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.”But every “Happy Birthday,”really, every card, she wrote with Miss Sneezy in mind.Her grandma's ideal target audience.And the card rack is her bank account, her left-behind trust fund of future best wishesfor her granddaughter.So, after she was dead, her Miss Sneezy could come and find the right “I Love You”or “Happy Valentine's” for that moment of the distant future.Long, long after her grandma was dead.“Still,” Miss Sneezy says, “there's one card, one special occasion she never covered.”There needs to be a card that says: I'm sorry.Please, Grandma.Please, forgive me.I didn't mean to kill you.Evil SpiritsA Story by Miss SneezyThe intercom comes on.First is a crackle of static, then a woman's loud voice, saying, “Good news, girlfriend.” Coming out of the little wire-mesh speaker, it's Shirlee, the night guard, her voice saying, “Chances look good you might get laid in this lifetime.”Just admitted this week, Shirlee says is another Type 1 Keegan virus carrier.This new resident, he's asymptomatic, and, better yet, he has got a huge dick.Shirlee, she's as close to a best friend as it gets here.You know that boy who had to live in the plastic bubble because he was immune to nothing? Well, this place is the opposite.The folks who live here, on Columbia Island, the permanent residents, they carry around bugs that would kill the world.Viruses.Bacteria.Parasites.Me included.The government types, the navy brass, they call this place The Orphanage.This is according to Shirlee.It's called The Orphanage because—if you're here—your family is dead.Chances are, your teachers are dead.All your old friends are dead.Anybody who knew you, they're dead and you killed them.You know the government is a little over a barrel.Sure, they could kill these folks—to protect the public interest—but these folks are innocent.So the government pretends it can find a cure.It keeps folks locked away here, drawing their blood every week to test.Providing clean sheets every week, and three square meals each day.Every drop of piss that comes out of them, the government sterilizes it with ozone and radiation.Their every exhale is filtered and scrubbed with ultraviolet light before that air goes back into the outside world.The residents of Columbia Island, they don't get head colds.They never rub elbows with anybody who might give them the flu.Except for the fact they're each carrying their own personal potentially world-pandemic plagues, they're the healthiest batch of folks you could ever not want to meet.And it's the navy's job to make sure you never do.Most of what I know comes from Shirlee, my nighttime guard.Shirlee says being locked up here, it's not much to complain about.She says people in the outside world have to work all day, every day, and still don't get half of what all they want.These days, Shirlee tells me to order up a set of hot rollers.To pretty myself up, some.For my new groom-to-be.This new guy, the Type 1 Keegan virus carrier.Here, you just go to the computer and type a list of what you'd like.If the budget allows, it's yours.The biggest hurdle is when you get too much stuff.Books.Music CDs.Movie DVDs.They can shovel it in here, but after you touch it, the stuff is toxic.The bigger problem is how to burn it down to sterile ash.To get around this, Shirlee has you ask for stuff that Shirlee wants.Shirlee loves old-time Elvis Presley shit.Buddy Holly shit.I put that on the list, and Shirlee pockets the music when it arrives.No muss.No fuss.And no big accumulation of toxic crap in the room.The navy folks, they say they can't expense poetry books.If some public watchdog saw an item like Leaves of Grass on some Freedom of Information document, there would be hell to pay.So Shirlee buys my books out of her own pocket.And I pay her off with Elvis CDs I order but don't want.Most nights, Shirlee wants to educate me about current events, like who's dropping bombs on what country and who's the new boy singer every girl wants to fuck.Instead, I want to know the stuff Shirlee can't say.The stuff I've started to forget—like how does rain feel on your skin? Or stuff I never knew—like how to French-kiss?We talk back and forth through an intercom.This means pushing a button when you speak, then letting go to hear the other person.Even now, when I try to imagine Shirlee's face, all I can picture is the little wire-mesh speaker on the wall next to the bed.All the time, Shirlee's asking, how did I get here?And I tell her: It was all my dad's brilliant idea.Shirlee's always after me to shave my legs.Order a tanning bed.Ride my stationary bicycle a thousand miles to nowhere.Shirlee tells me, her voice from the wire-mesh speaker says, “You only lose it once.”Me, I'm twenty-two years old and still a virgin.Until today, it looked pretty certain I'd always be a virgin.Still, I'm not too much a social retard.Residents get to watch television.They get to surf the Internet.Of course, you can't send any messages out.You can lurk in chat rooms, reading all the action, but you can't contribute.You can read the postings on a bulletin board, but you can't respond.No, the government needs to keep you a National Security secret.And Shirlee, her voice from the wire-mesh speaker, she says, “How did your old man get you put here?”It was my senior year in high school when people around me started to die.They died the same way my folks had died ten years before.My high-school English teacher, Miss Frasure, one day she's holding a paper I wrote, telling the whole class how good it is, the next day she's wearing sunglasses inside.Saying the light hurts her eyes.She's chewing those orange-flavored aspirin the school nurse gives out to girls on the rag.Instead of teaching, she turns out the lights and shows the class a movie called How to Field Dress Wild Game.The movie's not even in color.It's just the only reel of film left on the shelf in the audiovisual room.That's the last day they see Miss Frasure.The next day, half the kids I know ask the school nurse for those orange-flavored aspirin.Instead of English class, we get sent to the school library for an hour of quiet study.Half the class say they can't focus their eyes to read a book.Behind a bookshelf, I let a boy named Raymon kiss me on the mouth.As long as he keeps saying I'm beautiful, I let him put one hand up inside my shirt.The next day, Raymon doesn't come to school [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.”But every “Happy Birthday,”really, every card, she wrote with Miss Sneezy in mind.Her grandma's ideal target audience.And the card rack is her bank account, her left-behind trust fund of future best wishesfor her granddaughter.So, after she was dead, her Miss Sneezy could come and find the right “I Love You”or “Happy Valentine's” for that moment of the distant future.Long, long after her grandma was dead.“Still,” Miss Sneezy says, “there's one card, one special occasion she never covered.”There needs to be a card that says: I'm sorry.Please, Grandma.Please, forgive me.I didn't mean to kill you.Evil SpiritsA Story by Miss SneezyThe intercom comes on.First is a crackle of static, then a woman's loud voice, saying, “Good news, girlfriend.” Coming out of the little wire-mesh speaker, it's Shirlee, the night guard, her voice saying, “Chances look good you might get laid in this lifetime.”Just admitted this week, Shirlee says is another Type 1 Keegan virus carrier.This new resident, he's asymptomatic, and, better yet, he has got a huge dick.Shirlee, she's as close to a best friend as it gets here.You know that boy who had to live in the plastic bubble because he was immune to nothing? Well, this place is the opposite.The folks who live here, on Columbia Island, the permanent residents, they carry around bugs that would kill the world.Viruses.Bacteria.Parasites.Me included.The government types, the navy brass, they call this place The Orphanage.This is according to Shirlee.It's called The Orphanage because—if you're here—your family is dead.Chances are, your teachers are dead.All your old friends are dead.Anybody who knew you, they're dead and you killed them.You know the government is a little over a barrel.Sure, they could kill these folks—to protect the public interest—but these folks are innocent.So the government pretends it can find a cure.It keeps folks locked away here, drawing their blood every week to test.Providing clean sheets every week, and three square meals each day.Every drop of piss that comes out of them, the government sterilizes it with ozone and radiation.Their every exhale is filtered and scrubbed with ultraviolet light before that air goes back into the outside world.The residents of Columbia Island, they don't get head colds.They never rub elbows with anybody who might give them the flu.Except for the fact they're each carrying their own personal potentially world-pandemic plagues, they're the healthiest batch of folks you could ever not want to meet.And it's the navy's job to make sure you never do.Most of what I know comes from Shirlee, my nighttime guard.Shirlee says being locked up here, it's not much to complain about.She says people in the outside world have to work all day, every day, and still don't get half of what all they want.These days, Shirlee tells me to order up a set of hot rollers.To pretty myself up, some.For my new groom-to-be.This new guy, the Type 1 Keegan virus carrier.Here, you just go to the computer and type a list of what you'd like.If the budget allows, it's yours.The biggest hurdle is when you get too much stuff.Books.Music CDs.Movie DVDs.They can shovel it in here, but after you touch it, the stuff is toxic.The bigger problem is how to burn it down to sterile ash.To get around this, Shirlee has you ask for stuff that Shirlee wants.Shirlee loves old-time Elvis Presley shit.Buddy Holly shit.I put that on the list, and Shirlee pockets the music when it arrives.No muss.No fuss.And no big accumulation of toxic crap in the room.The navy folks, they say they can't expense poetry books.If some public watchdog saw an item like Leaves of Grass on some Freedom of Information document, there would be hell to pay.So Shirlee buys my books out of her own pocket.And I pay her off with Elvis CDs I order but don't want.Most nights, Shirlee wants to educate me about current events, like who's dropping bombs on what country and who's the new boy singer every girl wants to fuck.Instead, I want to know the stuff Shirlee can't say.The stuff I've started to forget—like how does rain feel on your skin? Or stuff I never knew—like how to French-kiss?We talk back and forth through an intercom.This means pushing a button when you speak, then letting go to hear the other person.Even now, when I try to imagine Shirlee's face, all I can picture is the little wire-mesh speaker on the wall next to the bed.All the time, Shirlee's asking, how did I get here?And I tell her: It was all my dad's brilliant idea.Shirlee's always after me to shave my legs.Order a tanning bed.Ride my stationary bicycle a thousand miles to nowhere.Shirlee tells me, her voice from the wire-mesh speaker says, “You only lose it once.”Me, I'm twenty-two years old and still a virgin.Until today, it looked pretty certain I'd always be a virgin.Still, I'm not too much a social retard.Residents get to watch television.They get to surf the Internet.Of course, you can't send any messages out.You can lurk in chat rooms, reading all the action, but you can't contribute.You can read the postings on a bulletin board, but you can't respond.No, the government needs to keep you a National Security secret.And Shirlee, her voice from the wire-mesh speaker, she says, “How did your old man get you put here?”It was my senior year in high school when people around me started to die.They died the same way my folks had died ten years before.My high-school English teacher, Miss Frasure, one day she's holding a paper I wrote, telling the whole class how good it is, the next day she's wearing sunglasses inside.Saying the light hurts her eyes.She's chewing those orange-flavored aspirin the school nurse gives out to girls on the rag.Instead of teaching, she turns out the lights and shows the class a movie called How to Field Dress Wild Game.The movie's not even in color.It's just the only reel of film left on the shelf in the audiovisual room.That's the last day they see Miss Frasure.The next day, half the kids I know ask the school nurse for those orange-flavored aspirin.Instead of English class, we get sent to the school library for an hour of quiet study.Half the class say they can't focus their eyes to read a book.Behind a bookshelf, I let a boy named Raymon kiss me on the mouth.As long as he keeps saying I'm beautiful, I let him put one hand up inside my shirt.The next day, Raymon doesn't come to school [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]