George Saunders - CivilWarLand in Bad Decline - Stories and a Novella

“Mr. Doofus,” Benny says.

“Mr. Disappointing Son,” the mother says. “No way will we take him with us.”

“Too embarrassing,” Benny says.

Kenny kneels wet-eyed, blinking madly.

“You must be hungry,” he says to me in a quavering voice.

“You’ll rue the day you put some Flawed ahead of your own mother!” the mother bellows. “If your father were dead he’d roll over in his grave. When I think of all the times I let you suck my breast, I’m disgusted. What a waste of milk. Oh, this is so frustrating! Fish, Kenny, fish, damn you! Get off your knees and bring me fish! I wish I could get out of this bed and spank your butt like I used to. Benny, give him one in the ass for me.”

“Okay, Ma,” Benny says, and nails Kenny in the rear with his foot.

“My sweet, obedient Benny,” she says. “If only I would have had two sons as good. Now it’s off to find a buyer for this disquieting mutant. Chair, Kenny, chair!”

Kenny quickly pulls a wheelchair from a cramped closet and awkwardly loads her in while Benny licks her broth bowl. She pulls Kenny’s hair and bites his arm and curses him for being cavalier about her torso soreness. Finally Benny wheels her out while telling her how saintly she is and what a hard life she’s had.

Kenny sits disconsolately on the bed.

“Boy oh boy,” he says. “Am I ever the guy they love to hate. They sure can say mean things. And they sure do want me to go back to the slaughterhouse. But no way. Because I’m too dumb to keep up on bone load-up. Don’t think I don’t know I’m dumb. I’m dumb all right, and no doubt about it. Filbert put me on bloodsweeping, but that was hard, using squeegees and all. After that came killfloor. On killfloor they make you help them kill, and that was sad. Heck, I like collies. I like to pet them, not wave a pork chop in their faces so Terry can cut their throats. No sir, I won’t go back and they can’t make me. I’ll run away. No I won’t. That takes money. And I don’t have any money. I can’t run away without money because then if I get hungry I won’t have any money to buy food with. So I can’t run away until I get some money. And how am I supposed to?”

Then he looks at me and his eyes brighten.

“Hey,” he says, “wait a minute. You’re worth a lot. I could sell you. But that wouldn’t be right. You’re no different from me except for your feet and all. I can’t do something wrong. That would be bad. But maybe I could. I could sell you. Then I’d have money. But then you’d be a slave. And that would be bad. Because I’ve seen them whipping those guys before. That would be mean of me to do that to you. I wonder what I should do. I can’t do something mean and selfish. But if I don’t, I’ll have to stay here with Ma and Benny forever, and that would be bad for me. I’d be being mean to myself. And that wouldn’t be good. I should love me. I should love me at least as much as I love you. And I don’t even really know you. Hmm. I wonder what I should do, anyway?”

“Untie me?” I suggest. “Let me go?”

“No,” he says. “That would be bad because then there’d be no hope for me and I’d get cranky and sad. You’d get sad and cranky too if your mom and brother were as mean as mine. Maybe yours are, though. How should I know? But if they are, I’ll bet they sure make you sad. And when someone’s sad, they want to be happy. I sure do. I sure do want to be happy. And the thing of it is, if I don’t sell you, Ma and Benny will. No lie. So you’re in the same boat either way. And I’m either really happy or really sad. So there you go. So I’ll sell you. Ma and Benny are walking to Slavetown, so we can take the car and beat them easy. Okay? Okay? Does that sound good?”

Before I can answer he hefts my stretcher onto his back and stumbles out of the apartment. In the driveway is a ploughhorse tethered to an ancient roofless Nova. Kenny slides me into the backseat and stuffs an oily rag in my mouth.

“Sorry about the bad taste of this rag and all,” he says. “But we’re still in Illinois and I don’t want you to blow this for me. Do you know I’ve never even kissed a girl? Do you know I’ve never spent a night away from home? Because of Ma. Because of Benny, that turd. I can’t believe I finally got up the nerve to call Benny a turd. What a big day for me! I wish I could call Ma a turd. But maybe that’s asking too much. After all, she did give birth to me and everything. But maybe someday I’ll just call her a turd without thinking, and won’t that be something! I might even call her some other bad things, but I hope not, because that would be mean of me, and there’s no reason to be mean or sad, now that I’m going to be free as the breeze from those two turds, Ma and Benny!”

Lying on my back I watch the sky glide by. Soon the air smells like river and I hear chattering street merchants and the clang of pots. Kenny ties the horse to a picnic table and takes the rag out of my mouth and loads me into a moldering skiff. Birds come alive on both banks as the sun drops into the river and Kenny’s paddles break the pink water.

On the far bank is a fenced-in complex of trailers.

“Slavetown,” Kenny says.

“I beg you, Kenny,” I say. “Don’t do this.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he says pitifully. “Why make me feel bad just when I’m finally about to do something good for myself? Please be quiet. Because I’m a softie. I’ll do something dumb like let you go. I’m a dumb softie and you could easily trick me. Anyone could. Everyone does. People always have. I’ve taken it and taken it. It’s made me sad in the heart, and that can’t be good. I’m just sure God sent you to me so I could have a happier heart and really start living!”

I frantically tell my story as he rows. I tell about Mom and Dad. I tell about Connie. He sticks bits of life-jacket stuffing in his ears and sings at the top of his lungs. When we reach the bank he calls out to the guards, who wrestle me ashore.

“I don’t have his paperwork and all,” Kenny says. “But he’s definitely Flawed. If you don’t believe me, take a look at his feet.”

“Please, Kenny,” I say.

“Probably it won’t be so bad,” he says, chucking me on the wrist rope. “These folks seems nice enough.”

A few buyers slide down the bank. In keeping with Disclosure of Flaws legislation one of the guards hangs around my neck a poster of a generic naked man and marks both feet with yellow highlighter. Occasionally someone asks to see my claws, then gives a low whistle and moves on as I stare out red-faced at the river. A thick man with long orange hair and bad acne pokes me in the ribs. He makes me lift a large stone and do jumping jacks and inspects my claws with a hand lens.

“Will he have his own bed?” Kenny says. “Will he get lots of time off?”

“Absolutely,” the man says. “Oh my God am I ever generous with my Employees. I prefer to call them Employees. Either that or Involuntary Labor Associates. Name’s Chick Krennup. For this prospective Involuntary Labor Associate, who frankly doesn’t appear particularly strong, I’m prepared to offer you ninety dollars, tops.”

“I was thinking more like two hundred,” Kenny timidly ventures.

“Gasp!” Krennup says. “No offense, but have you been committing substance abuse on your boat? Eighty tops.”

“Well, okay,” Kenny says uncertainly. “Okay. I’ll take eighty.”

“You mean seventy,” says Krennup.

“Oh,” Kenny says. “I thought you said eighty.”

“You’re smooth,” Krennup says. “Nice try. But seventy it is.”

Kenny beams, proud to have been called smooth. Krennup counts three twenties into his hand. Whistling happily, Kenny rows the skiff away.