Джордж Сондерс - CommComm

It starts to flurry. Giff’s been at the grave with a shovel. So far, it’s just the top of the jockey’s head sticking out, and part of the enclodded guy’s foot.

“Wow,” I say.

“Wow is correct,” Rimney says.

“Thanks be to Scouts,” Giff says. “See? Footprints galore. Plus tire tracks. To me? It’s like a mystery or one of those deals where there’s more than meeting the eyes. Because where did these fellows come from? Who put them here? Why did your office smell so bad, in an off way similar to that gross way that hand smelled? In my logic? I ask, Where locally is somewhere deep that’s recently been unearthed or dug into? What I realized? The Dirksen. That is deep, that is new. What do you think? I’ll get with Historical tomorrow, see what used to be where the Dirksen is at now.”

I helped Rimney get Val home from the hospital after the stroke, watched the two of them burst into tears at the sight of her mechanical bed.

He looks worse than that now.

“Fuck it. I’m going to tell him, trust him. What do you think?” he says.

My feeling is no, no, no. Giff’s not exactly the King of Sense of Humor. Last year, I was the only non-church person at his Christmas party. The big issue was, somebody on Giff’s wife’s side had sent their baby a stuffed DevilChild from Hell from the cartoon “HellHood.” The DevilChild starts each episode as a kindly angel with a lisp. Then something makes him mad and he morphs into a demon and starts speaking with an Eastern European accent while running around stabbing uptight people in the butt with a red-hot prod.

“As for me and my house, this little guy has no place here,” Giff had said. “Although Cyndi apparently feels otherwise.”

Cyndi I would describe as pretty but flinchy.

“Andy doesn’t see it as the Devil,” she said. “He just likes it.”

“Well, I do see it as the Devil,” Giff said. “And I don’t like it. And here in this house a certain book tells us the role of the father/husband. Am I right?”

“I guess so,” she said.

“You guessing so, like Pastor Mike says, is symptomatic of your having an imperfect understanding of what the Lord has in mind for our family, though,” he said. “Right? Right, Pastor Mike?”

“Well, it’s certainly true that a family can only have one head,” said a guy in a Snoopy sweater who I guessed was Pastor Mike.

“O.K., tough guy,” Cyndi said to Giff, and stomped off, ringing the tree ornaments.

I can see Giff’s wheels turning. Or trying to. He’s not the brightest. I once watched him spend ten minutes trying to make a copy on a copier in the Outer Hall which was unplugged and ready for Disposal.

“Wait, are you saying you guys did this?” he says.

Rimney says Giff has a wife, Giff has a baby — would a transfer to the Dirksen be of interest? Maybe Giff’s aware that he, Rimney, knows somebody who knows somebody?

“Oh, my gosh, you guys did do it,” Giff says.

He lets the shovel fall and walks toward the woods, as if so shocked he has to seek relief in the beauty of nature. Out in the woods are three crushed toilets. Every tenth bush or so has a red tag on it, I have no idea why.

“All’s I can say is wow,” Giff says.

“They’re dead, man,” Rimney says. “What do you care?”

“Yes, but who was it shaped these fellows?” says Giff. “You? Me? Look, I’m going to speak frank. I think I see what’s going on here. Both you guys took recent hard hits. One had a wife with a stroke, the other a great tragic loss of their parents. So you got confused, made a bad call. But He redeemeth, if only we open our hearts. Know how I know? It happened to me. I also took a hard hit this year. Because guess what? In terms of my wife? I’m just going to say it. Our baby is not my baby. Cyndi had a slipup with this friend of ours, Kyle. I found out just before Christmas, which was why I was such a fart at our party. That put me in a total funk — we were like match and gas. I was so mad there was a darkness upon me. Poor thing had bruises all up her arms, due to I started pinching her. In her sleep, or sometimes I would get so mad and just come up quick and do it. Then, January tenth, I’d had enough, and I prayed, I said, ‘Lord, I am way too small, please take me up into You, I don’t want to do this anymore.’ And He did it. I dropped as if shot. And when I woke? My heart was changed. All glory goes to Him. I mean, it was a literal release in my chest. All my hate about the baby was gone and all of a sudden Andy was just my son for real.”

“Nice story,” says Rimney.

“It’s not a story. It happened to me for real in my life,” says Giff. “Point is? I had it in me to grow. We all do! I’m not all good, but there’s a good part of me. My fire may be tiny, but it’s a fire just the same. See what I mean? Same like you. Do you know that good part? Have you met it, that part of you that is all about Truth, that is called, in how we would say it, your Christ-portion? My Christ-portion knew that pinching was wrong. How does your Christ-portion feel about this sneaky burial thingy? I mean honestly. In a perfect world, is that what you would have chose to do?”

This catches me a little off guard.

“Is this where I go into a seizure and you heal me by stroking my dick?” Rimney says.

Giff blinks at this, turns to me.

“Think these things up in your heart,” he says softly. “Treasure them around. See what it is. Then be in touch, come to our church, if you want. I am hopeful that you will come to your Truth.”

Suddenly my eyes tear up.

And I don’t even know why.

“This is about my wife, jackass,” says Rimney.

“‘Do what’s right, come what may,’“ Giff says. “That’s what it says on all our softball sweatshirts, and I believe it. And on the back? ‘Say no thanks to Mr. Mere Expedience.’ Good words for you, friend.”

Rimney’s big. Once when mad he smacked the overhang on the way to Vending and there’s still a handprint up there. Once he picked up one end of the photocopier so Mrs. Gregg could find her earring, and a call came in and he had this big long conversation with Benefits while still holding up the copier.

“Cross me on this, you’ll regret it,” he says.

“Get thee behind me,” says Giff.

So, a little tense.

My phone rings. Ms. Durrell again. She’s got a small vocal outraged group coming at four to eat her alive. Where the hell am I? Those dioxin books? Had something to do with a donkey, “Donkey Dioxin, Who Got the Job Done”? Or it was possibly an ape or possum or some such shit? She remembers a scene at the end with some grateful villagers, where the ape/possum/donkey/whatever gave the kids a ride, and also the thing came with a CD?

“Go,” Rimney says. “Elliot and I will work this out.”

By the time I get the books out of Storage and over to Environmental it’s after five.

I clock out, race home through our wincing little town. Some drunks outside the Twit are heaving slushballs up at the laughing neon Twit. Blockbuster has a new program of identifying all videos as either Artsy or Regular. Two beautiful girls in heels struggle down to the banks of the Ottowattamie, holding each other up. Why are they going down there? It’s dusk and that part of the river’s just mud and an old barge.

I wish I could ask them but I don’t have time. When I’m late Mom and Dad race around shouting, “Where? Where? Where?” It always ends in this bitter mutual crying. It’s just one of their things. Like when it rains, they go up to the ceiling and lie there facing up. Like when feeling affectionate, they run full speed toward each other and pass through, moaning/laughing.

The night of the Latvians I was out with Cleo from Vehicles. We went parking, watched some visiting Warthogs practice their night-firing. Things heated up. She had a room on the side of a house, wobbly wooden stairs leading up. Did I call, say I’d be late, say I might not be back at all? No, I did not. Next morning I came home, found the house taped off. For the body locations, the cops didn’t use chalk. There was just a piece of loose-leaf on the stairs labelled “Deceased Female” and one on the kitchen floor labelled “Deceased Male.”