Read Online Tenth of December by George Saunders - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: George Saunders
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re my fateful night.
I was nineteen. Mike Appel was seventeen. We were both wasto. All night he’d been giving me grief. He was smaller, younger, less popular. Then we were out front of Frizzy’s, rolling around on the ground. He was quick. He was mean. I was losing. I couldn’t believe it. I was bigger, older, yet losing? Around us, watching, was basically everybody we knew. Then he had me on my back. Someone laughed. Someone said, “Shit, poor Jeff.” Nearby was a brick. I grabbed it, glanced Mike in the head with it. Then was on top of him.
Mike gave. That is, there on his back, scalp bleeding, he gave, by shooting me a certain look, like: Dude, come on, we’re not all that serious about this, are we?
We were.
I was.
I don’t even know why I did it.
It was like, with the drinking and the being a kid and the nearly losing, I’d been put on a drip called, like, Temper-Berst or something.
InstaRaje.
LifeRooner.
“Hey, guys, hello!” Rachel said. “What are we up to today?”
There was her fragile head, her undamaged face, one arm lifting a hand to scratch a cheek, legs bouncing with nerves, peasant skirt bouncing, too, clogged feet crossed under the hem.
Soon all that would be just a lump on the floor.
I had to think.
Why were they going to Darkenfloxx™ Rachel? So they could hear me describe it. If I wasn’t here to describe it, they wouldn’t do it. How could I make it so I wouldn’t be here? I could leave. How could I leave? There was only one door out of the Spiderhead, which was autolocked, and on the other side was either Barry or Hans, with that electric wand called the DisciStick™. Could I wait until Abnesti came in, wonk him, try to race past Barry or Hans, make a break for the Main Door?
Any weapons in the Spiderhead? No. Just Abnesti’s birthday mug, a pair of running shoes, a roll of breath mints, his remote.
His remote?
What a dope. That was supposed to be on his belt at all times. Otherwise one of us might help ourselves to whatever we found, via Inventory Directory, in our MobiPaks™: some Bonviv™, maybe, some BlissTyme™, some SpeedErUp™.
Some Darkenfloxx™.
Jesus. That was one way to leave.
Scary, though.
Just then, in Small Workroom 4, Rachel, I guess thinking the Spiderhead empty, got up and did this happy little shuffle, like she was some cheerful farmer chick who’d just stepped outside to find the hick she was in love with coming up the road with a calf under his arm or whatever.
Why was she dancing? No reason.
Just alive, I guess.
Time was short.
The remote was well labeled.
Good old Verlaine.
I used it, dropped it down the heat vent, in case I changed my mind, then stood there like: I can’t believe I just did that.
My MobiPak™ whirred.
The Darkenfloxx™ flowed.
Then came the horror: worse than I’d ever imagined. Soon my arm was about a mile down the heat vent. Then I was staggering around the Spiderhead, looking for something,anything. In the end, here’s how bad it got: I used a corner of the desk.
What’s death like?
You’re briefly unlimited.
I sailed right out through the roof.
And hovered above it, looking down. Here was Rogan, checking his neck tattoo in the mirror. Here was Keith, squat-thrusting in his underwear. Here was Ned Riley, here was B. Troper, here was Gail Orley, Stefan DeWitt, killers all, all bad, I guess, although, in that instant, I saw it differently. At birth, they’d been charged by God with the responsibility of growing into total fuckups. Had they chosen this? Was it their fault, as they tumbled out of the womb? Had they aspired, covered in placental blood, to grow into harmers, dark forces, life enders? In that first holy instant of breath/awareness (tiny hands clutching and unclutching), had it been their fondest hope to render (via gun, knife, or brick) some innocent family bereft? No; and yet their crooked destinies had lain dormant within them, seeds awaiting water and light to bring forth the most
I was nineteen. Mike Appel was seventeen. We were both wasto. All night he’d been giving me grief. He was smaller, younger, less popular. Then we were out front of Frizzy’s, rolling around on the ground. He was quick. He was mean. I was losing. I couldn’t believe it. I was bigger, older, yet losing? Around us, watching, was basically everybody we knew. Then he had me on my back. Someone laughed. Someone said, “Shit, poor Jeff.” Nearby was a brick. I grabbed it, glanced Mike in the head with it. Then was on top of him.
Mike gave. That is, there on his back, scalp bleeding, he gave, by shooting me a certain look, like: Dude, come on, we’re not all that serious about this, are we?
We were.
I was.
I don’t even know why I did it.
It was like, with the drinking and the being a kid and the nearly losing, I’d been put on a drip called, like, Temper-Berst or something.
InstaRaje.
LifeRooner.
“Hey, guys, hello!” Rachel said. “What are we up to today?”
There was her fragile head, her undamaged face, one arm lifting a hand to scratch a cheek, legs bouncing with nerves, peasant skirt bouncing, too, clogged feet crossed under the hem.
Soon all that would be just a lump on the floor.
I had to think.
Why were they going to Darkenfloxx™ Rachel? So they could hear me describe it. If I wasn’t here to describe it, they wouldn’t do it. How could I make it so I wouldn’t be here? I could leave. How could I leave? There was only one door out of the Spiderhead, which was autolocked, and on the other side was either Barry or Hans, with that electric wand called the DisciStick™. Could I wait until Abnesti came in, wonk him, try to race past Barry or Hans, make a break for the Main Door?
Any weapons in the Spiderhead? No. Just Abnesti’s birthday mug, a pair of running shoes, a roll of breath mints, his remote.
His remote?
What a dope. That was supposed to be on his belt at all times. Otherwise one of us might help ourselves to whatever we found, via Inventory Directory, in our MobiPaks™: some Bonviv™, maybe, some BlissTyme™, some SpeedErUp™.
Some Darkenfloxx™.
Jesus. That was one way to leave.
Scary, though.
Just then, in Small Workroom 4, Rachel, I guess thinking the Spiderhead empty, got up and did this happy little shuffle, like she was some cheerful farmer chick who’d just stepped outside to find the hick she was in love with coming up the road with a calf under his arm or whatever.
Why was she dancing? No reason.
Just alive, I guess.
Time was short.
The remote was well labeled.
Good old Verlaine.
I used it, dropped it down the heat vent, in case I changed my mind, then stood there like: I can’t believe I just did that.
My MobiPak™ whirred.
The Darkenfloxx™ flowed.
Then came the horror: worse than I’d ever imagined. Soon my arm was about a mile down the heat vent. Then I was staggering around the Spiderhead, looking for something,anything. In the end, here’s how bad it got: I used a corner of the desk.
What’s death like?
You’re briefly unlimited.
I sailed right out through the roof.
And hovered above it, looking down. Here was Rogan, checking his neck tattoo in the mirror. Here was Keith, squat-thrusting in his underwear. Here was Ned Riley, here was B. Troper, here was Gail Orley, Stefan DeWitt, killers all, all bad, I guess, although, in that instant, I saw it differently. At birth, they’d been charged by God with the responsibility of growing into total fuckups. Had they chosen this? Was it their fault, as they tumbled out of the womb? Had they aspired, covered in placental blood, to grow into harmers, dark forces, life enders? In that first holy instant of breath/awareness (tiny hands clutching and unclutching), had it been their fondest hope to render (via gun, knife, or brick) some innocent family bereft? No; and yet their crooked destinies had lain dormant within them, seeds awaiting water and light to bring forth the most
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