says. “Damn, you’re nice. From now on, no more screw-ups. I swear to God.”

Out I go, with the white regular trash bag in one hand and our mutual big pink Human Refuse bag in the other.

17.

Nobody’s on the path, although from the direction of Pioneer Encampment I hear the sound of rushing water, possibly the Big Durn Flood? Twice a month they open up the Reserve Tanks and the river widens and pretty soon some detachable house parts and Pioneer wagons equipped with special inflatable bladders float by, while from their PA. we dimly hear the sound of prerecorded screaming Settlers.

I walk along the white cliff, turn down the non-Guest path marked by the little yellow dot, etc. etc.

Marty’s out front of the doublewide playing catch with a little kid.

I sit against a tree and start my paperwork.

“Great catch, son!” Marty says to the kid. “You can really catch. I would imagine you’re one of the very best catchers in that school.”

“Not exactly, Dad,” the kid says. “Those kids can really catch. Most of them catch even better than me.”

“You know, in a way I’m glad you might quit that school,” says Marty. “Those rich kids. I’m very unsure about them.”

“I don’t want to quit,” says the kid. “I like it there.”

“Well, you might have to quit,” says Marty. “We might make the decision that it’s best for you to quit.”

“Because we’re running out of money,” says the kid.

“Yes and no,” says Marty. “We are and we aren’t. Daddy’s job is just a little, ah, problematical. Good catch! That is an excellent catch. Pick it up. Put your glove back on. That was too hard a throw. I knocked your glove off.”

“I guess I have a pretty weak hand,” the kid says.

“Your hand is perfect,” says Marty. “My throw was too hard.”

“It’s kind of weird, Dad,” the kid says. “Those kids at school are better than me at a lot of things. I mean, like everything? Those kids can really catch. Plus some of them went to camp for baseball and camp for math. Plus you should see their clothes. One kid won a trophy in golf. Plus they’re nice. When I missed a catch they were really really nice. They always said, like, Nice try. And they tried to teach me? When I missed at long division they were nice. When I ate with my fingers they were nice. When my shoes split in gym they were nice. This one kid gave me his shoes.”

“He gave you his shoes?” says Marty.

“He was really nice,” explains the kid.

“What were your shoes doing splitting?” says Marty. “Where did they split? Why did they split? Those were perfectly good shoes.”

“In gym,” says the kid. “They split in gym and my foot fell out. Then that kid who switched shoes with me wore them with his foot sticking out. He said he didn’t mind. And even with his foot sticking out he beat me at running. He was really nice.”

“I heard you the first time,” says Marty. “He was really nice. Maybe he went to being-nice camp. Maybe he went to giving-away-shoes camp.”

“Well, I don’t know if they have that kind of camp,” says the kid.

“Look, you don’t need to go to a camp to know how to be nice,” says Marty. “And you don’t have to be rich to be nice. You just have to be nice. Do you think you have to be rich to be nice?”

“I guess so,” says the kid.

“No, no, no,” says Marty. “You don’t. That’s my point. You don’t have to be rich to be nice.”

“But it helps?” says the kid.

“No,” says Marty. “It makes no difference. It has nothing to do with it.”

“I think it helps,” says the kid. “Because then you don’t have to worry about your shoes splitting.”

“Ah bullshit,” says Marty. “You’re not rich but you’re nice. See? You were nice, weren’t you? When someone else’s shoes split, you were nice, right?”

“No one else’s shoes ever split,” says the kid.

“Are you trying to tell me you were the only kid in that whole school whose shoes ever split?” says Marty.

“Yes,” says the kid.

“I find that hard to believe,” says Marty.

“Once this kid Simon?” says the kid. “His pants ripped.”

“Well, there you go,” says Marty. “That’s worse. Because your underwear shows. Your pants never ripped. Because I bought you good pants. Not that I’m saying the shoes I bought you weren’t good. They were very good. Among the best. So what did this Simon kid do? When his pants ripped? Was he upset? Did the other kids make fun of him? Did he start crying? Did you rush to his defense? Did you sort of like console him? Do you know what console means? It means like say something nice. Did you say something nice when his pants ripped?”

“Not exactly,” the kid says.

“What did you say?” says Marty.

“Well, that boy, Simon, was a kind of smelly boy?” says the kid. “He had this kind of smell to him?”

“Did the other kids make fun of his smell?” says Marty.

“Sometimes,” says the kid.

“But they didn’t make fun of your smell,” says Marty.

“No,” says the kid. “They made fun of my shoes splitting.”

“Too bad about that smelly kid though,” says Marty. “You gotta feel bad about a kid like that. What were his parents thinking? Didn’t they teach him how to wash? But you at least didn’t make fun of his smell. Even though the other kids did.”

“Well, I sort of did,” the kid says.

“When?” says Marty. “On the day his pants ripped?”

“No,” the kid says. “On the day my shoe split.”

“Probably he was making fun of you on that day,” suggests Marty.

“No,” the kid says. “He was just kind of standing there. But a few kids were looking at my shoe funny. Because my foot was poking out? So I asked Simon why he smelled so bad.”

“And the other kids laughed?” says Marty. “They thought that was pretty good? What did he say? Did he stop making fun of your shoes?”

“Well, he hadn’t really started yet,” the kid says. “But he was about to.”

“I bet he was,” says Marty. “But you stopped him dead in his tracks. What did he say? After you made that crack about his smell?”