Game

It is unfair but there is nothing I can do about it. I am aching
to get my hands on them.

Shotwell and I watch the console. Shotwell and I live under the
ground and watch the console. If certain events take place upon the
console, we are to insert our keys in the appropriate locks and turn our
keys. Shotwell has a key and I have a key. If we turn our keys
simultaneously the bird flies, certain switches are activated and the
bird flies. But the bird never flies. In one hundred thirty-three days
the bird has not flown. Meanwhile Shotwell and I watch each other. We
each wear a .45 and if Shotwell behaves strangely I am supposed to shoot
him. If I behave strangely Shotwell is supposed to shoot me. We watch
the console and think about shooting each other and think about the
bird. Shotwell's behavior with the jacks is strange. Is it strange? I
do not know. Perhaps he is merely a selfish bastard, perhaps his
character is flawed, perhaps his childhood was twisted. I do not know.

Each of us wears a .45 and each of us is supposed to shoot the
other if the other is behaving strangely. How strangely is strangely? I
do not know. In addition to the .45 I have a .38 which Shotwell does not
know about concealed in my attaché case, and Shotwell has a .25 caliber
Beretta which I do not know about strapped to his right calf. Sometimes
instead of watching the console I pointedly watch Shotwell's .45, but
this is simply a ruse, simply a maneuver, in reality I am watching his
hand when it dangles in the vicinity of his right calf. If he decides I
am behaving strangely he will shoot me not with the .45 but with the
Beretta. Similarly Shotwell pretends to watch my .45 but he is really
watching my hand resting idly atop my attaché case, my hand resting atop
my attaché case, my hand. My hand resting idly atop my attaché case.

In the beginning I took care to behave normally. So did
Shotwell. Our behavior was painfully normal. Norms of politeness,
consideration, speech and personal habits were scrupulously observed. But
then it became apparent that an error had been made, that our relief was
not going to arrive. Owing to an oversight. Owing to an oversight we
have been here for one hundred thirty-three days. When it became clear
that an error had been made, that we were not to be relieved, the norms
were relaxed. Definitions of normality were redrawn in the agreement of
January 1, called by us, The Agreement. Uniform regulations were
relaxed, and mealtimes are no longer rigorously scheduled. We eat when
we are hungry and sleep when we are tired. Considerations of rank and
precedence were temporarily put aside, a handsome concession on the part
of Shotwell, who is a captain, whereas I am only a first lieutenant. One
of us watches the console at all times rather than two of us watching the
console at all times, except when we are both on our feet. One of us
watches the console at all times and if the bird flies then that one
wakes the other and we turn our keys in the locks simultaneously and the
bird flies. Our system involves a delay of perhaps twelve seconds but I
do not care because I am not well, and Shotwell does not care because he
is not himself. After the agreement was signed Shotwell produced the
jacks and the rubber ball from his attaché case, and I began to write a
series of descriptions of forms occurring in nature, such as a shell, a
leaf, a stone, an animal. On the walls.

Shotwell plays jacks and I write descriptions of natural forms on
the walls. Shotwell is enrolled in a USAFI course which leads to a
master's degree in business administration from the University of
Wisconsin (although we are not in Wisconsin, we are in Utah, Montana or
Idaho). When we went down it was in either Utah, Montana or Idaho, I
don't remember. We have been here for one hundred thirty-three days
owing to an oversight. The pale green reinforced concrete walls sweat
and the air conditioning zips on and off erratically and Shotwell reads
Introduction to Marketing by Lassiter and Munk, making notes with a blue
ballpoint pen. Shotwell is not himself but I do not know it, he presents
a calm aspect and reads Introduction to Marketing and makes his exemplary
notes with a blue ballpoint pen, meanwhile controlling the .38 in my
attaché case with one-third of his attention. I am not well.

We have been here one hundred thirty-three days owing to an
oversight. Although now we are not sure what is oversight, what is
plan. Perhaps the plan is for us to stay here permanently, or if not
permanently at least for a year, for three hundred sixty-five days. Or
if not for a year for some number of days known to them and not known to
us, such as two hundred days. It may be that they are pleased with us,
with our behavior, not in every detail but in sum. Perhaps the whole
thing is very successful, perhaps the whole thing is a experiment and the
experiment is very successful. I do not know. But I suspect that the
only way they can persuade sun-loving creatures into their pale green
sweating reinforced concrete rooms under the ground is to say that the
system is twelve hours on, twelve hours off. And then lock us below for
some number of days known to them and not known to us. We eat well
although the frozen enchiladas are damp when defrosted and the frozen
devil's food cake is sour and untasty. We sleep uneasily and
acrimoniously. I hear Shotwell shouting in his sleep, objecting,
denouncing, cursing sometimes, weeping sometimes, in his sleep. When
Shotwell sleeps I try to pick the lock on his attaché case, so as to get
at the jacks. Thus far I have been unsuccessful. Nor has Shotwell been
successful in picking the locks on my attaché case so as to get at the
.38. I have seen the marks on the shiny surface. I laughed, in the
latrine, pale green walls sweating and the air conditioning whispering,
in the latrine. I write descriptions of natural forms on the walls,
scratching them on the tile surface with a diamond. The diamond is a two
and one-half carat solitaire I had in my attaché case when we went down.
It was for Lucy. The south wall of the room containing the console is
already covered. I have described a shell, a leaf, a stone, animals, a
baseball bat. I am aware that the baseball bat is not a natural form.
Yet I described it. "The baseball bat," I said, "is typically made of
wood. It is typically one meter in length or a little longer, fat at on
end, tapering to afford a comfortable grip at the other end. The end
with the handhold typically offers a slight rim, or lip, at the nether
extremity, to prevent slippage." My description of the baseball bat ran
to 4500 words, all scratched with a diamond on the south wall. Does
Shotwell read what I have written? I do not know. I am aware that
Shotwell regards my writing-behaviour as strange. Yet it is no stranger
than his jacks-behaviour, or the day he appeared in black bathing trunks
with the .25 caliber Beretta strapped to his right calf and stood over
the console, trying to span with his two arms outstretched the distance
between the two locks. He could not do it, I had already tried, standing
over the console with my two arms outstretched, the distance is too
great. I was moved to comment but did not comment, comment would have
provoked counter-comment, comment would have led God knows where. They
had in their infinite patience, in their infinite foresight, in their
infinite wisdom already imagined a man standing over the console with his
two arms outstretched, trying to span with his two arms outstretched the
distance between the locks.

Shotwell is not himself. He has made certain overtures. The
burden of his message is not clear. It has something to do with the
keys, with the locks. Shotwell is a strange person. He appears to be
less affected by our situation than I. He goes about his business
stolidly, watching the console, studying Introduction to Marketing,
bouncing his rubber ball on the floor in a steady, rhythmical,
conscientious manner. He appears to be less affected by our situation
than I am. He is stolid. He says nothing. But he has made certain
overtures, certain overtures have been made. I am not sure that I
understand them. They have something to do with the keys, with the
locks. Shotwell has something in mind. Stolidly he shucks the shiny
silver paper from the frozen enchiladas, stolidly he stuffs them into the
electric oven. But he has something in mind. But there must be a quid
pro quo. I insist on a quid pro quo. I have something in mind.