Machine Of Death (50 page)

“Okay,” he finally said, then got off the corner of my desk, walked over to the window, looked down at the street and then came back and sat in my client’s chair, the one people used to sit in and then give me money from.

“You do any other work in here? A side job of some kind?” he said, taking in my steadily-emptying office.

“I was a house painter before this.”

“That’s right. That’s not such bad work.”

“I didn’t mind it, but my boss had some real problems.”

He looked around some more, nodding his head. “You don’t even have a coffee machine?”

“Sold it. I can call down to the diner, they’ll send one right up.”

“The Brazilian place?”

“No, the other one.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.”

I made the call. When I hung up he didn’t say anything. He seemed distracted, maybe even morose, which was not like him at all. He was generally a pretty light-hearted guy. 

For laughs I started my spiel. I thought he might get a kick out of it. I sat on the edge of my chair, leaned comfortably forward onto the desk, looked him in the eye, and said in my most neutral voice, “So, I had this dream.”

He gave me a very stern look. “This is no laughing matter,” he said. He was really in a sour mood.

“But I did have a dream.”

“Seriously now?”

“Well, kind of. I mean, I have one I’m working on but I don’t know who the, uh, client is yet.”

“Oh.” He looked away, annoyed. “That’s what we thought. Look, it’s also why I’m here. We’re having some problems down at the hall. As you might have heard, we got no orders coming in. You’re maybe one of ten people who’ve had anything in the last six months or so. Ever since that fucking machine came along. So, I just came to tell you, and luckily you don’t have any medical stuff going on, but we’re going to have to cut back on medical coverage, substantially, and no more dental.”

I had a dentist appointment next week. I was finally going to take advantage of the dental plan. This really was no joke.

I first met Mr. Watson maybe a month after I got my office. He walked into my waiting room one morning and said, “What kind of a waiting room is this if you got no magazines?”

I got up to see who it was and didn’t recognize him. “I beg your pardon?”

“If this is your waiting room, where’re the magazines?”

“I guess not many people actually wait there. Can I help you?”

He gave me a slightly surprised look. “Oh. I’m Jerry Watson, I’m the shop steward of Local 111 of the S.S.C.W.I.”

I gave him a blank look.

“The Sub and Supra Consciousness Workers International. We call it the S.S.C.W.I., though, to keep from freaking people out.”

He stuck out his hand and I took it. He had a firm, comfortable handshake and an open, honest face. Immediately, for no good reason at all, I liked him.

“I came by to take your application.”

“My application?”

“To join the union. If you want. There’s no pressure, honestly, but we do offer a pretty good health and benefits package, and we watch your back if things get out of control.”

“Out of control?”

“Like that guy last month who didn’t want to admit he was cheating on his wife? If that had gotten out of hand, we could step in for you. But, really, it’s your choice. I have the form for the application here, and if you’re accepted we’ll mail you the medical and all the rest of that crap, so you can look it over at your leisure.”

I was pretty surprised, as you might expect. Of all the big changes my life had been going through, I did not foresee this. I had not even belonged to the Painter and Plasterer’s Union. There was something about Mr. Watson I trusted though. He reminded me of an uncle who would bail you out and keep it quiet. So when I got over my surprise I asked him the one thing that had really been nagging at me, figuring if anyone knew he would. Namely, what the hell was going on?

“Oh. Right. Well, it’s like a swimming pool, a big swimming pool everyone swims in every day. Some for longer than others, but no one for too long because the water is too cold. The only ones who stay in for a long time are some coma victims, and a lot of them are kind of only half in, half out.”

“Sometimes there’re fewer people in the pool, and sometimes there’re lots more, and when there’re lots and lots more, we go out and get new hires.”

“Like me?”

“I guess. I dunno, you ever have these dreams before?”

“I dunno.”

“There you go. There’re a lot more we don’t know than we do.”

The other workers in the local were, for the most part, just like me. Regular, boring people: accountants, lawyers, teachers, maintenance workers, actors. Most all of them kept their day jobs and no one made a big deal about this sideline. I suspect most would have even denied it if asked; it was all pretty far-fetched. The “union hall” was actually just the backroom of a diner where we met periodically, or if you had something come up, Mr. Watson or one of the other officers would meet you there. 

“The problem is this new machine has been giving a lot of people the idea that they don’t need to swim in the pool anymore. And that, as you might have guessed, has seriously screwed with the natural order of things.”

“Huh. Is there anything we can do about it?”

“We’re working on that.”

We were both quiet for a moment. The coffee came, and after the guy left, I thought I might as well ask him. “You do it yet?”

He looked at me with a deeply annoyed look. I half expected him to tell me to blow it out my ass. I was not just giving him a hard time though, I really was curious about whether he had checked it out. These machines were scabbing our work and I wanted to know he was on top of it.

“You mind if I smoke?” he finally asked. I got the ashtray from the windowsill and put it on the desk, close to him.

He lit up, offered me one. I put up my hand. He leaned forward in his seat, took a sip of his coffee, and made a surprised face. “Wow, that’s good coffee.”

“Isn’t it though? You’d never guess.”

He put the cup back on the edge of my desk. “I did do it. Not just out of a sense of professional responsibility.” 

“So you were curious?”

“About what? How I’m going to die? Who gives a shit how they die? I’ll die when I die and after I die I’ll be dead, so what do I get from knowing ‘how’ I die? No, I had to know how it felt.”

He squinted and looked past me out my window, made a small grimace like he had sciatica, then back.

“And it was weird. It wasn’t what I expected. I was hoping it would be something big, you know, but it wasn’t. I mean, all right, you suddenly know how you’re gonna die and that’s something I had to sleep on for a couple of nights to really get a handle on. But on a deeper level, on the level where we earn our living, well, let’s just say I can see how it’s polluting the waters.

“For about half an hour after I found out, I felt like I was catching a wave, like, you know when a car goes over a hump and you get that ‘Whoa!’ feeling? It was like that, and then on the other side of that I felt very calm, and at that moment I knew it was bullshit.”

“Bullshit? But it works. It tells you how you’re going to die.”

“Well yeah, but that’s not what it’s selling. And they better not because it’s fucking expensive so they sell it as the be-all and end-all. Which is the bullshit part, because they’re selling peace of mind, and we all know peace of mind is a racket.” He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. “What did you think of it?”

I tried to give at least half a smile. I wanted to tell him what I thought he wanted to hear, but I could not. Ever since third grade when Sister Anne-Marie found out I was lying about eating the chocolate eggs in the Easter display and wailed for a solid half-hour, I just do not have it in me. Call it coercive but I loved Sister Anne-Marie, and every time I’m faced with the opportunity to lie I see her sweetness and know lying will once again break her heart and I cannot do it. Surprisingly, this has brought me far less trouble than you might think.

“I haven’t done it.”

He seemed taken aback. I didn’t think he would be so surprised. I almost wished I could un-say it.

“You what? This is your vocation.”

“I know and you’re right. But it just smells of really bad luck and I can’t bring myself to do it.”

“Bad luck?” He suddenly looked like he’d never thought of it that way, and wasn’t sure if it was worth the effort. “Bad luck,” he said again, and then suddenly started to lighten up.

His phone rang and he dug it out of a pocket, bringing his pack of cigarettes up with it. He lit one up as he answered. He made a couple of grunting noises and stood up, then put his phone away. “I gotta go. Work.”

The office suddenly felt very small and hot and I had to leave too. I had to. I stood up with him and grabbed my jacket. “Let me walk down with you.”

He seemed to have let go of any misgivings he had about my choice. In fact, he seemed happy now.

In the stairwell he turned back to look up at me. “I’m gonna die by drowning.” He gave a little “would you get a load of that” eyebrow bump as he said it.

“Really?”

“Yeah. So I just bought a boat.”

“What if you pass out in the tub?”

“Exactly! Those fucking assholes. I wish I could get the Teamsters on their asses.”

We got out to the street. It was cold. It was supposed to be warm today. At least, that’s what the weatherman had said this morning.

Mr. Watson stopped at his Fire Department car, which was parked at a hydrant. He had a ticket under the windshield wiper. “Sorry about the bad news, kid. Maybe things will turn around, and in six months we’ll all be back at work.”

He stuck out his hand and I shook it. It was strong but not overbearing, like he could pick me up and put me on his shoulders if he felt like it. Like he was going to do that at any instant. I instantly felt a huge surge of confidence. “Yeah, maybe so.”

“I think it will. Sit tight. Hey, I hear that diner around the corner —the one run by the Brazilian couple—has a great lunch deal.”

That was a great idea. I didn’t want to go back inside and it was close enough to lunchtime. I was hungry, wasn’t I? I was. “Yeah, I think I’ll go by there.”

“Good idea. You do that. Take care of yourself, kid,” he said, and for a moment he sounded almost sad. He got into his city car, plucking the ticket off the windshield, and disappeared into the traffic. 

I’d been to the Brazilian place a couple of times, and as soon as I passed through the front door I remembered their meat dishes were pretty good, but not much else was. I thought about turning around but what the hell, I was already there. I took a seat at the counter and my neighbor looked at me and then jumped. “Holy crap! Nick! I was just thinking about you!”

It was Denny. I could not believe it and then I did.

For a solid two seconds, maybe even three—which is a long time for this kind of mistake—I was confident he was my client. Mr. Watson was right, it was all going to turn around. I relaxed, sat back and got ready for the moment when I would tell him about my dream. 

Denny did not notice. He was still all enthused to see me. “You were a great worker, you know that? I don’t think I ever told you, and I never realized it until later, but you were one of the best workers I ever had. I owe you an apology for all the shit you must have put up with.” 

Despite myself I laughed. He seemed really, genuinely happy to see me. Which was nothing like the scowling, surly bastard he’d been. He looked better, too; his skin was clearer, and he looked me in the eye with nothing but pleasure at seeing me.

“That’s nice of you, Denny. How’re things?”

“Oh, pretty good. Pretty great, actually. I met this girl, Lucky, and I got sober. I don’t think you knew that. I’m an alcoholic.”

He looked at me candidly, with a touch of sad self-deprecation. I did not know this about him, and was surprised.

“I’m sober now two years and almost seven months.”

“Wow. Denny that’s great. Really. I’m really happy for you.”

Denny looked at his watch. The plate in front of him was empty. I suddenly realized he wasn’t in his painter’s whites.

“You’re not painting anymore?”

“Oh, I still have the business but no, I got people to do the work. Hey, I’m sure you’re not interested, but if you want work I got a spot for you. Your own truck. If it works out, maybe a crew. Lucky is setting up a health package and stuff and maybe I could offer that soon.” 

Denny was like a different person, it was all kind of hard to believe. I suddenly thought that must have been some kind of woman he met.

He was holding his card out to me. It was crisp and expensive-looking. He used to peel them off a paint-soaked stack that lived in the bottom of a bag. He would hand you this dirty, half-ripped piece of crap with a faded rainbow logo and you just knew he was a loser. This card was the exact opposite.

I looked at the card without reaching for it. Denny got a softer look, as though he suddenly realized maybe he was being too hard for the circumstances, like he often used to be. I noticed this and smiled. He wasn’t sure what to do with that and proffered the card again.

I’m not the kind that believes we are faced with the inevitable every day, but at times the future is, genuinely, unavoidable, and you have to be a fool to try to get out of its way.

The pool expands, the pool contracts. 

I took the card. 

Story by C. E. Guimont

Illustration by Adam Koford