Pod (25 page)

During “dinner” I ask Dad what he thinks the mini-PODs are up to.

He says, between spoonfuls of cold kidney beans, “My theory is that their home planet ran out of natural resources, so they came here. They’re analyzing the ground for metals and nutrients, with the goal of setting up a trans-stellar mining operation. But you’ve been watching them more than I have. What’s your take?”

I’m about to answer when I see something outside that catches my breath. “Check it out,” I say, pointing at the window.

A coyote is walking across the field on the other side of the swamp. It approaches the cluster of PODs. They freeze, mid-dance. The coyote trots through the cluster like it’s just another piece of the scenery. Once the animal emerges on the other side, the PODs go back to their mystery dance.

After the coyote vanishes over a small hill, I say, “I think the PODs are mapping the planet, getting ready to
sell the real estate to rich POD pilots so they can build their POD mansions and raise their little POD families.”

Dad raises his eyebrows. It’s not often that I surprise him, but somehow I did this time. “I like your version better,” he says. “At least that way the planet won’t be sucked dry and turned into space debris. That’s a future we were heading for long before the PODs arrived.”

Once the feast of beans is done and the counters are sparkling clean, we head for the garage. It’s time for the battle of the top fives and for our “discussion,” which is Dad-code for “Here’s what we’re going to do.” I sit in the driver’s seat—it is, after all, my ride. Dad sits next to me, a small stack of CDs in his hand. I’m more of a classic alt-rock fan, so Nirvana’s
Nevermind
tops my list, followed closely by their raging
In Utero
. Then it’s the Pixies’ classics
Doolittle
and
Surfer Rosa
, and rounding out my list, the sultry
Come Away With Me
by Norah Jones, a CD I once listened to for four hours straight. No surprises with Dad. He brought the three B’s: Beatles, Buffett, and Beethoven.

Once we’ve finished pointing out the obvious flaws in each other’s lists, Dad says, out of the blue, “If I died, could you eat me?”

“
What?
” I ask, not believing what I just heard.

“I need to know. Would you be willing to eat me?”

“Would I
eat
you? Like, hack off one of your fingers and chew?”

“Yes.”

“Hell, no,” I say. “No way. Wait—excuse me. No
freaking
way! Would you eat me?”

“That would be impossible,” he says, his eyes fixed on the dashboard.

“I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation. Jesus, Dad—when did you come up with that whopper?”

“No, really. I’m serious. I’ve been thinking a lot about this.”

“Well, you can officially stop thinking about it.”

“Listen to me, Josh. I should have done a better job of rationing, but as you said, what’s the point? So here we are. We’re down to three envelopes of powdered milk, two cans of beans, and less than half a can of corn. That’s it. The water heater is almost empty. We could hope for rain, but somehow the PODs turned off the water. Plus”—and here he takes a deep breath—“my pacemaker stopped working, so the odds of me surviving even under normal circumstances aren’t—”

“That’s load of crap, Dad. You could—”

“Don’t interrupt me, Josh, okay? I need to say this.”

The tone of his voice sets me vibrating like piano wire. He’s going to say this no matter what, so I clamp my teeth and wait for him to finish talking like a lunatic.

“I could die from a heart attack tomorrow, so why waste any more food on me? One of us needs to carry on for Mom, and the only person that could be is you. And if you’re willing to eat me, which I truly hope you are, then you could live for another—”

“Just forget it already! I’m not sticking a fork in you! Period! You got that? Thanks but no thanks. Come up with a different freaking plan.” I can tell he’s disappointed, but I’m not listening to any more of this crazy talk. “I’m outta here,” I say, reaching for the door.

Dad grabs my shoulder. “Wait! Josh—there’s something else I need to say.”

-Ninety-nine percent of me screams
Get out of the car
, but something in his eyes stops me. Like he’s crossed a line and there’s no return. I sit back, ready to bolt if he keeps up with the cannibalism theme.

He takes one of those deep breaths, the kind that is always followed by something profound, and says, “Remember when we were talking about which would be a better way to die, getting zapped or starving to death?”

“I picked zapped. I still do.”

“There’s a third option.” He reaches into his coat pocket and brings out a bottle of pills.

“What are those?”

“Prescription painkillers. They’re left over from when Mom hurt her back.”

“That was, like, five years ago. Are they still good?”

“I took one last night. They are
very
good.” He waits for my reaction.

“Go on,” I say.

“There’s thirty-two pills in here. That should be … enough.”

“Enough for what, exactly?”

“To float off on a cloud and never wake up.”

“We avoid watching each other turn into walking skeletons?”

“That’s right.”

“No eating human flesh?”

“Not one stringy bite.”

“One question,” I say. “Why this and not death by POD?”

“I’m just not sure about what happens … after.”

“You think there’s an ‘after’?”

“Yes. I’d rather take my chances with God.”

“Technically, isn’t this suicide? As I recall, God is pro-life.”

“I’d still rather take my chances.”

It’s my turn for the deep breath. “Okay,” I say. “That works for me. When is this event?”

“I think we should sleep on it. If we still feel like it’s the best option, then we do it after breakfast.”

I’m a little uncomfortable with the speed of this … development. But I roll with it. That Dad, he’s just full of surprises.

The Spiral of Life

Rat turds and spiderwebs.

I flick the lighter just enough to see where I’m going, then turn it off. All this reminds me of something Mom called the Spiral of Life. That’s when things go right, they go really right. And when they go wrong, they go really wrong. Like a friend of hers at work was sad because her husband was in Iraq and she was pregnant and alone. When the baby was born it was sick and needed lots of extra medicine. But the baby got better and went home from the hospital. When the woman went back to work she got a raise. Then her husband returned from Iraq and he wasn’t hurt and he wasn’t crazy. Three weeks later she won fifty thousand dollars on a scratch ticket. And if that wasn’t enough, she entered a sweepstakes at Home
Depot and won a new kitchen. That’s the Spiral of Life going up.

Then there’s the spiral going the other way. Mom hooks up with a boyfriend who hits her. We bail and head for San Diego. We run out of gas and money. She leaves me and doesn’t come back. The aliens come. Richie takes Cassie. I go on a rescue mission to save Cassie, but I can’t reach her. So I save Aunt Janet instead, which makes me think that the spiral is finally going up. Then Richie eats Cassie. Then the aliens send billions of floaters, we don’t have any food, the gun is worthless, and I have to go into the hotel alone because Aunt Janet is sick.

If I really think about it, I’ve been spiraling in this direction since Zack moved in. But Mom says the spiral can change direction at any time. You just have to keep your head on straight, do good things, wait your turn.

I reach the kitchen vent. There aren’t any candles, but I see a thin line of light around the double doors. I push on the vent and it swings open. I slip inside, listening for sounds and ready to bolt like a deer in a forest full of hunters. At first there’s nothing; then I hear voices on the other side of the door. They’re headed my way, so I climb back inside the vent headfirst. I wait in the dark for the door to open. It doesn’t. They keep talking and I keep waiting. I think about Aunt Janet curled up and sick in the SUV. I think about Mom, wherever she is—or isn’t. I focus on the Spiral of Life and think that if it’s ever going to spin
the other way, now would be a good time to start. Eventually my eyes close and then I’m not in this wormhole but in a place where nothing is wrong and the sun is warm and nobody has to wait for anyone.

And that place is anywhere but here.

Comfortably Numb

Dad outdoes himself for breakfast. Powdered popcorn cheese is an interesting addition. It gives the red beans a disturbing layer of flavor. But not to worry—warm water with an extra helping of rust takes care of the aftertaste. We chat about movies and music. Outside, clouds gather like a storm is brewing, but it’s really just a big tease. The POD commander has no intention of letting us have any water. All in all, I’d say it’s a perfect day for swallowing some pills.

Breakfast takes all of ten minutes. I help Dad wipe the dishes with a towel—two bowls, two spoons. He insisted on using our good china for this meal, so that means he also insists on stacking them neatly afterward in the antique cupboard he bought Mom for her birthday, each bowl in the appropriate bowl-shaped slot. During this exercise
I have a compelling desire to hurl these bowls at the wall, one by one. But why bother? As with everything else I’m doing this morning, I have to wonder if that’s the way I want to leave this world—throwing meaningless dishes at a meaningless wall.

Dad wipes down the counter. He does this lovingly, as though it’s a cherished pet he’s putting down after twelve loyal years. I consider telling him I know about his midnight cleaning sessions, but why bother? That would be pointless. It’s all so freaking pointless.

He folds and refolds the towel, hangs it on the hook. I stand by the sink, waiting for him to bring up the subject that’s been swinging over our heads like a toxic piñata. Finally he runs out of stupid tasks to do.

“All right, then,” he says, turning to me. “What’s your position on option number three?”

I close my eyes and here’s what I see: One can of beans. A dog leash without a dog. Keys to a car I’ll never drive. Smoldering ashes across the street. A twisted bicycle in the cul-de-sac. I try to imagine myself gnawing on raw squirrel, but that image doesn’t work. I open my eyes.

“My position on option number three,” I say in a voice that’s more definite than I feel, “is two thumbs up.”

“Where would you like to do it?”

This question surprises me. It’s a little unfair, actually. I mean, he’s probably been obsessing about this important decision for days, and this is my first crack at it. I panic a little, thinking that the decision is too big. How could
I possibly pick the place where I’ll draw my last breath? What I need is a metaphor, something that makes a statement. And then it comes to me—the perfect spot. If Mom is alive, it’s where I’d like her to find me.

“The Camry,” I say.

While he’s counting out the pills, I ask him what happened to his survival spirit. Why the change of heart?

“I couldn’t bear to see you starve to death,” he says. “And I don’t trust the PODs. There might be something we don’t understand about zapping, something sinister, and that possibility troubles me.”

“Define ‘troubles.’”

“I don’t know—it’s … it’s … basically, I don’t think those people are dead, and I don’t think the PODs are taking them to heaven. The process is too clean. It reminds me of catching fish with a gill net.”

“Where do you think they go?”

“I don’t know. The feedlot idea sticks in my mind.”

He waits for me to say something, but what can I say? Who wants to spend eternity in an alien feedlot? I think maybe I should tell him about the episodes, but decide now isn’t the time.

He says, “And since you won’t eat me, well, here we are.”

“You got that right. A month ago when you had some meat on your butt, maybe. But now you’re all scrawny and probably chewier than your two-dollar steaks.”