The rich people smell slowly wafts out of the room (Andrew had had the windows open—kinda hard to wallow around in suffocating heat. Tennessee is not exactly kind in terms of warmer weather). The rich men are really just kind of…sitting there. This is getting a little awkward, hah…maybe he should…uh…do something.
“Mr. Ward?”
Oh…hah, wait what? Were…were they talking to him?
“Are you going to begin telling us how you met such a high-profile man as Mr. Lee?”
“Oh yeah, hah…about that…uh…” (does he let on that he literally just bumped into him on the street?) “I…er…met him…at…uh, hah, let’s see…”
“You met him where?”
“On…the street…”
“You met him on the street.” Oh geez…why did he say it like a statement? Well, it was a statement but…whatever.
“Yeah…I did.”
“What street.” Again with his lack of inflection!
“I don’t know! It was a street, I know that.”
Rich-guy-asking-questions sighs. He opens his mouth and—
This feels bad. Everything feels bad. It’s that all-consuming, can-feel-it-even-behind-your-eyes sort of bad. Calling it simply bad doesn’t fully explain it, as it technically doesn’t feel bad, it’s just…not right. Not in the moral sense—it’s like the emotional manifestation of a painting being slightly more slanted than where it usually sits. So…does that constitute as bad? What is bad?
“Why are you not answering.”
“D’agh! What…were you saying?”
“This is clearly going nowhere,” he and his clique all stand up and—no! He can make this right…right? They can’t just leave like that!
“Farewell.” Asking-questions-guy extends his hand. Andrew—shaky and sweaty and defeated—shakes it. Rich guy clique leaves. Just like that. Poof. Gone-zo.
He plops onto the couch and just kind of lays there. The world—the stupid, silly world—is going on completely fine without him. The rich men are probably going off to their lavish little mansions in a carriage. The poor are still toiling or getting drafted. Civilians are still getting caught in the midst of warfare and dying. Everything is bleak and dull and boring. This all sucks. Agh!
Nothing a little bit of sleep won’t fix.
* * *
Avoiding the newspapers is nearly impossible—every-corner-without-fail there’s either a newspaper just sitting there or a newsboy hollering; all of their headlines are various ways of saying “Robert E. Lee Interview.” It’s like the universe is taunting him. Even in relatively desolate areas there’s something about the interview…somehow.
This is all getting to be too much…if he started it, he has to end it. Other, less stupid things should be reported on. And besides: their information isn’t even right. Not that they care, but…
Andrew—in an odd little fugue state—finds himself in front of a comically large factory titled “NEWSPAPER GRINDER.” Never heard of that before…seems interesting enough—
Wait! Hah! Oh, God! Oh-god-oh-god-oh-god! He can do it! He can go in there and demand that his story be put off shelves along with everything else that was inspired by it! That’s how that works, right?
He rushes inside; the doors screech and then close.
Everything is dark. Stupidly dark. The place reeks of ink. It seems pretty vacant. Is no one here?
“He-e-ey! Is anyone in he-e-ere?”
All he hears is his echo.
“There’s rea-a-ally no-one here?”
Again, the echo comes back.
“Agh! You all suck—”
A hand yanks him by the arm and hauls him around for a while. After being manhandled for a bit, he and his maybe-kidnapper stop.
“(Ow, my arm…) What was that for?”
Simple staring.
“So there was someone here! A-ha! Well, sir…” Andrew coughs, “can you do anything to help me?”
“Can you do something for me?”
“What?”
“You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. It’s very simple logic.”
“Yeah, but…you can help me? Really?”
“Only if you help me.”
“Alright…” Andrew looks both ways before going back to staring at the in-need-guy, “fine.” In-need-guy looks surprised; poor fella. “Can you help me get my interview off the shelves?”
“Your what?”
“I’m the Robert E. Lee interview guy…y’know?”
“Don’t think I do. Too busy fighting the war to do anything else.”
“Well, why’re you here, then?”
“Hiding…from the war.”
“Fair enough…uh, what exactly do you need help with?”
He grips Andrew by the hands (rather roughly at that) and simply stares at him. His warm, rotten smelling breath creates a rather uncomfortable dichotomy between the cold room and the in-need-guy.
“Do you…uh…hah…think you could…get me a li-i-itle (not a lot…hah…)” he gives a crude measurement with his fingers of the amount he needs; it’s very small, whatever it is, “bitta opium?”
Oh.
Andrew is at a stand-still.
“If you do that, I’ll wipe your interview or whatever cle-e-ean off the shelves. Clean-clean. Deal?”
Andrew neither shakes his head or nods. Opium-guy takes whatever lack of a reaction he has as a “yes,” though.
“So…it’s settled?”
“I…what?”
“You’ll get me my goods?”
“I…uh…” Andrew makes a long, awkward noise in deciding, “er…sure. You…you know what you’re doing, though?”
“Do I what?”
“You know what you’re doing with the newspaper-interview stuff?”
“I’m certainly-certain!”
“You’re sure?”
“Yuh-huh!”
Andrew, not by his own volition, shakes the opium-guy’s hand. It’s very clammy.
“You’ll be here, then?”
Opium-guy jerkily lifts his head to Andrew’s question. He stares at him for a while before replying with “Hope I will.”
“Alright…uh…thanks for your service…”
“Oh, it’s no biggie. Only cost me my arm…and my brother…even my sister! Don’t know how she got caught up in it, though…said she—”
Andrew bolts off.
* * *
Oh, where is he going to get opium? He has a couple of vague ideas…none of which sound very good. He can either go to an “opium den”…whatever that is, or he can steal it from a doctor. Don’t want to do the first option, really don’t want to do the second option…but what else is there to do? He’d like to get it legally, and the “opium den” might be the only way to do that.
Oh, it can’t be that bad…right? He’s been to saloons before. It’s the same principle, just different substances. And besides: people on opium are probably much nicer than those who are drunk. They just get really tired and giggly. No fights, no yelling, just laying down in barely-conscious bliss. He can see the appeal.
The fugue state seemed to work before in locating areas of interest…let’s see if it’ll work again.
It does not work again.
Oh God…where is he? Wherever he is has got an absolutely giant statue of…some guy. He’s very bronze-y. He lives atop a cement box barricaded by a rusted fence. Andrew could probably climb over it if he really wanted to. And y’know what? Maybe he does want to.
A-ha! He has a great idea!
He scurries over to the statue’s living quarters and invades them…not without difficulty. The fence is a li-i-ittle too high for his liking, but after some heavy hauling, he eventually makes it face-first—
Ow! Cement!
Wait a minute…this is actually brilliant! People might not listen to a yelling man next to a statue, but they’ll listen to a bleeding man yelling next to a statue! Hahaha! Praise be to the vague deity/deities!
He stands up, teeters a little, then starts off his speech.
“Ladies…gentlemen…humble people…I have a proposition for you.”
Two people look his way, then immediately avert their eyes. Dangit!
“If anyone can get me a little bit of opium, then I’ll…uh…tell you why our system of free-speech is bad!”
He gets a couple more eyes. Unhappy ones.
A man walks up to him. He says, “What do you mean our system of free-speech is bad?”
“If you give me a little bitta opium, I’ll tell you! I’ll tell ya a-a-all, actually!”
The man frantically looks around, digs through a couple of his pockets, then fetches a teeny little bag, “Be quick.”
Haha…what?
“This…has opium in it? I…really?”
“Be quick!”
“Oh my God—thank you!”
“Hurry!”
“I…uh…it’s bad, ya-see, because…”
“Get to the point, you disgusting addict!”
“Agh! Sorry! It’s bad because it’s biased!”
“What do you mean it’s biased?”
“D’ua-a-a-gh…the people in charge have their own opinions of what’s right…right? You might not know, but they’ve a greater influence on whatever it is us poor laborers consume than what we give ‘em credit for. Well, not credit, since it’s a bad thing, but…oh whatever! Get it now?”
His sole listener’s eyes suddenly get all wide; a smile creeps up to his mouth. “Good God, you’re a genius! Tell me more!”
“Oh, don’t flatter me, hah! But anywho…both sides’re guilty of it. Everyone is guilty of it, thinking of it. We all have our opinions on things—it’s in our nature. So free-speech can’t really be free if whoever’s in charge is dictating it to fit their own mold-a morality, yeah?”
Andrew’s hands are suddenly grasped by the man; “Let me help you down there—”
“I, uh, wasn’t done—”
Andrew is, once again, manhandled off to where he’s ought to be. The man’s hand comes up to Andrew’s face; maybe now is not the time to get handsy—
His hand comes back stained with blood. Oh yeah…his face is bleeding, isn’t it? Hah, forgot about that—
Oh, God! It hurts now! A-a-agh!
He runs off, the newly-bloodied-man yelling after him.
* * *
“Hey…pal…I gotcha your opium…i-if you’re in here at all…”
Nothing but echoing. If opium-guy does that jump-scaring thing again, so help him God—
He sees a pair of glassy, very undilated eyes stare back at him. Sweet relief!
“Here, buddy…” Andrew dangles the bag in front of the man as if he’s handing a feral cat a hunk of meat. “P-please don’t bite me, hah…withdrawals can make ya weird like that, hah…”
The bag is snatched and (by the looks of it; it’s kinda hard to tell) is poured into the man’s mouth. He winces, then slumps to the wall and sighs all contently.
“Good stuff?”
“The best.”
“Are you gonna help me now?”
The man blinks then stretches out a little, “What?”
“Y’know…you’re gonna get rid of the interview stuff, yeah?”
“Oh yeah…that…” the ex-soldier makes a vague gesture with his hand, “later.”
“N-no…now, please.”
“Don’t be naggy.”
“We had a deal!”
“And I’ll stick to the deal! Just…gimme a minute.”
“A minute? Like…sixty-seconds?”
“Yeah…”
One Mississippi, two Mississippi…
“Stop counting out-loud!”
Seven Mississippi, eight Mississippi…
“Agh! Fine! I’ll do it!”
Andrew makes an odd, triumphant little noise as he helps the ex-soldier to his feet.
“Ugh, my back…where are these newspapers?”
“Oh, they’re everywhere!”
“Well…sorry-ta-say this, bud, but…” his rough hand falls on Andrew’s shoulder, “if that’s the case, then I think you’re just gonna have to live with it.”
“What?”
“They’ll (whoever “they” is) forget ‘bout it. Army forgot about me…I hope. And I knew how to fight like nobody’s business!”
“We had a deal!”
“And I’m giving my end of the deal to you. Live with it, pal. Life’s got more good things to offer and you’re wasting it by worrying over silly little interviews. What point is there in suffering when you could just be living?”
“Agh! I’m not getting hooked on opium because I didn’t know how to deal with problems! I am actively dealing with problems…or I was…”
“Didn’t say it had to be opium…it was just an example. Good food’s worth living for, yeah? Or chess…or photography…really anything.”
“I am leaving!”
“Or writing about other things…”
“La-la-la-la! I can’t hea-a-ar yo-o-ou!”
“Or…doing whatever it is you’re doing at the moment…or—”
The door slams.
* * *
Life has, once again, stopped. Not in a both good and bad way as before…but in a…normal way. It is neither good nor bad. It simply is.
The papers have seemed to be weaned off the interview. They’re now latched onto “how the war ended,” and “how the 13th amendment got signed.” Really very boring stuff…but God, he’ll take boring stuff over the interview!
Staring at the ceiling isn’t a nihilistically terrible experience anymore. It is simply just…staring at the ceiling. He wishes it was his (and his wife’s) ceiling, but this’ll do. Least it doesn’t have a leak.
The couch is really very comfortable. He could just melt into it…he might just do that, thinking of it…
Life, although it isn’t filled with nice-smelling rich men, or religiously-inclined husbands who compulsively cheat on their wives, or Robert E. Lee (ugh, not him!), or ex-soldier opium-addicts, might just be worth living again…maybe.
