Subdivision, p.20
Subdivision, page 20
I recognized the space from my own occupation of it, just minutes before. But unlike my office, which reflected my spare personal aesthetic, this version of 4Q was populated by decorations: an umbrella stand made from an elephant’s foot, which held umbrellas imprinted with the logo of a prestigious university; the trophy head of some kind of jungle cat; a bag of golf clubs, leaning casually in a corner; and several framed items, including a diploma accented in gold leaf, a plaque commemorating some management award or other, and a flash photograph of the Head Judge theatrically shaking hands with a heavyset white man—likely some powerful politician or CEO. On the desk stood a marble pen holder with a large fountain pen sticking out of it, a slim laptop computer, and the familiar Schwartzmann’s Sling sculptural toy, its five dangling steel balls presently in motion, clicking monotonously against one another.
The desk itself was quite unusual, so much so that it took me a moment to absorb its intended impact. For one thing, it was painted a bright, glossy red. Its surface tapered at the front, and terminated before me in a gleaming chrome grille bookended by a pair of large, faceted halogen lamps, presently casting an eerie light across the room and over my bedraggled body.
It was, in fact, made out of, or made to resemble, a sports car, in much the way a child’s bed might be: it was as though someone had sawed off the front of a stylish red coupe and refashioned it as a work surface. Indeed, I now saw that the desk was affixed to two tires, one on each side. And though, like most office desks, this one accommodated two chairs, one for the officeholder and one for a visitor, the two chairs were positioned side by side, meaning that if I wanted to sit down, I would have to do so beside the Head Judge, rather than opposite him, with the desk between us. In addition, the two chairs weren’t typical office chairs—instead, they resembled, appropriately, automobile seats, and probably had been exactly that, at one time. One of them, the “passenger” seat, was empty, and in the “driver’s” seat sat the Head Judge, gazing at me with a self-satisfied air.
The Head Judge appeared unconcerned by my arrival, or by the howling of the wind outside his window. “Ah, yes, hello,” he said mildly, smoothing his necktie against his chest. The tie was burgundy and decorated with a pattern, one too small to make out from where I was standing. “You must be our controversial new Phenomenon Analyst.”
I understood that I needed to come off as assertive and professional, to project authority with my every word and action. I tucked my blouse back in, wiped the sweat off my forehead, and said, “Thank you for seeing me?”
The Head Judge responded with a smirk. He was rather tall, and fairly young for a man in his position—perhaps just a few years older than me. His long face had a chiseled look, but his large hands appeared soft. His broad shoulders implied strength. His overall look could be described as seasoned, but not worn or weary—like an old-time film star or model in a cigarette ad. He was, in other words, quite handsome, and eerily familiar. There was no getting around it: he was the bakemono.
Along with this realization came another familiar feeling, one that the bakemono never failed to evoke in me: one of impending capitulation. It would be so comforting, I thought, to just slip into the passenger seat, settle back with a sigh, and let things take their natural course. I would close my eyes and accept whatever discipline he felt appropriate to mete out.
He tapped a key on the computer before him. It was astonishingly thin—barely distinguishable from a folded sheet of paper. “It seems to say here that you made light of your very important position, confessed to incompetence and sloppiness, and took credit for someone else’s work. These are serious infractions.”
In spite of my best intentions, I felt myself blushing. I couldn’t just succumb to his authority and charm! I had to be bold. I said, “Ummmm … none of that is … uh … true?”
He tilted his head and winked. “You’re impugning the integrity of one of our very best researchers,” he said. Then he shut the laptop, folded it three times, and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
As my mind scrabbled for a reply—there was a perfect retort, I just knew it, but I couldn’t seem to put my hands on it—I stared, transfixed, out the window over the Head Judge’s shoulder, where the wind had picked up a load of chaff from the ground—leaves, twigs, bark mulch—and swirled it up into the air. Among the objects caught in the gust was an entire sapling—maple, by the look of it—and it darted and spun before suddenly veering for the very office where I now stood. Like the Head Judge himself, it looked familiar, and evoked feelings and experiences that, like the storm debris, wheeled in the recesses of my mind: the warm comfort of a day in late spring, with the sun shining and the scent of privet blossoms carried on the air. The pleasure of physical effort, of getting one’s hands dirty, of staking a claim on a patch of ground and on a way of living. It’s important, I seemed to recall, not to disturb the root ball, to dig the hole wide enough for the roots to grow, to carefully stake the immature transplant. Also, one should avoid caffeine and alcohol after planting a new tree—and stay away from raw fish and soft cheeses, instead choosing nourishing snacks like carrot sticks or fruit. A healthy landscaper was also advised to take a daily neo-horticultural vitamin, one rich in iron and folic acid. And of course safety should be anyone’s top priority on the road, but buckling up was especially important for the expectant arborist.
Behind the Head Judge—no, I had to remind myself, the bakemono, the bakemono!—the sapling seemed to pick up speed as it approached, and finally it struck the office window with a startling bang. The window bulged and shuddered, and I jumped, letting out a small scream. Through the office door, I could hear the hurried footsteps and panicked voices of other employees as they began to recognize the severity of the storm.
The bakemono, meanwhile, had no visible reaction to the sapling, but he responded to my outburst with a low, patronizing chuckle. “There, there,” he said. “Why don’t you sit down?” He removed a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and used it to wipe the passenger seat before offering it to me with a wave of his hand.
I noticed, in the wake of the crashing branch, that the Schwartzmann’s Sling had continued to move at what seemed to be the same tempo as before. The quiet clicking of the steel balls made me feel sleepy and relaxed, and the automobile seat beside the bakemono looked comfortable. With a feeling that was part excitement and part resignation, I set my bag down on the desk and settled in beside him. I reached over my shoulder for the seat belt, but couldn’t seem to find it.
Fluidly, but not without a faint air of ceremony, the bakemono reached under the lip of the desk, gripped something with both hands, and pulled. A circular object emerged, attached to the desk by a heavy articulated arm: a retractable steering wheel. With a few deft motions, he clicked it into place, and then, with his hands at ten and two o’clock, proceeded to twist it back and forth, as though we were riding the desk down a winding country road. Now that I was sitting so close to him, I could make out the pattern on his tie: a series of little fetuses, each in its eighth month or so, joined by a network of umbilical cords rendered in gold thread.
“Sometimes new employees enjoy an early success or two, and they become overconfident,” the bakemono explained, one eyebrow raised. “They’ve been praised their whole lives, just for being cute and charming. But it turns out that the working world is more competitive than they imagined. When they realize that they’re not as smart as they’d thought, they’ll do anything to maintain their fraudulent status—even if that means robbing more experienced workers of credit for their labor.”
His words incensed me, and it was time to give him a piece of my mind. I turned to him and said, “I don’t know—maybe?”
Behind us, out the window, the storm seemed to rise in intensity. The wind howled, driving debris into the building; its scattershot rhythm formed a counterpoint to the monotonous clicking of the Schwartzmann’s Sling.
“For instance, one of our most valued researchers—the one who helped you with your phenomenon analysis, in fact—just made an exciting discovery in the field of quantum tunneling. His years of meticulous toil finally paid off: it turns out that, in certain circumstances, a nexus, or ‘well,’ of probability can alter the properties of matter, and make it temporarily permeable. This discovery has profound implications for the very fabric of life on earth, and he made it with a brilliant yet simple experiment involving tennis balls.” He turned to me with a pitying smile. “Someone just starting out, like yourself, would never be capable of such a thing.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing—Forby was being credited for what I’d accomplished literally minutes before! Scowling at the bakemono, I balled my hands into fists and snarled, “Whoa … that’s … kinda interesting?”
“I don’t want you to think,” he said, “that I don’t sympathize. In fact, I recognize that it must be hard to be someone like you.” He raised his left arm and crooked his elbow, as though resting it on the frame of an open car window. “To come so far, only to find that you’re a fraud—that you weren’t nearly as competent or attractive as you thought, and that the life you’ve imagined for yourself is a lie. It’s sad, really.”
“Uh-huh?” I said, in a fit of rage.
At this point, the bakemono’s shoulders and face began to twitch, betraying a certain amount of tension. Perhaps it was the weather, which had continued to worsen; the clouds had at long last filled the gap of blue that the sun had shone through, and the light had drained out of the day entirely. The rain of debris against the window was louder and more frenzied than ever, nearly drowning out the inexorable clicking of the Schwartzmann’s Sling, and shouts echoed behind the closed office door.
Or perhaps the bakemono was reacting to the case he was making against me—not only against my employment in the tower, but against my existing at all. He withdrew his arm from the “car window” and gripped the steering wheel with both hands, staring ahead as his jaw clenched and worked. His eyes—pellucid pools aglow with intelligence and wit—glittered like the most precious jewels as he said, “I’m sure you’ve considered quitting. In fact, I’m sure you’ve considered jumping out your office window, bringing the whole sordid charade of your life to an abrupt and violent end.”
His words chilled me—I’d never entertained such a horrific notion, and never would. “Sort of?” I forcefully countered. My hand again searched for the seat belt, and again came up empty.
“The truth is,” he went on, “the hopeless should not be forced to endure the misery of living. And, unfortunately, these people are often weak as well as depressed—too weak to take decisive action and end their lives once and for all. Furthermore, today’s world is so ugly and so unfair. The more of us that are born into it, the worse it gets. And the idea that anyone would voluntarily subject a child to this world—that’s not just unwise; it’s unconscionable.” His jaw trembled, and I thought I could hear his teeth grinding beneath the roar of the storm and the increasing commotion down the hall. I remembered that he’d been told by his dentist to use a mouth guard at night, to prevent his teeth from wearing down. He refused to use it, though, and it lay forgotten in the drawer of his bedside table. “I told you that I didn’t want a child,” he pleaded. “I told you it was a mistake.”
For a moment, I felt bad for him, and the desire to capitulate rose up in me like a wave of nausea. But I steeled myself: what he’d said was simply a lie! The bakemono and I had discussed having a child for months, and had agreed that we wanted one! His diseased mind had twisted our words, revised the history of our love. How dare he! My voice quavered with fury as I said, “Did you?”
“Yes, I did, but you insisted,” he wailed, thumping the steering wheel with his palms. “You think your optimism is some kind of virtue—as if, just by believing in something, you can make it true. Do you understand how foolish, how self-absorbed that is? You convince people that things will work out, and when they don’t, when everything falls apart, do you accept the blame? No, you blame fate.”
His steering, as it were, had become more erratic. As he jerked the wheel to and fro, I could almost feel our imaginary car swerving and lurching all over the road.
The bakemono continued his speech, froth issuing from the corners of his mouth, his cheeks glistening with enraged tears. “Meanwhile, your quaint notions have ruined plans, damaged lives. And this,” he said, pointing at my belly with a trembling finger, “this is the worst thing you’ve ever done. I said no. I said it again and again. But you needed a child, because my love wasn’t enough. You needed unconditional love—the love of a helpless innocent who couldn’t live without you. All to prop up your own fragile ego.”
Nothing could have been further from the truth—neither his memory of our conversations nor his analysis of my motivation for wanting a child. And yet his logic, to his mind, was airtight—when he got like this, you just couldn’t argue with him. My frustration and anger were growing, and he was having difficulty keeping the car in its lane. A passing bus greeted us with a long blast of the horn. The bakemono reacted with a twitch of the hands, sending the car scraping along a guardrail.
“Be … careful?” I screamed.
He turned to face me, slowly, theatrically. His beautiful eyes were ablaze and his chin trembled. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you. You’d like it if I was careful.”
My voice was ragged as, through tears of dread, I pleaded, “Maybe … I don’t know … watch the road?”
“Convince me. Convince me to watch the road,” he said through gritted teeth. “Convince me that any of this is worth it.”
We were approaching the bridge. The car was speeding up, heading right for the arrow signs warning of a curve. A delivery truck was approaching from the other direction. Every detail stood out in sharp relief: I could see the driver’s face, a rictus of astonishment and horror. Along the side of the road, a heavyset man in a flannel shirt, carrying a newspaper and a cup of coffee, stopped in his walk as the accident unfolded. A woman pushing a stroller on the other side drew back from the impending disaster while her baby slept, unaware. The driver was swerving to avoid us, and the truck had begun, inexorably, to tip onto its side. The bridge abutment loomed: soon the car would smash into it.
I’d had enough. I leaped out of my seat and reached for the heavy objects closest at hand: the batteries that now filled my bag. I closed my fingers around one, drew back, and flung it as hard as I could at the bakemono.
Whether serendipitously or by fortuitous quick thinking, the battery had been well chosen. It was large and heavy: a DX or QuikZap, by the look of it. What’s more, my aim was true: it struck him squarely in the middle of the forehead before ricocheting into, and silencing at last, the Schwartzmann’s Sling. The bakemono appeared shocked at my attack, and even flickered, briefly, into his badger form before snapping back into human focus a second later. The battery had left a mark—a flap of skin hung above his nose, and blood began to flow into his eye wells. Furious, he heaved the steering wheel in my direction, as though to run me down—ineffectually, of course, because the car was actually a desk.
By that time I’d drawn more batteries out of the bag and was pumping them at the bakemono in a veritable cannonade. They struck him about the face, neck, and shoulders, and soon he raised his arms to defend himself.
“I’m the one who quantum-tunneled!” I bellowed at last, continuing to pummel him with batteries. “I am! I’m the one who wrote those reports!”
But despite the rain of batteries, the bakemono laughed at me. “You can’t hurt me with those!” he said, as the debris outside began to swirl, faster and faster, in a roaring funnel of wind. “I’m not alive! You can’t hurt something that isn’t alive!”
This argument gave me pause, though how was I to know what was and wasn’t alive, in this bewildering world? I caught my breath, and the bakemono and I stared at each other across the gleaming desk. Then I reached into the bag for one more battery. I knew it was there—I remembered selecting it from the baskets at the drugstore, and carrying it to the counter in my sweater. My hand found it, seized it, drew it forth. It was larger, heavier, and more powerful than any other battery: the Goldblatt Cell.
“What did I just tell you,” the bakemono said, laughing.
But his eyes told me something different. Somewhere in the depths of that confused mind, a vestige of his former self resided, the part of him I had once known and loved, the part I’d once thought I could help. I couldn’t, it was clear now. I wished I’d understood that sooner. His crazed stare challenged me now, dared me. Begged me. Just because something wasn’t alive, didn’t mean it couldn’t hurt you. The bakemono couldn’t get any deader, but he could—wanted to, I believed—stop doing harm.
I launched the Goldblatt Cell over his head and into the window.
The noise was tremendous—a resonant clap like a gong. For a moment, nothing happened, and a sad smile spread across the bakemono’s face. Then a crack appeared in the glass, and lengthened, and the wind worked its fingers through and pulled, and the window shattered, and in an instant it was gone.
I barely had time to react: I dove for a corner of the room and curled up fetally next to the bag of golf clubs. The sudden vacuum began to shuffle the contents of the room like the balls in a bingo basket. I could hear as the golf clubs were shaken, then ripped from the bag one by one, as though by a caddy gone mad.
I stole a glance at the bakemono. He was trying to climb over the desk: his beautifully styled brown hair was swept back and his necktie fluttered violently. But it was no use. A street sign came soaring into the office and knocked him over, and the wind gripped him and pulled him into the air. His eyes wheeled and twitched in their sockets, in a textbook example of the medical phenomenon known as nystagmus, and in an instant, he was sucked into the maelstrom. He tumbled through the sky, flickering into badger form, then into a series of alternate shapes in an evident effort to escape the pull of the wind: a parking meter, a javelin, a rabbit, a water cooler, a lantern. In the end, perhaps exhausted by the effort, he reverted to his human shape and was carried off. Soon he was nothing but a dark speck in the distance, indistinguishable from any other trash.
