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the archive(s):
issue no. 5:
What it's good for... / Paul A. Toth
"You said she came home and found you --"
Thank you for this room, this refrigerator, this icebox. You go to them. You knock. They pay. They film.
"And she needed the money for speed because you couldn't work?"
Couldn't? I row, understand, but I don't crawl. Row your wheelchair gently down the ramp. That's bad enough. Then I'm supposed to -- what, collect movie tickets? No. I get a government check, certain amount, not much. It comes and goes.
"But you were disabled from the start, before the marriage? I mean, she knew you couldn't or wouldn't work?"
Steady check was enough at first, but the cost of living skyrocketed. Rockets' red glare gives proof.
"But you could function? You know what I mean."
Yes. Yoga, geometry, technology, those all help. Didn't matter anyway. She'd rather clean, scrub floors, vacuum. A clue for me, detective. But when inflation came, in more ways than one, that changed. I watched the video. One was on TV when it -- she brought them home, like audition reels. She brought both auditions home.
"And a few seconds later, her sister came through the door?"
The other one, right. A significant difference between the two, one mole in the center of the other's forehead. Bindi dot, we called it. The Hindu, we called her. Internationalism right here in the middle of nowhere. It's everywhere, see? Global village.
"And at the time, you were --"
Watching the other one. Bindi girl. The Hindu. I watched that one first. I never saw the other one.
"And then --"
So she pushes me. With vacuuming on the mind, my nose lands in the carpet, a nice long shag. It's a joke, the way it works out, but a little too complicated: "A man walks in a bar, and his last name is Bar, and he was barred from admission, so when they tried to bounce him, a barroom brawl commenced. And then --"
"So your wife interpreted watching the sister as cheating?"
The monkey got choked, then they all went to hell in a little rowboat. Except the guy rowing. Leave me out.
"Even though your wheelchair ended up --"
They were both crashing, coming home to snort off the tweak. She penetrated Hindu girl with my wheelchair. Punch line of our long and winding joke. Call it crucifixion. When in Rome...
"You're not too upset about all this. Your wife's in deep shit."
Deep? I want her in Florida, see? She'll live in that neighborhood Disney owns: humidity; a thousand flags draping porches; morning chats with neighbors; parent-teacher conferences though we have no kids; and no church, of course, because it's hell, who needs it. Good, clean living. Punishment by pleasantry.
"But this is Alabama. She might get the chair."
Might? Right. That's right. Of course. That's what she'd pick, the chair. Electricity moves fast, injection not so fast. Tell her for me: "Alight: Descend as if from the air and come to rest but also, archaically speaking, come by chance. If death be ecstatic, that is. Who's to say?"
"You seem to have a good sense of humor about all this. I've a hunch you're somewhat glad it happened, even though you broke your leg in the fall. Did you know she was coming home when she did? Did you plan it that way?"
Such events, understand, alleviate my boredom. Part of me can't help but hope for the worst news, the most emblazoned headline, an entire page filled with a single word: WAR. I'm just a witness, not a participant, and it takes more and more to get me juiced. The cost of living always rises. It's the global economy, world trade. Don't forget the greenhouse effect. Whole planet like Florida, even the North Pole.
"I'm starting to think you should get in the chair with her, if I could think of a charge that would stick. What's with you and Florida?"
I was hoping the other one would go ballistic -- not kill because I'm a man of sympathy, given my condition. But if it had to come to that, the wrong one died. Hot, those camera lights. I picture the sweat on my wife's forehead, the one drop on her sister's Bindi dot multiplied. Films for tourists who never travel. Brother, can you spare a rumor of war? Sweat for air-conditioned witnesses, watching flags while soldiers soldier. Perspiration like molten steel.
Oh, it sticks, but to somebody else.
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