James Hynes - Kings of Infinite Space

Honest to God, Paul thought, I’m never drinking Glenlivet again.

“But what could I bring them from the world above that had thrown them away and forgotten them?” Stanley Tulendij went on. “What does a lost man want more than he wants food or shelter or woman?”

Dream or not, Paul thought, here’s hoping the answer isn’t “tech writers” or “failed English professors.”

“Work,” said Stanley Tulendij tremulously. “A place in the world. A reason to live.” He squeezed Paul’s hand to the point of pain. “And what do they offer their comrades in the world above?”

“Freedom,” breathed Colonel.

“Amen,” said Bob Wier.

“Fuckin’ A,” said J.J.

The other men were all crowded around Paul now, looming at him in the lantern light. Okay, Paul told himself, if I’m dreaming the figures in the creek bed, then I’m dreaming these guys, too.

“Have you ever read the story,” asked Bob Wier urgently, “of the shoemaker and the elves?”

“It’s a pretty sweet deal,” said J.J.

“It’s a dialectic, Paul,” said Colonel, the warrior-philosopher. “They do all the work, and we get all the credit.”

“I’m dreaming, right?” said Paul aloud. He looked at his feet, hoping to see himself floating half a foot off the ground.

“It’s a kind of a dream,” said Colonel, “a dream come true.”

“Okay.” Paul sagged a bit in the grip of Colonel and Stanley Tulendij. “I’ll play along. For the sake of argument, let’s say this is really happening.”

The other men laughed. “Really happening,” said Colonel. “That’s rich.”

“Typical,” said J.J. bitterly.

“They do your work for you,” Paul said, nodding down the slope into the dark. He thought of what Nolene had told him last week about Colonel, J.J., and Bob Wier—“They don’t do a lick of work, ever” she’d said, “but every morning the work they’re not doing shows up on my desk.” The pale faces below seemed to bubble a little higher; the murmur rose to a rumble. “But what do they get out of it?” Paul said.

The four men crowded around Paul exchanged a glance.

“We offer them something from time to time,” said Colonel.

“Like a sacrifice,” said J.J. “Kind of.”

“ ‘The fire and wood are here,’ ” Bob Wier said with a catch in his throat, “ ‘but where is the lamb for the burnt offering?’ Genesis twenty-two, seven.”

Colonel shouldered Bob Wier aside. “Don’t listen to him,” he murmured, his breath hot in Paul’s ear.

“Okay,” said J.J., “ ‘sacrifice’ is maybe too strong a word.”

“It’s something you’ll never miss,” said Stanley Tulendij, and he swung Paul around and started to walk him back up the slope towards the bright rectangle of the sliding door. “Not really.”

Paul surprised himself by resisting a bit; he tried to twist out of the grasp of the men on either side, tried to crane over his shoulder to see into the creek bed at the bottom of the slope. All he saw was Bob Wier gnawing on his knuckle, his eyes brimming with tears in the lantern light. Then the grip on each of Paul’s arms tightened, and they marched him towards the house.

“So are you in, Professor?” said Colonel, digging his blunt fingers into Paul’s elbow.

“You’re either with us or agin’ us, Paul,” said Stanley Tulendij, tightening his grip.

“The line forms on the right, babe,” J.J. said.

Paul gave up struggling and let them carry him back towards the house. Fuck it, he thought, it’s all a dream anyway. Behind him, the murmur of the pale figures in the creek bed faded into the electric burr of the crickets. From the house came the jolly thump of a galloping bass line, and through the door they could see Callie and Yasumi dancing together on the platform, swinging their hips and singing along with the Bananarama version of “Venus,” more or less in harmony.

“ ‘She’s got it,” they sang, swing, swing, swing , “ ‘yeah, baby, she’s got it. .’ ”

The giant TV screen pulsed with parti-colored light like a sixties discotheque, and vivid greens and blues and reds washed over the faces of the five men just beyond the glass.

“ ‘I’m your Venus,’ ” sang Callie, “ ‘I’m your fi-yuh, at your de-zi-yuh.’ ”

Stanley Tulendij’s eyes widened, and he relaxed his grip on Paul’s hand.

“Who’s that splendid little filly?” he said.

“That’s no filly,” Paul said, yanking his other arm free of Colonel’s grip. “That’s my. . that’s my. .” My what? he thought.

“Not her,” said Stanley Tulendij. “The little lady at the bar.”

The four other men swiveled their gaze to the bar, where Olivia perched on one of the stools with her cheerleader legs crossed. She leaned one elbow on the bar top and picked absently at the plate of crudités. She bit a celery stick in half as if she were crunching on a human bone.

Paul started to laugh. That proves it, he thought. I am dreaming. “Olivia?” he said aloud, before he could stop himself.

The other men shifted in the dark, exchanging glances and saying nothing.

“Seriously,” said Paul. “ Olivia? ”

Stanley Tulendij’s eyes shone with the same animal glow as the eyes in the creek bed. “That’s a fine figure of a woman,” he said.

“Take her,” Paul laughed, “she’s yours. You’d be doing everybody a favor.”

The song pounding through the glass seemed to fade, and even the cricket shriek and the dive bomb whine of mosquitoes went away. The other men seemed to recede into the dark, and Paul found himself alone in a little bubble of silence with Stanley Tulendij. The old man turned slowly to him, the Day-Glo colors of the karaoke screen washing rhythmically across his face. His eyes were wide and bright, and his lips drew back in a skull-like grin. He took Paul’s hand and shook it gravely.

“Done,” he said, and a moment later he was gone, gliding on his long, crooked legs down the slope, under the tree, and into the dark, beyond the glow of the paper lanterns.

PAUL STARTED AWAKE IN A HEART-HAMMERING PANIC, sprawled nude along the edge of a narrow mattress. In the crepuscular light he saw a clumsily plastered ceiling, a scruffy carpet littered with discarded clothes, a half-open doorway into an empty room. He sat up and nearly swooned from the pain in his head, as if two great hands were squeezing his temples together, trying to crack his skull like a coconut. He groaned and put his head between his knees, and tried to remember where he was and how he’d gotten there.

He heard a noise behind him, and he turned to see Callie wedged against the wall on the other side of the mattress, snoring face down into her pillow, her back bare to the waist. Paul sighed and tugged the crumpled sheet up to her shoulder blades. Bits and pieces of the end of karaoke night were coming back to Paul. J.J. had bellowed “Patton!” from the La-Z-Boy until Colonel had mounted the stage and worked the touch pad. A giant American flag had filled the TV screen, and as Colonel stepped before it and squared his shoulders, Bob Wier rose to his feet and cried, “Tennn- hut! ” J.J. struggled to rise from the recliner and gave up, but Yasumi sat up straight on the loveseat. Paul was slumped on the couch as if he’d been poured there, with Callie propped against him. Olivia was nowhere to be seen. During a long trumpet fanfare, Colonel sucked in his gut and saluted. Callie started to laugh, but Yasumi glared at her and Callie clapped her hand over her mouth. At last the fanfare faded, and Colonel stood at ease. The “Patton March” played quietly through the speakers.