The Unfolding, page 23
The Big Guy continues. “Anyway, my point is that he’s the most boring man in America and the best man for the job.”
“Can we please start the hunt,” the judge says. “If I don’t kill something soon, I’m gonna die; I’m a vampire like that.”
“It’s happening,” the Big Guy says. “The horses are outside and ready to go. But before we depart, I want to share something I’m particularly pleased about.” He pauses. “You might have noticed that our scribe—”
Metzger corrects him. “Scrivener. ‘Scribe’ sounds like a scab, and I am not interested in being part of any organization with scabs. The way things sound is of great importance. In that spirit, I rebrand the man—the scrivener.”
“All right then,” the Big Guy says. “The scrivener was late for breakfast because he was on a special mission.”
“Mission impossible?” Bo asks.
“Mission accomplished,” the Big Guy says. “As the youngest and most physically fit of our group as well as our official archivist, Eisner was tasked with taking a custom-made time capsule to a secret location and burying it for posterity. Scrivener, you want to tell the boys about it?”
Eisner goes to the front of the room. “As a political historian, I have studied the organization and operation of power in large societies after the fact. Now, in our group, I am working to design and implement those structures. We do not know yet if history will see us as heroes or martyrs. As the resident historian for the last several months, I have worked with a carefully selected company to build a time capsule—designed to last for five hundred years. This capsule is unique in that the contents—ranging from the cocktail napkins from November fourth to transcripts and draft plans, the ephemera that would be our liner notes were we a boy band—have been vapor-phase deacidified, fitted with Viton rubber gasketing, and the oxygen replaced by argon gas; and as of last night, the capsule has been interred underground, the location marked with a GPS tag.”
“How about a round of applause,” the Big Guy suggests.
“Here’s to our wandering Jew,” Bo mumbles, clapping.
“So while we will not be lost, neither will we be easily found,” Metzger says.
“It is my hope,” the Big Guy says, as the applause dies down, “that this capsule is just the first of many and that in time the wilds of Wyoming will be dotted with hidden silos of history.”
The judge inches toward the door.
“If I might take a moment,” Bo says. “I want to introduce a special guest, a fellow we have been talking with for several months and, well, it just warms my heart to have him here.”
On cue, the General walks into the room wearing a helmet that he removes, revealing a Special Operations Command baseball cap, which he takes off, exposing his truly enormous naked head that he tips toward the group, bowing with such depth that they can see the American flag tattoo at the base of his skull.
“Feel free to call me Mt. Baldy,” the General says, pulling out of the bow. “I’m honored to be with you.”
“Just like I said,” Bo whispers to the Big Guy. “He came to us.”
“I suspect when they looked at their ‘contingency plans,’ they couldn’t tell the left hand from the right,” the Big Guy says.
“Sometimes you just need to prime the well. Toss in a couple of coins and make a wish.”
“Mímir lived in the well of wisdom,” Frode says, inserting himself into their sotto voce conversation. “In Norse mythology, Odin threw his right eye into the well in exchange for wisdom and the ability to see the future.”
“What a pleasure, truly honored, thrilled in fact,” the Big Guy says, extending his hand to the General. “You’re the man I’m banking on.”
“Very glad to see you again,” the General says. “It’s a treat for me to get out of town.”
“Welcome to the club, General,” Bo says. “Will you be joining us on the hunt?”
“I will not,” the General says. “At this stage of the game, I must confine my game to the theatre of war. Outside that arena, there is the risk that I might perceive a threat where there is none. I could accidentally murder you all.”
There is a long pause, a loss for words. And then the judge says, “Bo?”
“I’m in.”
“I’ll go for the ride,” Eisner says. “I used to love riding on a pony.”
“Kissick?” the judge asks.
“I do not mount animals.”
“Metzger?” The judge is calling their names as though each man were casting a vote.
“I love to shoot,” Metzger says. “But my balls can’t take the ride anymore.”
“I’ll ride,” Tony says.
“I’m planning to get myself a bull,” the judge says.
“A bull what?” Eisner asks.
“Elk, moose, caribou, it just means a big boy,” Bo says.
“Indeed it does,” the Big Guy says, sending off the hunters with the guides.
Metzger is still standing in the foyer waxing poetic about shooting. “It didn’t occur to me to bring my own guns. When I was a kid, we learned to shoot long distances, now everything is up close, one hundred meters. Used to be that three to four hundred was considered long range. The velocity of a Remington round is about 3,790 feet per second while a .308 Winchester is 2,680, and for context, consider that a Boeing 737 cruises at about 600 miles per hour, 880 feet per second.”
“What are you getting at?” Kissick asks.
“I’m unpacking the meaning of ‘faster than a speeding bullet.’ I’m talking about the marketing of Superman. ‘Truth, Justice, and the American Way.’ It is fascinating to look at the evolution of that singular character from his creation in 1938 until now, that’s what I’m doing, Mr. Kissick.”
Kissick, the Big Guy, and the General are waiting for what comes next.
“Not that anyone is asking me, but I prefer a Ruger,” Metzger says dryly. “Not only are they reliable, accurate, and nice to look at, but you can repair them yourself if you are inclined.”
They’re staring at Metzger because it seems so odd that he’s a gun man; they’d be less surprised if he said he was a scholar of medieval texts.
“You know, of course, that the ‘grain’ of ammunition is based on the weight of a grain of rice,” Metzger says. “The grain is also used to calculate the weight of gold a dentist uses to fill a cavity and the hardness of water and the dose of an aspirin tablet; 325 is five grains. There was always the weight of wheat or barleycorns, and one carob is equal to four wheat grains or three barleycorns. Just the word barleycorn . . .” He looks off into space. “Then there’s the English penny. Twenty pennies make an ounce and twelve ounces make a pound. Then there’s the tower pound, 240 silver pennies.”
Metzger may never stop.
“Maybe we should take this outside?” the Big Guy suggests.
“I have no need for trophy shooting, but I wouldn’t mind a little target practice,” Metzger says. “All this talk has me primed to fire a few rounds. Have you got the gear?”
The Big Guy looks at Kissick and the General, both of whom shrug as if to say, Sure, why not.
“Yeah, I have the gear,” the Big Guy says. He goes into the kitchen and opens a cabinet. Inside the cabinet is a lockbox, and inside the lockbox are keys. He gives the key to the gun cabinet to Kissick and tells him that he’ll meet them outside in the clearing between the barn and the house.
The Big Guy goes back into the kitchen and asks Mary to give him a hand in the attic. It doesn’t matter that he hasn’t been in the attic for years; he knows what’s there.
With Mary’s help, he extracts an enormous red dress form that Charlotte used for a few months about a decade ago when she was into making her own clothing and comes banging down the stairs with it. Mary follows with a laundry bag filled with Charlotte’s collection of heads and wigs. The heads range from muslin-covered orbs that look like oddly shaped bowling balls to faceless white Styrofoam forms with hairpieces, falls, and bangs pinned onto them to a half-dozen flesh-colored faces complete with long eyelashes and red lips, sporting hairstyles that range from Jackie O tailored flips to blonde beehives piled high like donuts of the mind.
When they get outside, it’s snowing; there’s maybe an inch on the ground. As the Big Guy hauls the dress form past the house to some bales of hay, where in the past the family has been known to have a bonfire or drinks, it looks as much like he’s dancing with a woman in red as trying to maneuver her to the right spot. Mary dutifully follows, bouncing the laundry bag of heads. When they get to the site, she hands him the bag. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll leave you to it, whatever it might be.”
The Big Guy thinks there’s something Irish in Mary’s accent, but Sonny has said that if it’s anything it’s likely Alaskan, as that’s where her grandparents were from.
“You sure your wife won’t notice?” Kissick asks.
“Positive,” he says. He can’t remember when Charlotte last used these items. “In fact, she might even get a kick out of it.” He’s lying. Charlotte’s Texas roots are riddled with violence, and the idea of a bunch of guys blowing the heads off a dress form would rub her the wrong way. She would define it as a perfect example of sexism or, worse, misogyny. And she would be correct. The Big Guy isn’t saying it aloud, but sacrificing these specifically female objects is giving him a giddy pleasure. He’s angry at Charlotte for being a drunk. The whole situation makes him mad and, if he was being honest, afraid. He has no idea where it will leave him or their family. As he jams the plastic faux head with the long eyelashes and bright red lips down on the metal knob at the top of the dress form, a perverse pleasure courses through his veins.
“Her head is not on straight,” Kissick yells from about fifty yards away. He’s holding a long gun in each hand as Metzger takes turns trying out each of the three that they’ve taken from the gun cabinet.
The Big Guy looks back at the head; it’s cocked off to the right, listening to the wind, with the hair fluttering in the breeze as it picks up flakes of snow. He straightens the head on the knob and then extracts two long straight pins from either side, gets the hair on right, and pushes the pins through the skull back into place. He looks back at Kissick, Metzger, and the General. The General, with his helmet on, gives him a double thumbs-up, and the Big Guy calls, “Hold your fire,” and walks back toward the men.
“Are we going to do it all at once like a firing squad or take turns?” Metzger asks. There is silence.
Despite his guilty pleasure, the Big Guy can’t; it’s a step too far. If he shoots, he’s shooting Charlotte.
“Would it come as a surprise if I said I’ve never used a gun?” Kissick asks.
“Never too late to take your shot,” the General says, relieving Kissick of one of the long guns, so his hands are free to raise the other.
“What is this one called?” Kissick asks, bringing it up to his eye.
“It’s a Remington,” the Big Guy says. “A classic.”
“Lower your shoulders,” the General says in a calm, instructive voice. “No reason for your shoulders to be in your ears. Close one eye, look through the scope, and tell me what you see.”
“The gates of hell,” Kissick mumbles. “I’m an accountant, not an assassin.”
“Every man needs to defend himself if push comes to shove,” the General says gently. “It may not be safe for me to shoot outside the theatre of war, but I am always primed to teach.”
“Fine,” Kissick says. “I see the woman in red.”
“Good job,” the General says. “Currently, your weapon is not loaded, but when it is and you pull the trigger, be sure you stay steady. Every weapon has a kick, the rearward thrust of the bullet exiting the barrel. The heavier the bullet, the more recoil. With this gun, you have a nice stock, that’s the part up against your shoulder, and a longer barrel—all of which give you accuracy.”
Kissick lowers the weapon, his face twisted into a knot. The Big Guy is sure he’s about to walk away in disgust. Kissick hands the weapon to the General. “Load me up.”
The General loads the weapon and hands it back to Kissick. “You are now an armed man. Face forward.”
The Big Guy takes five steps back.
Metzger takes two.
The General raises his right arm straight up in the air. What a minute ago looked like a regular-length arm becomes a yardstick with fingers. He holds this arm straight, high. “Raise your weapon and find your aim.” And then the General swiftly lowers the limb and simultaneously shouts in a booming voice, “Fire.”
Kissick fires, sending the shot high and well south of the mark.
“Prepare for round two,” the General broadcasts. “When I raise my arm, take a breath in and hold your innards tight and steady. Exhale when you pull the trigger.” The General raises his arm again. “And fire!”
Kissick pulls the trigger; better but still no prize. Again and again. With each round fired, Kissick’s face unwinds a little bit. When the ammo runs out, Kissick lowers the gun; his face is glowing.
“You all right?” the Big Guy asks.
“As I was shooting, I remembered that I have done it before, on the boardwalk. You know the one where you aim a water pistol into a clown’s mouth to blow up a balloon to win a stuffed animal. I’m very good at that, excellent at getting the water in the hole.”
“Well, you didn’t win anything this time,” Metzger says. “But maybe you’ll do better later when we play piss on the Cheerios.”
“Who’s next?” the Big Guy asks.
“I’ll go,” Metzger says, taking the Browning from the General. Like a pro tennis player, he does a few things akin to bouncing the ball before serving. He raises the gun into position, adjusts his shoulders; moves his head back and forth, audibly cracking his neck; then sinks into his knees, bracing himself, anchoring his legs to the ground, the snow compressing under his wing tips—the Big Guy hadn’t noticed the wing tips until then. They are old but well maintained, likely custom-made.
“Maybe you should try the Remington that I used,” Kissick suggests.
“No,” Metzger says. “Guns need to recover after they’ve been abused.”
Metzger—thin, his pants belted with a narrow black strap—raises the weapon, his arms steady and stronger than one would expect. His face is unmoved but for the pink tip of his tongue poking out from between his lips. The first shot goes clean through the middle of the head—blowing it off the knob. The Big Guy thinks that this might be enough, but Metzger continues to fire. The second shot pierces the dress form, ripping the chest open, causing the form to teeter but not fall. The next shot, like a gut punch, sends the form pitching forward onto its stomach. In the final two rounds, one skips off the dirt and wedges into the fabric; the last blows the base off the dress form, separating the stand, or legs, from the body.
“The man is an assassin,” the General whispers to the Big Guy.
“It helps me think, clears my mind,” Metzger says, handing the gun back to the General.
The men continue taking turns; after each round, the Big Guy resets the stage. He goes back out to the dress form although there’s less of it each time, the stuffing poking out like spilled intestines, burn marks on the torso, entry and exit wounds. It’s like the reset at a bowling alley. He hikes back to the form, sets it upright again, props it up using bales of hay, and puts a fresh head on top.
After a while, the Big Guy takes a turn, blowing a Styrofoam head to smithereens and taking the left side out of an old muslin one. The smell of the gunpowder, the strange heat in the cold air, stirs an unfamiliar violent passion that is relieved only by going another round and then another until his shoulder hurts and his emotions are spent. They continue rebuilding the target using whatever is left: the dress form, the bales of hay, the hair, the heads, hitting them again and again until there is nothing left, until the surrounding area looks like some strange ritualistic sacrifice has taken place. Meanwhile, it has continued to snow, enough to dust everything with a fine white powder that the Big Guy thinks Charlotte would appreciate. The sacrifices of these encumbrances of female life are the things she likely resents even more than she’s willing to admit. He imagines Charlotte watching them from an upstairs window and thinking that they are asses, then coming down and taking either the Remington or the Browning out of Kissick’s hands and showing the boys how it’s really done. He might be angry with Charlotte, but he admires her enormously and misses her as well.
By the time they are finished, the blonde beehive is two hundred feet in one direction and the head with the long eyelashes is split open one hundred feet in the other. There is a serious debris field of 1970s fashion carnage.
“Not a pretty sight,” Kissick says, surveying the damage.
“I could teach you boys how to make a little napalm and we could light it up,” the General suggests.
“You know how to make napalm?” Kissick asks.
“Yep, easier than Toll House cookies. One bag of packing peanuts, two gallons of gasoline, half a container of table salt, and a large container to mix in. And, of course, a stick to stir. You mix the gas with the peanuts—and when you’ve got as much gas as the peanuts can absorb, add a bit of salt, or window cleaner if you need to thin it. Mix well. And as they say, ‘Unite and ignite.’ ”
“That’s crazy,” Kissick says.
“I finally figured it out,” the Big Guy blurts out. He’s had an epiphany.
“What?” the General asks.
“Who you remind me of,” the Big Guy says. “When we first met, it was George C. Scott as Patton, but now I realize it’s more Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now.”
“ ‘I love the smell of napalm in the morning,’ ” Metzger says.
