"Inhabitability Chapter 5" by Christopher Heisserer

5

            Rachel consoled me, but spoke little else the next few days. The phone call came, just as was discussed, with mom being given an offer she could not refuse. She of course did, quite vehemently, and even disagreed after looking at the professional-looking website. She wanted mailed information. Surprisingly enough, it came the next day. Mom, even when drunk, could be a force to reckon with.

            In the space between my fear-filled conversation with Mrs. Warner and mom asking me if I knew anything about the school, I realized why I had taken all the information with a grain of sand, all this jumble of information so calmly. Throughout my life, the normal aspirations of a youthful, teenage boy were not properly met, the connections of social acceptance and physical prowess not properly conveyed through positive reinforcement or consistent discipline. An explanation to this is needed, for certain, but my realization of this struck me down one night in the dead of silence.

            I had given up on the natural, normal goals of a person. Perhaps it was cultural, the overexpression of freedom, of individuality and the right to be ignorant. Perhaps it was the video game phenomenon, and the incessancy of constant visual and aural stimuli, the insistence of advertisements everywhere I looked, of beautiful people in every shape, form, position, enjoying their work as surgeons, as actors and actresses, fifty feet high on billboards. Perhaps it was the political, with all sorts of official-looking people staring down their noses, preaching they knew the answer while in reality trying to find all the new ways to stay as neutral as possible. The Great American Dream, I feel, has turned into not some strong, proud march into the great unknown, but some quiet crawl to nothingness, to scheming and neutrality, finding all the ways to break a system while speaking lectures on upholding it. Maybe, on some levels, it was my upbringing, the ungovernable randomness of alcohol and power, the slash of being between my mother’s emotion and my father’s logic, both tearing at each other with the same goals in mind. Regardless of the reason, the unfathomable complexities of what makes a man tick, I realized that, deep down inside me, I was numb from the world, from society. Death was everywhere, the possibility so close to home that the doorstep preached it every morning, the radio sang it throughout the day, and the television screamed it in the evening. School shootings seemed like my school, with the descriptions of the shooters matching mine and seven others I knew, depression as wide-ranged as brunette hair, and everyone wanting to be different just so they could fit in.

            I grew weary of that parade a while back, the buying-in of “common knowledge,” the belief in anything spoken on the television or on the radio or in the newspaper. It had become a ratings-above-all-else race, a race for money and power, and those good things, those beautiful little things were scraped out nonchalantly as the viewers turned their collective head. I watched drugs destroy friends, abuse destroy friends, and everyone was an atheist because “God Couldn’t Exist.”

            I wanted God to exist. I knew He existed. He had to. Then I realized what this country, this nation, this culture was doing: Everyone in the public eye was looking for reasons to doubt; if it manifested itself in the doubt of others, of accepted precedent, of laws, rules, regulations, tribulations, expectations, individuality, peace, security, dependence, truth. The America I saw was the America of Bullies, of strong-arm tactics or covert tongue-in-cheek tactics. I listened to Mrs. Warner’s voice in my head, reliving the conversation a million times a day, and I heard truth. A finality of truth for this world, for this place, for this everything. She was talking about finding God, about placing within my grasp the tool to achieve it. It pained me to no end that this world would cease, that so many millions of truly good people would die in the cause of it. In fact, I broke down several times, crying quietly into my hands for the death of this great potential that had been slowly cultivating the past five thousand years.

            A new question rose in my head, and I beat myself up daily for not asking it of her: “Are you going to destroy the entire planet? Or are you going to destroy the life on it and leave it to regrow?”

            This place I was in, tying my shoelaces as if it didn’t matter, not zipping my fly because it was stupid to try, hugging my mother even when she was drunk, it enveloped me. Most people would not believe. They would have a profound skepticism over all of what the Warners had said. It was just too far out there to seriously believe. But I believed. For hours I sat and thought about why, why her story sounded so right. Don’t get me wrong: I was a cynic. One of the deepest, the darkest. The conspiracy theorist that preferred to not watch the news because it wasn’t the entire story; the lord of gossip that collected but never spoke, the funnyman that had more truth in his sarcasm than his anger.

            And yes, a part of me that hadn’t died with the onset of puberty still wanted to fly, that broken part of me that hoped wings were required, and the “Zuh-rahn-tees” lived in cities in the sky. Of course, I was also only sixteen with romantic notions of anything is possible still stuck in my head from when I saw the Devil’s Stair when I was six and almost peed my pants. I remembered that trip because it was when my dad made me tie my shoes for the first time. It was a trip of firsts, I think. And, if I remember, I actually did pee my pants. But that wasn’t a first.

            Studies were pointless, grades meaningless, brushing my teeth at night was done simply out of habit and a strange fantasy that Rachel would crawl in my window in the middle of the night to make out with me. I didn’t want to have bad breath. Of course, that was why I kept mints beside my bed, as well. I was stupid like that.

            Needless to say, I accepted the invitation to that prestigious school with all the right curriculum, the 99% placement rate after college graduation, and the urgent need to fill a vacancy so high that I would be whisked away within the next week to interview and get settled in the dorm rooms.

            Oddly enough, my parents didn’t object too much to the requirement of my physical self on the opposite coast alone and dressed up. They were glad their son’s future was set, and that he would receive the best education available in the entire world. Of course, they asked me in disbelief why in the world such a prep school would see such potential in me of all people, but I just shrugged and, not too far off the truth, said I didn’t know, exactly.

            Rachel called with the good news that she was accepted on scholarship as well, and that the entry essay was all that was needed for them to accept her. I relayed this to my mother, and under confidence, mentioned her mother might have had something to do with it. Mom, being who she was, drew a conclusion that wasn’t there, and mentioned how convenient it was that Rachel and I were both accepted to the same previously-unknown prep school, and how convenient it was that it was at the exact same time. Without skipping a beat, mom called Mrs. Warner to talk about that prep school, and I sat and smiled at how well-constructed the whole scheme had been, how flawless it was. Their conversation ironed out any doubts mom had about the school while also stating that it was Mrs. Warner who had mentioned my name in the first place. Seamless.

            I didn’t like Rachel being so fake, didn’t like the excited screams when she met me, the act she put on in front of my family. It felt fake, as if I were cheating my family out of good money, as if I were becoming that same shrewd poster boy for America that I had so disliked in the first place. I was lying to my parents to fit in, to perhaps do something better with my life. It was then, in light of what exactly I would be doing to my family, that I began to doubt Rachel’s sincerity, and her mother’s surety.

            The facts were quite open to debate, although their story would explain why Rachel could run in through the gas with shotgun roaring and I couldn’t, it would explain why those creatures existed in the first place, and why Rachel’s mother was one of the first to arrive at the scene. It would explain a lot, yes, but at the same time, Occam’s Razor seemed to cut into the fabric of my reality. It was the American way to complicate, fabricate, and otherwise expand on an idea soas to make it useable for entertainment. Action movies came to mind, science fiction movies came to mind, fantasy movies came to mind all in a sequence of thought. It was all fiction; notable fiction, but fiction nonetheless. Reality wasn’t so explosive.

            Con artist was the first thing that came to my mind. Rachel and her mother both. I hadn’t met Mr. Warner yet in all the time I dated Rachel, and I had a feeling he didn’t exist. He was supposedly on business trips all the time, every time I was with her, and only through pictures did I have a face for the phantom. Rachel was smart, probably impossibly rich, and her mother was high-up in training and intelligence. Perhaps they were covering up the laboratory incident by disposing of my body, governmental hires whose job was to get rid of evidential mistakes. Maybe this was my deathtrap, my body burned to ash while the world continued living well past Traveling Day and everything real in Mrs. Warner’s story was simply a well-constructed lie. Just like the lie they were using on my mother, my father. It was worthwhile as an idea, as a statement of self-preservation. I wanted to survive, as most human beings generally do, and the conflict of realities began to seriously frighten me.

            This is real. This isn’t. Rachel was a study in acting, her grand smile disappearing as soon as my parents’ gaze was elsewhere, asking me how I was doing, consoling me, and quick as lightning, her smile was back up again, all bubbly and excited that her future was so bright, as well. I didn’t see her mourn for the death of this world even once, in the depth of my psyche I knew she had to call it home as much as I did. If, indeed, it was happening, she shouldn’t have the willpower to be so excited about what would ultimately lead to this planet’s death. I certainly didn’t feel happy, or excited. In fact, the only thing I really did feel was a Phillips screw-shaped twisting of my stomach and a headache that would not, for all the effort I was putting into it, stop pulsing my heartbeat into memory.

            Maybe mourning wasn’t part of their lifestyle. She scared me. They all scared me. I hadn’t seen them real. Not yet. Even if they were being honest about it all, I hadn’t seen how they looked without the mask. I couldn’t figure out how they could be human in shape unless their initial mass could fit inside a human body. I picked up a serious Dr. Pepper habit during those days. It was my consolation to what was going on. A constancy to depend on.

            My other friends, Matt Ereck and Shaun and Phil, Emily and Samantha from the public schools, all seemed to disappear. They put a distance between us, Rachel and I, although Ereck acted as if he wanted to hang out all the more.

            Two days before I was supposed to leave, the phone rang, and as I picked it up I was almost certain who it was. "Hello?" I asked, the greeting I gave to all my phone calls unless I was certain who it was.

            "Yo, it's Ereck." Matt Ereck. Exactly who I thought it was. As much an extrovert as any guy I have ever met. "What are you doing?"

            I had been watching some dolphin report on the news. "Watching television. I might go out to ride my bike some. Other than that, nothing. How about you? Up to much these spring days?"

            He laughed. "Sounds fun. We need to get together sometime and bike ride. I can't assure you my bike is anywhere as good as yours, but I'm sure I can more than keep up with you." I laughed, giving a quick, "you wish," before he continued. "Me, Shaun, Phil, Samantha, Emily, and maybe Rachel are going down to Shaun's boat this afternoon. I wondered if you wanted to come down and hang out for the day. His parents are gone for the week in the Bahamas."

            "You say Rach might be going?" I asked, knowing it to be a ploy to get me to come along. He was a manipulative person, and although he was very fun to hang around, I saw through what he said. His tricks didn't work with a practiced master. "I haven't heard anything from her."

            "Yeah, well, I haven't called her yet. I was wondering if you could to save me the trouble, since she's your girlfriend and all."

            "Very true. You got that one straight and true. She is my girlfriend and all. I wouldn't want you to get put out or anything knowing you can't have her."

            It was his turn to laugh. "Exactly. You know how much of a thing I have going for taken women. 'Specially hot ones like Rachel." He did the snort/sneer over the phone that he was known so very well for. "I'm not Kevin. You know as well as I do. I'd never try to take a friend's girl. 'Specially you. We've been friends since the third grade, man. Everyone else can just sit down."

            "Same for you, man. I keep friends with friends, and girlfriends with family. Unless she happens to be both."

            "Which she is."

            "Yeah. Well, I think I can make it down there. I'm not sure. Mom's still around."

            "Awesome. I hope to see you there." Now that the strict formalities were out of the way, he brought in his daily dose of gossip. "Say, did you hear about what Shaun said the other day? I don't remember if you were there or not."

            "No, I wasn't." In truth, I hadn't done much of anything with them since the second semester started. They were great people, cool when actually in school or when there were things to go to or whatnot, but other than that, they were hard to get along with sometimes. Honestly, they sat around and drank beer and did nothing all day, found "fun" things to do with baseball bats, and liked stealing street signs for the novelty of it. They didn't have my version of fun. At least Ereck didn't.

            "It just blows my mind he said this. You know how he's always taking girls around, asking them if they need rides and all that bullshit?"

            "Yeah." I also knew Ereck made fun of Shaun about as much as any bully at school.

            "Well I asked him what he thought more important, friends or girlfriends, and he said girlfriends, hands down. His exact words."

            "No kidding?" I asked, not really caring much.

            "No kidding. Of course, I said, 'Hands down your pants cause you can't get anything except from your sisters and your mother!" I laughed a little bit, just enough for him to think I thought it was a funny joke. "You don't understand, Aaron, he got so pissed. He pouted all night. Just like the little girl he is."

            "I can see times when a girlfriend is more important, though. I'd never cancel a date with Rach if you guys called me to do something. I'd still go out with her."

            "Oh yeah, I agree totally. But I'm saying, like, if you made plans to go out with us, and, say someone like Haley called up needing a chauffer to some friends' house, Shaun would go and do that for her before he'd even think about doing anything for us. Now does that sound like much of a friend?"

            About as friendly as you are, I thought. "You make a perfect point. I can't believe he said that."

            "Me neither. Well, I hope to see you and Rachel down there, but if not, don't worry about it. We've got all semester to hang out."

            "Of course. I'll talk to you later man." Guess he didn’t hear about my transfer.

            "Peace."

            I felt terrible for not telling him in the strange place in my head where I fought to even out the socially accepted manliness of being male and the unaccepted feminine attributes I picked up while dealing with mom’s randomness and pain. I was a different person to everyone. I didn’t betray myself; I was all those people. I was a little bit Shaun, a little bit Ereck, a little bit Emily, a lot Rachel. I was pieces. Beautiful pieces and they all were me.

            I wanted to be myself, be different and special and amazing and important as a person, as a creature, as a living being, stay true to who I am, who I wanted to be. Unfortunately, I was everyone else. Or everyone else was me. Those things I found special and important in everyone else, I found special and important inside myself as well. Ereck’s love for physical activity, his competitive nature and his determination. Shaun’s sensitivity, his interest in making others comfortable and happy. Emily’s bluntness, her to-the-point honesty that, although it was based on a need to impress people and show that she is, indeed, intelligent, keeps me focused and true to myself. And Rachel… well, beside the fact she’s not human, we have a lot in common. She’s so close to my personality, it’s scary sometimes. Plus she’s female. And as Ereck said, she’s hot.