The Nirvana Blues (69 page)

Joe blurted, “Diana, it's no good.”

“What's no good?”

“This. Us. You and me.”

A mother bids her child farewell in front of the exterminating oven. Their fingers touch. Then, with a gunbutt, the mother is prodded through a metal gateway toward her doom: the child stares after her, stunned, bereft in a way impossible to imagine for anyone who did not experience the Holocaust. The camera pans in to a close-up of the child; her expression is beyond torment; her face is familiar.

It is Diana.

She said, “What do you mean?” Instantly, her cheeks flooded with salty water.

“It's stupid. It won't work. I'm not tough enough or crass enough—oh hell, I dunno. How did I ever get myself into all this? I thought it would be easy. I thought everybody was out there, carelessly duking each other on a billion whims, having a ball. Instead, every time I knock on any door, the meek of the earth, crippled by dreams of warmth and kindness and security, open up.”

“You can't leave me.” She looked utterly terrified. “You're the first time in—Jesus, six years?—that I trusted somebody to be decent. Last night, for the first time ever, I mustered the courage to accept real loving. You can't just throw me away.”

“But you said … but I didn't…”

“Look at what happened, Joe. Look at what
happened.
”

“It didn't mean that to me.”

“I don't care what it meant to you. You can't just walk around being totally irresponsible for your actions. You have to answer to a conscience, you know. Moral imperatives are involved when you love somebody like we did last night.”

“Oh, Christ … nobody understands.”

“The way last night was is the way people make love to have a baby.”

He could see it now: “The Bureau of Ciphers and Statistics announced yesterday, in Washington D.C., that, due to an enormous and unexplained rash of illegitimate babies in the American Southwest, that region has violated every government ZPG ordinance on the book and has been placed on natal probation for at least a year. A major factor in the sudden increase superseding all birth and fertility guidelines, Joseph P. Miniver, was arrested recently. A dozen thick rubber bands were wound tightly around his offending member, initiating a process somewhat akin to that used in dehorning cattle. After a week, due to restricted circulation, Mr. Miniver's penis will atrophy and eventually dry up, painlessly dropping off. Commenting upon his punishment, Mr. Miniver said, ‘I deserve it, I really had it coming (no pun intended).' Asked how he planned to carry on a sex life once the operation was completed, Mr. Miniver stated, ‘I'm not quite sure, but I know one thing: I've got nowhere to go but up.'”

“I never said I loved you, Diana. For sure I don't want another baby.”

“The way you speak is irrevelant; your actions contradict everything you say.”

“I'm sorry. But we just aren't on the same wavelengths.”

Life wasn't melodramatic enough, however: now the gun appeared in her hand. Joe groaned, “Oh shit!”

“You didn't just say what you just said, did you? You can't mean what you say you're meaning, can you?”

He performed another in a long and undistinguished line of hopeless gestures. “I can't say I didn't say what I said. I can't pretend not to mean what I meant.”

“I'll kill you, then.”

Joe was astonished by his lack of panic as he spoke. “What can I tell you? Please don't kill me.”

Then he heard a hollow thunderclap that seemed silent, like a noise from a dream: shock waves skidded through his body as if he had been struck a dull blow by a very heavy, yet somehow slow-moving, leaden fist. The tent instantly filled with smoke, through which, with utmost fascination, he perceived Diana's astonished eyes suspended weightlessly in the ether, unattached to any facial features. He had no clear idea of what, exactly, had happened. What flashed into his head was the idea that somehow the tent had absorbed a volatile gas and popped like a balloon pricked by a needle. He heard his voice say “Hey!” although the word took forever to swim up through his body and escape the prison of his mouth. Diana's eyes promptly swooped backward, and disappeared. In their stead arrived the tent's ceiling, almost lost in pungent gunpowder smoke.

In short, without any clear idea of how he had gotten there, Joe was lying on his back.

Diana's face hove into sight. Her lips moved, obviously speaking words, but he heard nothing. The violent ringing in his ears saw to that. Joe tried to read her lips. She repeated the same statement several times, to no avail. His ability to concentrate on her lips was hampered by a squall of mysterious hail-sized pellets that stung his forehead, nose, and cheeks. He recognized them as tears at almost the same moment he deciphered her lips:

I didn't mean to shoot you.

Tongue-tied, he couldn't reply. Yet his brain functioned superbly. Its clarity belied the maudlin nature of this uncomfortable misadventure. He had been shot by a distraught woman, probably by accident. Obviously, although she had known the gun was loaded, Diana had not meant to pull the trigger. His supine posture could be explained by the fact that a tiny lead projectile no larger than a third of a pinkie had entered his body somewhere—where?—at a high rate of speed, damaging certain crucial muscles, tissues, nerves, organs, and bones seriously enough to impede the natural functioning of his motor locutor. Joe wasn't worried, though naturally, in passing, it occurred to him he might be dying. An unfortunate circumstance, given his youth. In fact, he hadn't accomplished much of note during his thirty-eight years on earth. Looking on the bright side, though, his death would solve a lot of personal problems he'd managed to forge over the last five days. At best, he wouldn't have to start a rumble among a lot of blotto monkey freaks while his maniac friends played Super Thief in a stolen helicopter.

The cup is always half full, qué no? Joe laughed, although he could not hear himself doing so. In fact, how to tell if he was, in effect, laughing? Perhaps he simply had a desire to laugh, but, because the bullet had nailed him in the throat, or the chest, or the chin, he no longer possessed the physical equipment to realize such a desire.

Out of curiosity, Joe tried to wiggle his toes. He succeeded, and exalted that feeling yet remained down there. If nothing else, he was not (apparently) slated to lose the use of his feet.

Diana fled. Joe stayed absolutely still, unwilling to risk further physical experimentation. Any movement could aggravate his wound, causing intense pain, even death. After all, if the bullet was lodged against his aorta, any slight shift might dislodge the slug, allowing his life to geyser out of a wretchedly gaping wound.

Or the lead might be embedded in his spine, one tenth of a millimeter away from paralyzing him for life.

Joe's brain commissioned a platoon of sensory soldiers to march outside the perimeters of their protected hamlet in the oblongata region, in search of the wound. They reconnoitered his arms uneventfully, and tiptoed through the yukky, swampy regions of his abdominal cavity without sighting any ruptures, foreign objects, or viscous fluids that had leaked from their proper tubes or holding tanks. Proceeding south with all due caution, they hacked through a thick jungle of thigh meat on the banks of the sciatic nerve, then probed kneecaps, calves, femurs, and ankles. At last, in the Antarctica of all flesh, where metabolism shone but a few hours every day, they sent a cable back to the oblongata region, claiming to have discovered nothing. So Joe ordered their retreat. In fact, he vacuumed them up swiftly, a precipitous move, granted, but one which may have avoided the anguish that could have been triggered had they double-checked his body on the return journey, accidentally discovering where he was wounded, and how badly.

In due course, his ears stopped ringing. Actual sounds returned. The early morning chatter of magpies; a distant truck; the persnickety whine of a little machine somewhere doing a little job. Idly, Joe wondered: What's going to happen? Where had Diana run to—to fetch Eloy? To call a cop? To send Heidi to the rescue?

Probably she had just run away, terrified, leaving him there to die like a dirty dog, his sweet young blood staining the freshly overturned earth of land he would never own now, no matter what.

Such a price he had paid for this greed to own a little piece of property!

How to attract attention, calling for help? Joe could neither move nor speak. Of course, he had not absolutely proved his immobility. He simply feared that by budging he might dislodge something crucial, and be dead three steps out of the tent. Plus the mere thought of discovering where, and how badly, he was injured gave him the heebie-jeebies. And as for speech?—suppose that instead of words, only grotesque and horrifying gurgles emerged from the depths of his rent esophagus.…

Left to him, then, were limited alternatives. Perhaps, by an extreme effort of will, he could float himself astrally over to the hospital. Or, lacking the intensity of belief to suddenly dominate a technique he'd actively pooh-poohed all his adult life, maybe he should tackle the problem at a lower level. Could he generate enough ESP to hail Nancy Ryan before he expired?

Joe nixed that. After all, if she saved his life he would be indebted to her forever. And the point right now was to extricate himself from damning liaisons.

Leaving—would you believe prayer?

“Oh Mighty God, please don't let me die. If you save me, I promise I'll be good. Also, I'll never ask you for anything else again. Just this once, have a heart, let me live. I promise, I'll be a changed person. I'll reunite with the family. I'll give all my extra pennies to the March of Dimes. I'll even go to an Up With America concert.…”

Joe stopped. Aside from registering a full ten on the Maudlin-Meter, it was stupid to beg for mercy from a figment of humanity's imagination in which he believed almost as intensely as he believed in Santa Claus.

Another face, a slightly smaller dirigible than Diana's, materialized overhead. Chubby cheeks covered with jelly, matted and dirty strawberry blond hair—her large blue eyes inspected him with childlike inquisitiveness.

“Hi, Mr. Miniver.”

Saved by a three-year-old peace-love-groovynik!

“Hello, Om.” Hot dog, no horrific gurgles!—his voice sounded normal.

“What's the matter with you?”

“Somebody shot me. Now listen, Om. Listen very carefully.…”

“What did they shoot you with, Mr. Miniver?”

“With a gun. Now Om—” The face disappeared. “Om?” It reappeared, accompanied by the gun held in pudgy clumsy fingers. “Now listen, sweetie.…”

“Is this the gun?”

“Put that down, dammit! It's dangerous. It might go off again.”

Once more, the face retired. Joe dared not turn his head to follow it for fear a wounded disk might slip, killing him on the spot.

“Where did you get shot?” Om asked, in sight again.

“I don't know. It isn't important. But right now—”

“Did they shoot you in the heart?”

“No, Om. Now listen to me—”

“Did they shoot you in the head?”

“No—hey! Do me a favor, hush up a minute. This is very—”

“My daddy says guns are dumb.”

“Right, guns are dumb. God bless your daddy.”

“He says if you mess with a gun it will turn around and shoot you because of all the bad vibes.”

“Very true, very true. Now come on, Om, hear me out. Would—”

“Did you shoot yourself?”

“Jesus—hey, kid? Have a heart. Lemme finish a sentence. I might be dying.”

“If you die, you go to a place that makes you very happy. You shun't be scared of dying, it's beautiful.”

“Om, I need help. Go fetch your mommy and daddy. Tell them Mr. Miniver is hurt.”

“My mommy's not there.”

“So go tell your daddy.”

“He's not there either.”

“Well, who the hell's over there? Call your baby-sitter.”

“I don't have a baby-sitter. Rama says I'm big enough to take care of myself 'cause I got good karma.”

“Where did they go?—your mom and dad.”

“The foodstamp office.”

“But they can't simply leave me lying here.”

Om asked, “Do you have lots of money?”

“I don't know. Hey, look, listen, do me a favor—”

“My daddy says you're a filthy-rich dope pusher. He says you're gonna build the biggest house in the neighborhood.”

Fuck your father. “Om, go get help. Find Mr. Irribarren. Tell him that Joe is shot and lying in the tent.”

“There's lots of butterflies out there. My favorite is the one with the orange wings.”

“I know, I know. Michael has a big collection, too.”

“I don't have a collection. You shun't kill butterflies. If you kill them, all the flowers will die. You'll get sick, too.”

Butterflies! “Om, maybe
I'm
dying. I need help immediately.”

The face floated away, but the voice remained. “Once I founded a butterfly in the bathtub. It stayed there and laid a egg—”

“‘An' egg.”
Shit!

“—and so we couldn't take a bath for almost two weeks until the egg hatched into a teeny-weeny caterpillar. Then my daddy put the caterpillar on a matchstick and let it go outside, and we could take baths again.”

“Om, no more small talk. Seriously, you have to find a grown-up.”

“My dad's got a movie camera.”

“I know, I know.” He could tell she was growing bored and he didn't want to drive the flaky little poseur away before his message was embedded in her kiddy noggin. “Please, I'm
begging
you, Om. Honest to God, I'm hurt.”

“If you're hurt, my daddy says you can fix yourself. You just pretend you're not hurt and it goes away. The hurt isn't really in your arms and legs and tummy; it's in your brain. So nobody has to be hurt, ever—really.”