Джордж Сондерс - CommComm

Tuesday morning, Jillian from Disasters calls. Apparently an airman named Loolerton has poisoned a shitload of beavers. I say we don’t kill beavers, we harvest them, because otherwise they nibble through our Pollution Control Devices (P.C.D.s) and polluted water flows out of our Retention Area and into the Eisenhower Memorial Wetland, killing beavers.

“That makes sense,” Jillian says, and hangs up.

The press has a field day. “AIR FORCE KILLS BEAVERS TO SAVE BEAVERS,” says one headline. “MURDERED BEAVERS SPEAK OF AIR FORCE CRUELTY,” says another.

We may want to PIDS this,” Mr. Rimney says.

I check the files: There’s a circa-1984 tortoise-related PIDS from a base in Oklahoma. There’s a wild-horse-related PIDS from North Dakota. Also useful is a Clinton-era PIDS concerning the inadvertent destruction of a dove breeding ground.

From these I glean an approach: I admit we harvested the beavers. I concede the innocence and creativity of beavers. I explain the harvesting as a regrettable part of an ongoing effort to prevent Pollution Events from impacting the Ottowattamie. Finally I pledge we’ll find a way to preserve our P.C.D.s without, in the future, harming beavers. We are, I say, considering transplanting the beaver population to an innovative Beaver Habitat, to be installed upstream of the Retention Area.

I put it into PowerPoint. Rimney comes back from break and reads it.

“Innovative Beaver Habitat?” he says.

“I say we’re considering,” I say.

“All hail to the king of PIDS,” he says.

I call Ed at the paper; Jason, Heather, and Randall at NewsTen, ActionSeven, and NewsTeamTwo, respectively; then Larry from Facilities. I have him reserve the Farragut Auditorium for Wednesday night, and just like that I’ve got a fully executable PIDS and can go joyfully home to my wife and our crazy energized loving kids.

Just kidding.

I wish.

I walk between Mom and Dad into the kitchen, make those frozen mini-steaks called SmallCows. You microwave them or pull out their ThermoTab. When you pull the ThermoTab, something chemical happens and the SmallCows heat up. I microwave. Unfortunately, the ThermoTab erupts and when I take the SmallCows out they’re coated with a green, fibrous liquid. So I make ramen.

“You don’t hate the Latvians, do you?” Dad says to me.

“It was not all Latvians done it,” Mom says.

I turn on Tape 9, “Omission/Partial Omission.” When sadness-inducing events occur, the guy says, invoke your Designated Substitute Thoughtstream. Your D.S.T. might be a man falling off a cliff but being caught by a group of good friends. It might be a bowl of steaming soup, if one likes soup. It might be something as distractive/mechanical as walking along a row of cans, kicking them down.

“And don’t even hate them two,” Mom says. “They was just babies.”

“They did not do that because they was Latvian,” says Dad. “They did it because of they had poverty and anger.”

“What the hell,” says Mom. “Everything turned out good.”

My D.S.T. is tapping a thin rock wall with a hammer. When that wall cracks, there’s another underneath. When that wall cracks, there’s another underneath.

“You hungry?” Mom says to Dad.

“Never hungry anymore,” he says.

“Me too,” she says. “Plus I never pee.”

“Something’s off but I don’t know what,” Dad says.

When that wall cracks, there’s another underneath.

“Almost time,” Mom says to me, her voice suddenly nervous. “Go upstairs.”

I go to my room, watch some World Series, practice my PIDS in front of the mirror.

What’s going on down there I don’t watch anymore: Mom’s on the landing in her pajamas, calling Dad’s name, a little testy. Then she takes a bullet in the neck, her hands fly up, she rolls the rest of the way down, my poor round Ma. Dad comes up from the basement in his gimpy comic trot, concerned, takes a bullet in the chest, drops to his knees, takes one in the head, and that’s that.

Then they do it again, over and over, all night long.

Finally it’s morning. I go down, have a bagel.

Our house has this turret you can’t get into from inside. You have to go outside and use a ladder. There’s nothing up there but bird droppings and a Nixon-era plastic Santa with a peace sign scratched into his toy bag. That’s where they go during the day. I climbed up there once, then never again: jaws hanging open, blank stares, the two of them sitting against the wall, insulation in their hair, holding hands.

“Have a good one,” I shout at the turret as I leave for work.

Which I know is dumb, but still.

When I get to work, Elliot Giff from Safety’s standing in the Outer Hall. Giff’s a GS-9 with pink glasses and an immense underchin that makes up a good third of the length of his face.

“Got this smell-related call?” he says.

We step in. There’s definitely a smell. Like a mildew/dirt/decomposition thing.

“We have a ventilation problem,” Rimney says stiffly.

“No lie,” Giff says. “Smells like something crawled inside the wall and died. That happened to my aunt.”

“Your aunt crawled inside a wall and died,” Rimney says.

“No, a rat,” says Giff. “Finally she had to hire a Puerto Rican fellow to drill a hole in her wall. Maybe you should do that.”

“Hire a Puerto Rican fellow to drill a hole in your aunt’s wall,” Rimney says.

“I like how you’re funny,” Giff says. “There’s joy in that.”

Giff’s in the ChristLife Re-enactors. During the re-enactments, they eat only dates and drink only grape juice out of period-authentic flasks. He says that this weekend’s re-enactment was on the hill determined to be the most topographically similar to Calvary in the entire Northeast. I ask who he did. He says the guy who lent Christ his mule on Palm Sunday. Rimney says it’s just like Giff to let an unemployed Jew borrow his ass.

“You’re certainly not hurting me with that kind of talk,” Giff says.

“I suppose I’m hurting Christ,” says Rimney.

“Not hardly,” says Giff.

On Rimney’s desk is a photo of Mrs. Rimney before the stroke: braless in a tank top, hair to her waist, holding a walking stick. In the photo, Rimney’s wearing a bandanna, pretending to toke something. Since the stroke, he works his nine or ten, gets groceries, goes home, cooks, bathes Val, does the dishes, goes to bed.

My feeling is, no wonder he’s mean.

Giff starts to leave, then doubles back.

“You and your wife are in the prayers of me and our church,” he says to Rimney. “Despite of what you may think of me.”

“You’re in my prayers, too,” says Rimney. “I’m always praying you stop being so sanctimonious and miraculously get less full of shit.”

Giff leaves, not doubling back this time.

Rimney hasn’t liked Giff since the day he suggested that Rimney could cure Mrs. Rimney if only he’d elevate his prayerfulness.

“All right,” Rimney says. “Who called him?”

Mrs. Gregg bursts into tears and runs to the ladies’.

“I don’t get why all the drama,” says Rimney.

“Hello, the base is closing in six months,” says Jonkins.

“Older individuals like Mrs. G. are less amenable to quick abrupt changes,” says Verblin.

When Closure was announced, I found Mrs. G. crying in the Outer Hall. What about Little Bill? she said. Little Bill had just bought a house. What about Amber, pregnant with twins, and her husband, Goose, drunk every night at the Twit? What about Nancy and Vendra? What about Jonkins and Al? There’s not a job to be had in town, she said. Where are all these sweet people supposed to go?