Here I Am (19 page)

“A stolen nuclear weapon is not an occasion for bartering,” Billie said. “We want this thing disarmed, pronto, period.”

“
We
didn't steal it. But I totally agree with what you just said.”

“We should just bury it.”

“Can't we turn it into energy somehow?”

“We should give it to the Israelis,” said a boy in a yarmulke.

“Screw that, let's
bury
it in Israel.”

“If I can butt in for just a moment,” Mark said. “My role here isn't to suggest conclusions but to help you ask provocative questions, so try this one on for size: Is it possible that there's an important option we haven't yet entertained? What if we kept the bomb?”

“Kept the bomb?”
Julia said, making her presence unignorable. “No, we can't
keep the bomb.”

“Why not?” Mark asked.

“Because we're responsible people.”

“Let's just play this out.”

“
Play
is
not
the right word for a discussion about a nuclear bomb.”

“Let him talk,” Sam said.

Mark talked: “Maybe this is a chance to finally control our destiny? For most of our history, we've been at the mercy of others: overrun by the Portuguese and Spanish trading goliaths, sold to Germany, conquered by Japan and the United States…”

“I don't suppose anyone brought an extremely small violin?” Julia said to the kids. Nobody understood the joke.

Mark lowered his volume, asserting calm: “I'm just saying, we have never been fully self-reliant.”

“There hasn't been a fully self-reliant country in the history of the world,” Julia said.

“Oh, you just got
served,”
a boy said to Mark.

“Iceland is fully self-reliant,” Mark said.

“Oh,
you
just got served!” the same boy said to Julia.

“No one's getting served,” Mark said. “We're thinking our way through a very complicated issue.”

“Iceland is a Hooverville,” Julia said.

“Look,” Mark said, “if I'm being an idiot, the only thing my blathering will have cost us is three minutes.”

“I just got a text from Liechtenstein,” Billie said, holding her phone as if it were the torch and she were the Statue of Liberty. “They're offering us a deal.”

“Now, clearly we have no nuclear program of any kind—”

“Liechtenstein is a country?”

“—and wouldn't have the means or motives to acquire a nuclear weapon on the black market.”

“Jamaica wants in,” Billie said, holding up another text. “They're offering three hundred billion dollars.”

“They know we're talking about a
bomb
, right? Not a nuclear
bong
? Can I get a hallelujah!”

“Xenophobic,” someone muttered.

“And yet,” Mark went on, “we suddenly find ourselves nuclear, with the ability, should we choose to exercise it, of entering the league of functionally autonomous nations, nations capable of dictating their own terms, nations that aren't subservient to other nations, or to the predicaments of their histories.”

“Right,” Julia said, her famous composure now in witness protection. “So we have some gripes, so life hasn't been a trip to Epcot, and hey hey,
as it turns out, we just click our uranium heels and
boom
, life's bouncer lets us into the greatest of all parties.”

“That's not what he was suggesting,” Sam said.

“He's an unclear suggester.” And then, turning to Mark: “You're an un-cle-ar bomb, that's what you are.”

“I was
trying
to suggest that we explore, if only to dismiss, the potential upsides of having a bomb.”

“Let's bomb someone!” someone said.

“Let's!” Julia echoed. “Who? Or does it even matter?”

“Of course it matters,” Billie said, puzzled and upset by Julia's behavior.

“Mexico?” a girl asked.

“Iran, obviously,” Yarmulke Boy said.

“Maybe,”
Julia said, “we should bomb some war-torn, famine-ravaged African country where orphans are so skinny they're fat?”

That killed the buzz.

“Why would we do that?” Billie asked.

“Because we can,” Julia said.

“
Jesus
, Mom.”

“Don't
‘Jesus
, Mom' me.”

“We're not going to bomb anyone,” Mark said.

“But you see, we
are
,” Julia said. “That's how the story always ends. You're either a country that
never
bombs, or you're a country that is open to bombing. And once you make yourself open to bombing, you will bomb.”

“That doesn't make any sense, Julia.”

“Only because you're a man, Mark.”

The kids looked at one another. A few giggled nervously, Sam not among them.

“OK,” Mark said, calling and raising Julia, “so here's another idea: let's bomb ourselves.”

“Why?” Billie asked, confused to the point of anguish.

“Because Julia—”

“Mrs. Bloch.”

“—would rather die than save her life. So why draw it out?”

“See what you did?” Sam said to his mother.

“Jamaica went up to four hundred billion,” Billie said, holding up her phone.

Someone said: “Yah, mon.”

Someone said: “Jamaica doesn't have four
hundred
dollars.”

Someone said: “We should be asking for real money. The kind we can take home and buy real stuff with.”

Sam pulled his mother into the hallway by her wrist, as she'd many times pulled him.

“What are you
doing
?
”
he said.

“What am
I
doing?”

“I
told
Dad I didn't want you to come on this trip, and you made a big deal when I said don't make a big deal, and you're more worried about coming off as a cool mom than actually being a good mom.”

“Excuse me?”

“You make everything about
you
. Everything is always
you.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about, and neither do you.”

“You're making me apologize for words I didn't write, so I can have a bar mitzvah that only you want me to have. You not only check my online search history, you try to hide the fact that you don't trust me. And do you think I think the pencils on my desk sharpen themselves?”

“I take care of you, Sam. Believe me, it brings me no pleasure to be shamed in front of the rabbi, or to organize your pigsty desk.”

“You're a
nag
. And it
does
bring you pleasure. The only thing that makes you happy is controlling every last tiny detail of our lives, because you have no control over your own.”

“Where'd you learn that word?”

“What word?”

“Nag.”

“Everyone knows that word.”

“It's not a kid word.”

“I'm not a kid.”

“You're
my
kid.”

“It's annoying enough when you treat your kids like kids, but Dad—”

“Be careful, Sam.”

“He says you can't help yourself, but I don't see why that makes any difference.”

“Be
careful.”

“Or what? I'll realize there's Internet porn, or break a pencil tip and die?”

“Stop
now
.”

“Or I'll accidentally say something that everybody already knows?”

“And what would that be?”

“Be
careful
, Mom.”

“What does everybody know?”

“Nothing.”

“You don't know as much as you think you do.”

“That we're all just scared of you. We're unhappy because we can't live our lives, because you're a nag and we're scared of you.”

“We?”

Billie came into the hallway and approached Sam.

“Are you OK?”

“Go away, Billie.”

“What did I do?”

“You didn't do anything,” Julia said.

Sam continued to lay into his mother, but now through Billie: “Will you please just mind your own business for three consecutive seconds?”

“Did I say something?” she asked Julia.

“You aren't wanted,” Sam told her. “Go away.”

“Sam?”

Tears brimming, Sam scurried off. Julia stayed there, an ice sculpture of frozen tears.

“It's kind of funny, right?” Billie said, her eyes overflowing with the tears neither mother nor son could release.

Julia thought about her injured baby pleading,
It's funny. It's funny
.

“What's funny?”

“Babies kick you from the inside, and then they come out and kick you some more.”

“It's been my experience,” Julia said, her hand moving to her belly.

“I read it in one of my parents' parenting books.”

“Why on earth do you read those?”

“To try to understand them.”

Jacob went online and didn't scan for breaking news in the worlds of real estate porn, design porn, or porn, and didn't scan for the good fortune of people he envied and would have preferred dead, and didn't spend a soothing half hour in Bob Ross's happy little womb. He found the tech support number for Other Life. No great surprise, he had to navigate his way through an automated service—a sedentary Theseus with only a phone cord.

“Other Life…iPad…I don't know…I really don't know…I don't know…Help…Help…”

After a few minutes of saying “I don't know” and “Help” like an alien impersonating a human, he was connected to someone with an almost impenetrable accent who did everything possible to conceal the fact that he was an Indian impersonating an American.

“Yes, hi, my name is Jacob Bloch and I'm calling on behalf of my son. We had an accident with his avatar…”

“Good evening, Mr. Bloch. I see that you are calling from Washington, D.C. Are you enjoying the unseasonably nice weather this late evening?”

“No.” Jacob had no patience to lose, but being asked to pretend that the phone call wasn't international found him some nastiness.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Bloch. Good evening. My name is John Williams.”

“No kidding! I loved what you did with
Schindler's List.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Jurassic World
, not as much.”

“How can I assist you tonight?”

“As I said, there was an accident with my son's avatar.”

“What kind of accident?”

“I accidentally sniffed a Bouquet of Fatalism.”

“Fatality?”

“Whatever. I sniffed it.”

“And can I ask why would you do that?”

“I don't know. Why does anyone want to smell anything?”

“Yes, but a Bouquet of Fatality offers instant death.”

“Right, no, I get that—I get that
now
. But I was new to the game.”

“It is not a game.”

“Fine. Can we just fix this?”

“Were you trying to kill yourself, Mr. Bloch?”

“Of course not. And it's not me. It's my son.”

“Your son sniffed it?”

“I sniffed it on my son's behalf.”

“Yes, I see.”

“Isn't there some kind of Other Life mulligan, or something?”

“
Mulligan
, sir?”

“Do-over.”

“If there were no consequences, it would only be a game.”

“I'm a writer, so I really do understand the gravity of mortality, but—”

“You can reincarnate, but without any of your psychic upholstery. So it will be as if you are beginning again.”

“So what do you suggest I do?”

“You could reacquire psychic upholstery on your son's behalf.”

“But I don't know how to play.”

“It's not play.”

“I don't know how to
do
it.”

“Simply graze for low-hanging resilience fruit.”

“Graze
what
?”

“Apothecary vineyards.”

“I wouldn't know how.”

“It's extremely time-consuming, but not difficult.”

“How time-consuming are we talking about?”

“Assuming you became proficient fairly quickly, I would estimate six months.”

“Only six months? Well, that's fantastic news, because I was sitting here worrying you were talking about something
really
time-consuming. But this is great, because I don't have time to get the manifest-destined mole on my breast looked at, but I can certainly spend a thousand hours clamping shut my carpal tunnels while committing brain cell genocide as I scour apothecary vineyards for low-hanging resilience fruit, whatever the fuck that means.”

“Or you could purchase a complete rebirth.”

“A what?”

“It is possible to revert your avatar's profile to a designated moment in time. In your case, to immediately before sniffing the Bouquet of Fatality.”

“Why the hell didn't you lead with that?”

“Some people find the option offensive.”

“Offensive?”

“Some believe that it undermines the spirit of Other Life.”

“Well, I doubt that many fathers in my position would feel that way. This is something we can do right now? Over the phone?”

“Yes, I can process your payment and remotely initiate the complete rebirth.”

“Well, this is just the best news I've heard…maybe ever. Thank you. Thank you. And really, I'm sorry about being such an asshole earlier. A lot is on the line here.”

“Yes, I understand, Mr. Bloch.”

“Call me Jacob.”

“Thank you, Jacob. I will have to obtain some information about the avatar, and the reversion date and time. But to confirm, you are purchasing the twelve-hundred-dollar complete rebirth.”

“Sorry, did you say twelve hundred dollars?”

“Yes.”

“As in: a one, followed by a two, followed by consecutive zeroes, with no decimal?”

“Plus tax. Yes.”

“How much did the game cost?”

“It is not a game.”

“Cut the shit, Williams.”

“Other Life is free.”

“Is this some kind of joke? Twelve hundred dollars?”

“It is not a joke, Jacob.”

“You realize we live in a world with starving children and cleft palates, right?”

“I do realize that.”

“And you still think it's ethical to charge twelve hundred dollars to correct an accident in a video game?”

“It is not a game, sir.”

“Giving twelve hundred to you requires me making twenty-four hundred. You know this, right?”

“I do not set the prices, sir.”

“Is anyone
not
the messenger?”

“Would you like to process a complete rebirth, or has the price made this option unappealing?”

“Unappealing?
Leukemia
is unappealing. This is fucking
criminal
. And you should be ashamed.”

“I take it that you no longer want to purchase a complete rebirth.”

“Take it as a class-action suit I'm going to bring against your depraved company. I know people that your people should be very afraid of. I know serious lawyers who would do this for me as a favor. And I'm going to write about this for
The Washington Post
—Style section, or maybe Outlook—and they'll publish it, you'll see, and then you'll be sorry. You have fucked with the wrong guy!”

Jacob smelled Argus shit, but then he often smelled Argus shit when raging.

“Before ending this call, Jacob, would you say that I have responded to your needs in a satisfactory manner?”

Mr. Bloch hung up the phone, then growled, “Fuck my needs.”

He took a breath that he hated, picked the phone back up, but didn't dial any number.

“Help…,” he said to no one. “Help…”