Shooting Moon

"Shooting Moon"

by eric sean scott

“Go then, Gary,” she tells me in that new liquid hydrogen voice of hers. “Go begging for help. See if they care.”

She thinks I’m stalling, shirking, running scared from my so-called “duty.”

“Coward,” she says. The word is an ice pick.

So I go--what else can I do?--I go begging.

The desk they send me to is lettered and numbered and just one tree in a forest of many lettered and numbered desks. Like one of those regimental patches of wood off the interstate racing by my car window as a boy while traveling, a formation of replanted trees shooting off in arrow-straight precision. Only, these desks are made of some cheap brown polymer plastic, rippled to look like wood, and this forest is spread across the third floor of the City Center Building in an open arena the size of a football field. Guess that's why they need all the numbers and letters.

The man they send me to is lettered and numbered as well. It's on the shiny gold tag attached to his breast pocket: J-179. Same as his desk.

He stands politely, offering his hand, introducing himself with all the personality of a taped recording. “Hello. How do you do? I'm J," he says on automatic smile. "How can we help you today?"

When I come to places like this I sometimes get a bit paranoid. I begin wondering if all the employees are really automatons. And I become convinced that all the citizens are on some mass hypnotic drug, bigger and better than even Television itself, our most effective, century-old, ever evolving National Mass Sedative.

If I stay too long I get physically sick. I think it's all the waiting and sitting, standing in line, filling out paperwork, getting redirected to another window, another desk, with more sitting, waiting and standing in line. It's enough to drive you catatonic, like the rest of the sheep. Or maybe make you crazy. Much more likely in my case. Especially after hearing, "Hello. How are you today? How can we help you?" over and over and over until it sounds like insects fucking.

I swear, one more "How can we help you?" and I'm going to just help my damn self. See if I can smash one of these broken-record-retards up, check if they're really human, or just automatons as I suspect.

J isn't any goddamn help whatsoever, the numbered bastard.

I tell him everything, beg and plead, and all he can say is:

"I'm sorry, Mr. Davidson, but the city and state no longer cover this type of situation. We just cannot afford the expenditure. I'm sorry to inform you, due to the new by-laws, I’m afraid that the responsibility is yours alone. In fact, the Federal Government will hold you accountable."

and,

"I’m sorry, but we haven't the facilities for that type of thing. You must understand. You undertook the burden, now you must own the consequences."

and,

"No. You were well aware of the Intelligence Amendment when you purchased your charge and assumed ownership. Ownership begets responsibility. Given the situation as you've described, and from what I read here in the police report, it appears that you are under direct court order to dispose of this problem yourself."

and,

"Here. Paperwork. I’ll need two signatures, here and here, and initial here...Yes, it’s a .38 caliber, more than adequate. I assume you own a shovel and a plot of dirt. There is no sense in going to any great expense. Unlike family members, pets as such may be buried anywhere on your own property."

and on and on and on,

"I'm sorry, Mr. Davidson, there’s nothing more we can do...I believe I’ve explained it as best...please...Mr. Davidson! Please calm down! Listen. As I’ve said, there are laws. If you let it loose or refuse to dispose of this problem, you will be arrested. Do you hear me? You will be jailed. And fined an exorbitant amount to be sure. And all for nothing, because when they capture it, they will simply return it to you. According to your court paperwork, you have only two days left to comply. I suggest you get to it."

I think...maybe...I might start getting a little out of control at this point. Not sure, but I think I flash red and try to unscrew his head. I remember, vaguely, wondering about the color of brains. Gray matter, right? Or maybe green silicon motherboards for these puppets?

As security drags me off, J’s last words chase behind me, his voice rising and rising to a shout across the growing gulf between us.

"It’s obvious that you've grown much too attached, Mr. Davidson! Bad mistake! Emotional attachment always leads to problems of this sort! If you don't have the stomach for it there are people you can hire! But they cost much more than it did, I'm sure! Stand up, Mr. Davidson! Do your duty!”

And on and on and on. Echoing in my head. These words I've heard so many times I'm seasick.

Get a gun.

Do it yourself.

Be a man.

Take responsibility.

It's what the doctors say. It's what the shrinks say. It's what the broken-record-retard government automatons all say.

It's what my wife screams at me, all icicle-eyed, lips dripping daggers in the dead of night, as I sob hot bitter tears in torment.

Like Moon can't hear her. He may be dumb, but he's not deaf.

After almost a month of traveling this rocky road of frustration, exasperation, anger, fear and inevitable self-loathing, I finally find myself at that fateful destination of shit-tired, plumb-fucked, with no goddamn choices left to explore. Two days left. Less than 48 hours.

My wife, she urges me on with a straight-razor smile.

The rest of the world just nods solemnly, and insists it is so.

They all say I must do it myself.

They all say I must be a man

They all say I must take responsibility.

Do my duty.

Well.

At least now I have a gun.

All that’s left is locating my resolve.

******

Moon doesn't suspect a thing when I take him out behind the shed. I say I've got something to show him. At least I don't lie. I'll show Moon something soon enough.

Goddamn the Intelligence Amendment!

Goddamn the "60 Quotient Rule"!

Goddamn this whole world full of fucking heartless morons!

"Why, Moon?" I start blubbering, unable to push it down any longer. "Why did you hurt Cassie? Huh? Do you even know what you've done?"

"I sowwy Pawpaw. I bwoke Cassie like the cake plate. All gone, gawbage now. I sowwy," Moon shrugs his shoulders, smiling in oblivion.

"But Moon," I try and control myself, "after you broke her--while you were...you did something else. Do you know what you did Moon? Do you remember?"

"I make feel-good wee-wee wit Cassie," Moon laughs. It‘s a sweet laugh. An innocent laugh. "She scweam weal loud like Mamaw do when you jumpin onna bed."

"You!...YOU!" I shove him against the wall, this toddler in a man's body. "Do you have any idea what you've done!?" I hiss at him.

Moon just hunches against the wall of the shed, face turned down and aside and getting that blank look he gets when he's yelled at. It’s a look so empty and vacant I wonder where he's gone. Standing there, so close, yet so far, far away.

It's why I named him Moon. 300,000 miles.

A bicycle leans against the shed next to him. It’s pink with pastel flowers. It has a broken basket and a flat tire and weeds have begun to climb up the spokes. Cassie’s of course. I’d meant to fix it for her. I’d forgotten it was here, behind the shed.

"She...was only...four...” I heave and holler. “FOUR YEARS OLD! DO YOU HEAR ME!"

And I realize something, I'm not yelling at Moon anymore, I'm looking at the sky. The heavens.

I'm yelling at God. Cursing Him with every fiber of my being.

For allowing the Moons of the world to be born. For allowing those that make the laws pass something as wicked as the Intelligence Amendment, in which all adults tested at an IQ below 60 are considered non-personages. Without rights. To life or any of its possibilities. With only people like myself who care, and try to "adopt." It's like buying a pet now, from the pound, saving a life.

I am Master, Moon the pet. A dog. An "Old Yeller" for the Twenty-First Century. The “Mice & Men” of the new millennium.

And Moon has no clue what he's done of course. He broke her. He broke her making feel-good wee-wee like Mamaw and Pawpaw.

"GODDAMNITALL TO HELL!" I scream at last, whipping the newly acquired .38 out and throwing the muzzle toward Moon, squeezing soft, slow-motion rounds.

I flinch as the first one bites wood.

Moon doesn't flinch. He doesn't even register. Ozone baby. Gone drooling.

But when the second round slams into his shoulder and the third splashes into his neck, he looks up confused, as if awakening from a vague dream, unsure of where he is or what‘s going on. And then he sees me, eyes focusing, and he chokes on his last words, "I sowwy, Pawpaw...I bad, I sowwy..."

Then the fourth slug takes a quarter of his skull with it and turns my shed into a hellish painting of gore. I finally realize: these are just words, "sorry" and "bad." Just words Moon has learned to use when he gets yelled at. They don't really mean anything at all. They never have.

He slides down, trailing scarlet, slumping into the weeds. I sink to my knees, one hand clawing my wet face.

"Why, goddammit, why?" I'm wailing and whining, withering into banshee nonsense.

Knowing there's no one to answer. Knowing there is no answer. Only the question mark.

And I stare at this gun in my hand. This newly acquired lock, stock and smoking-hot barrel. It looks like a question mark. It looks like a smooth and shiny piece of peace, with an answer inside.

"Why not?" I croak, this time addressing myself.

My darling daughter, my beloved Cassie, torn away.

My loving wife changed in some shattered and broken way, changed forever for the worse by all of this horrific mess.

My whole life: an utter ruin.

Why not?

I gaze into the dark barrel, examining the warm, blue-metal depths. Did you know that the inside of a gun barrel is spiraled?

Two rounds left. But if I do this right, I'll only need one.

Let's see: gun up, both hands, sucking steel, thumbs triggered.

Bullet to the brainpan on three.

Here...comes...nothing--

"No, Gary. Not you. You belong to me." Her voice is a stamped envelope, signed, sealed and delivered. Her scent is a vanilla breeze teasing open my clenched eyes. The sun is setting behind her, haloing her bright curls as she leans casual and cross-legged against the corner of the shed.

Next to the blood and brains written in bold on the wall.

Next to Moon, rusting limp in the setting sun, nestling in a pool of cherry blackness.

Next to Cassie’s bike, with the broken basket and the forgotten flat, glistening with splattered cerise.

And she--my wonderful wife--she is smiling. Beautiful and tearless and wearing that pale and clinging green-sea evening gown of old. A vision of past joy, newlywed bliss, our first cotillion. She is a costumed memory. Wearing a joy-mask of distraction.

She kneels to me, cradles my head, pulls me to her. She kisses me forgetful, reaches, and pushes the gun away like a ringing phone she doesn’t want me to answer.

I nuzzle her neck and smell honeysuckle and plum wine. Our overgrown backyard swallowed by her skin and hair. Did you know that the inner ear is spiraled? Such pink, fleshy depths.

And she whispers lovelies like:

"We're young Gary. We can always make another Cassie. Or maybe even a Gary Junior."

and,

"We can always buy another Moon. A better Moon."

and,

"C'mon, hon. I've got dinner ready. Let's get you cleaned up. You've had a hard day."

She sounds so sweet and sane as she squeezes me, holds me tight.

She sounds so self-assured as she kisses my tears away, lifts me up.

She sounds so loving and lovable as she says all this, moving me along.

And with a placid nonchalance, upbeat and dismissive, she mutters a thousand more senseless things, on and on and on and on.

Till it all sounds like insects fucking.

A high-tension, meaningless drone.

Television snow amplified to an avalanche: ZSZHZZSTZSTZZSZHZZTZTSZTZSK!!!

Meaningless except for that one electric refrain echoing in my brain:

“We can always make another Cassie.”

And I’m thinking: no. No, we can’t. Cassie was not a cake you could bake. Or a pie you could make. And she most certainly was not a fragile cake plate so easy to break.

Cassie was an irreplaceable, radiant little girl. Cassie was my darling daughter, my heart, my smiling laughter. We cannot make another Cassie.

And I’m seeing my wife with new eyes. Moon eyes. She is just as hollow as anything.

And I’m wondering, turning back and looking around: where is that heavenly pistol? Good thing there are still two bullets left, I’ll need them both now.

“Gary? What are you doing? Come back here!” Hands on hips, stern and commanding.

“Wait, baby,” I call over my shoulder, excited. “I’ve got something to show you!”

“What is it?” Flip that frown upside down. She actually smiles as if it’s a present.

At least I don’t lie. I’ve got something to show her all right.

And it is a gift.

A gift straight from my heart.