I knock on the door of her Separate Area.
Janet slides the bags out, all sealed and labeled and ready to go.
“Check it out,” she says. “I’m a new woman.”
Out I go, with the white regular trash bag in one hand and our mutual big pink Human Refuse bag in the other.
I walk along the white cliff, then down the path marked by the small yellow dot on the pine etc. etc.
On the door of Marty’s doublewide is a note:
Due to circumstances beyond our control we are no longer here, it says. But please know how much we appreciated your patronage. As to why we are not here, we will not comment on that, because we are bigger than that. Bigger than some people. Some people are snakes. To some people, fifteen years of good loyal service means squat. All’s we can say is, watch your damn backs.
All the best and thanks for the memories,
Marty and Jeannine and little Eddie.
Then the door flies open.
Marty and Jeannine and little Eddie are standing there holding suitcases.
“Hello and good-bye,” says Marty. “Feel free to empty your shit bag inside the store.”
“Now, Marty,” says Jeannine. “Let’s try and be positive about this, okay? We’re going to do fine. You’re too good for this dump anyway. I’ve always said you were too good for this dump.”
“Actually, Jeannine,” Marty says. “When I first got this job you said I was lucky to even get a job, because of my dyslexia.”
“Well, honey, you are dyslexic,” says Jeannine.
“I never denied being dyslexic,” says Marty.
“He writes his letters and numbers backwards,” Jeannine says to me.
“What are you, turning on me, Jeannine?” Marty says. “I lose my job and you turn on me?”
“Oh Marty, I’m not turning on you,” Jeannine says. “I’m not going to stop loving you just because you’ve got troubles. Just like you’ve never stopped loving me, even though I’ve got troubles.”
“She gets too much spit in her mouth,” Marty says to me.
“Marty!” says Jeannine.
“What?” Marty says. “You can say I’m dyslexic, but I can’t say you get too much spit in your mouth?”
“Marty, please,” she says. “You’re acting crazy.”
“I’m not acting crazy,” he says. “It’s just that you’re turning on me.”
“Don’t worry about me, Dad,” the kid says. “I won’t turn on you. And I don’t mind going back to my old school. Really I don’t.”
“He had a little trouble with mean kids in his old school,” Marty says to me. “Which is why we switched him. Although nothing you couldn’t handle, right, kid? Actually, I think it was good for him. Taught him toughness.”
“As long as nobody padlocks me to the boiler again,” the kid says. “That part I really didn’t like. Wow, those rats or whatever.”
“I doubt those were actual rats,” says Marty. “More than likely they were cats. The janitor’s cats. My guess is, it was dark in that boiler room and you couldn’t tell a cat from a rat.”
“The janitor didn’t have any cats,” the kid says. “And he said I was lucky those rats didn’t start biting my pants. Because of the pudding smell. From when those kids pinned me down and poured pudding down my pants.”
“Was that the same day?” Marty says. “The rats and the pudding? I guess I didn’t realize them two things were on the same day. Wow, I guess you learned a lot of toughness on that day.”
“I guess so,” the kid says.
“But nothing you couldn’t handle,” Marty says.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” the kid says, and blinks, and his eyes water up.
“Well, Christ,” Marty says, and his eyes also water up. “Time to hit the road, family. I guess this it. Let’s say our good-byes. Our good-byes to Home Sweet Home.”
They take a little tour around the doublewide and do a family hug, then drag their suitcases down the path.
I go to the Refuse Center and weigh our Human Refuse. I put the paperwork and the fee in the box labeled Paperwork and Fees. I toss the trash in the dumpster labeled Trash, and the Human Refuse in the dumpster labeled Caution Human Refuse.
I feel bad for Marty and Jeannine, and especially I feel bad for the kid.
I try to imagine Nelson padlocked to a boiler in a dark room full of rats.
Plus now where are us Remotes supposed to go for our smokes and mints and Kayos?
22.
Back at the cave Janet is working very industriously on the pictographs.
As I come in she points to my Separate Area while mouthing the word: Fax.
I look at her. She looks at me.
She mouths the words: Christ, go. Then she holds one hand at knee level, to indicate Nelson.
I go.
But it’s not for me, it’s for her.
Ms. Foley’s fax appears to be inoperative? the cover letter says. Kindly please forward the attached.
Please be informed, the attached fax says, I did my very best in terms of your son, and this appeared, in my judgment, to be an excellent plea bargain, which, although to some might appear disadvantageous, ten years is not all that long when you consider all the bad things that he has done. But he was happy enough about it, after some initial emotions such as limited weeping, and thanked me for my hard work, although not in those exact words, as he was fairly, you know, upset. On a personal note, may I say how sorry I am, but also that in the grand scheme of things such as geology ten years is not so very long really.
Sincerely,
Evan Joeller, Esq.
I take the fax out to Janet, who reads it while sitting on her log.
She’s sort of a slow reader.
When she’s finally done she looks crazy and for a minute I think she’s going to tear the cave apart but instead she scoots into the corner and starts frantically pretending to catch and eat small bugs.
I go over and put my hand on her shoulder, like: Are you okay?
She pushes my hand away roughly and continues to pretend to catch and eat small bugs.
Just then someone pokes their head in.
Young guy, round head, expensive-looking glasses.
“Bibby, hand me up Cole,” he says. “So he can see. Cole-Cole, can you see? Here. Daddy will hold you up.”
A little kid’s head appears alongside the dad’s head.
“Isn’t this cool, Cole?” says the dad. “Aren’t you glad Mommy and Daddy brought you? Remember Daddy told you? How people used to live in caves?”
“They did not,” the little boy says. “You’re wrong.”
“Bibby, did you hear that?” the dad says. “He just said I’m wrong. About people living in caves.”
“I heard it,” says a woman from outside. “Cole, people really did use to live in caves. Daddy’s not wrong.”
“Daddy’s always wrong,” says the little boy.
“He just said I’m always wrong,” the dad says. “Did you hear that? Did you write that down? In the memory book? Talk about assertive! I should be so assertive. Wouldn’t Norm and Larry croak if I was suddenly so assertive?”
“Well, it couldn’t hurt you,” the mom says.
“Believe me, I know,” the dad says. “That’s why I said it. I know very well I could afford to be more assertive. I was making a joke. Like an ironic joke at my own expense.”
“I want to stab you, Dad,” says the little boy. “With a sharp sword, you’re so dumb.”
“Ha ha!” says the dad. “But don’t forget, Cole-Cole, the pen is mightier than the sword! Remember that? Remember I taught you that? Wouldn’t it be better to compose an insulting poem, if you have something negative about me you want to convey? Now that’s real power! Bibby, did you hear what he said? And then what I said? Did you write all that down? Also did you save that Popsicle wrapper? Did you stick it in the pocket in the back cover of the memory book and write down how cute he looked eating it?”