Upright Beasts (16 page)

The shouting of the Dictator, who is enraged that a certain pair of pants—one that contains real silver woven through the
fabric—do not come in his size, fades through the walls and glass and into the ear of the head bodyguard as if descending on him from some great height. The head bodyguard would not consider himself a philosophical man. He dropped out of college in his second year to begin his short-lived sport-fishing career, which resulted in three sunken boats and one lawsuit, before being hired by the Dictator. Leaning against the large glass window, smoking his hand-rolled cigarette, and watching the awkward bodies of the city's residents avoid each other on the sidewalk, the head bodyguard begins to wonder about his role. He is a bodyguard, and thus his job is to protect the physical body of the Dictator from outside harm. But what about harm that the Dictator causes to himself? The Dictator has been known, in moments of anger, to pound his hands against the wall, yet if the head bodyguard tries to restrain the Dictator, his hands will be bitten by the Dictator's nubby teeth, for the Dictator grinds his teeth constantly in the night with a squeaking that at first kept the head bodyguard awake but now lulls him like a painful lullaby. Those teeth are a part of the Dictator's body, of course, yet the head bodyguard does nothing to stop their erosion. Is this a failure of his charge? And even then, does his duty end entirely with the physical body of the Dictator? Is it not also, in some sense, his duty to protect the mind of the Dictator from corruption? These and other thoughts stumble around the head bodyguard's head until the Dictator, trailed by the three other bodyguards, kicks open the door, either in anger or in imitation of the Western the five of them watched together last night.

Gathering a small crowd of women and children shoppers, the Dictator presents a short speech. There are times of fear and there are times of action, he tells the crowd, and as a man of action, he will act and act fearlessly to complete the actions
that are required of him. Several people clap and hold out their
ID
cards for the Dictator to sign, which he does. The people clap again as the Dictator and his bodyguards get into the black limousine and drive off with the windows rolled up. The small crowd stands around for a few seconds, then disperses.

The Dictator is guarded at all times by at least one bodyguard, except when he is sleeping in his massive canopy bed or bathing in his only slightly less massive claw-foot tub. The life of the Dictator is essential to the health of the state, and no chances can be taken. When he goes to the toilet, one bodyguard will lean against the bathroom sink and hand the Dictator any reading material he desires. The Dictator has long believed that images of nude bodies bound to furniture with ropes can ease bowel movements. When the Dictator is feeling amorous, he will have a guard bring the first lady, and he will perform the carnal act in the guard's presence. The head bodyguard is nervous today, knowing that a set of new designer clothes inflates the Dictator's libido. Sometimes the Dictator wishes to try an acrobatic position that requires two or more guards to hold the first lady in the air and guide the Dictator's movements. Often the head bodyguard notices the Dictator staring at him when he orgasms into the first lady. The Dictator's eyes perform a quick twitching moment right at climax, and his upper lip begins to curl. This unsettles the head bodyguard, whose parents fought often in his presence and who has long struggled with intimacy.

Driving home from the store, the head bodyguard cannot help but notice several messages spray-painted in shaky letters along the walls of buildings. The head bodyguard does not pay attention to politics. He was raised from a young age to never talk about politics or religion, and he certainly does not talk about either one with the Dictator on their strolls through the
manicured gardens. The messages list a certain date, but it is a date the head bodyguard does not remember. Perhaps it is a future date that has yet to occur. Perhaps the date's meaning will be clear only then.

When the Dictator returns to his mansion, the head bodyguard walks quickly to the compound's coop and then returns to the house with two live chickens squawking in his hands. The Dictator comes outside, and together they walk to the moat. Once there, the head bodyguard hands the chickens to the Dictator, who launches them, one at a time, toward the yawning jaws of his alligators. The feeding of the alligators always visibly excites the Dictator, who paces around the moat as the alligators sink back into the muddy water, wet white feathers dangling from their lips. It is typically after feeding the alligators that the Dictator has intercourse with his wife, so when the Dictator heads back inside, the head bodyguard rolls a cigarette and remains.

The head bodyguard carries two automatic pistols, one tucked into the shaft of his right leather boot, the other stuck into his left armpit. The head bodyguard is unsure what the Dictator carries beyond the six-inch blade sheathed along the side of his personal briefcase. The Dictator's gun cabinet contains at least two-dozen firearms, including a silver-lined .44 Magnum, its handle engraved with a lion tearing into the flank of a unicorn—the Dictator's personal crest. One time, the head bodyguard walked into the Dictator's study and found him half-naked, sobbing, and carefully cleaning the Magnum's cylinders with Q-tips and hydrogen peroxide.

Finishing his cigarette, the head bodyguard stretches his arms and legs. Through the muddy water, he can see the black shadows of the alligators twisting. Even though the head bodyguard is aware that he is surrounded by a 25,000-volt electric
fence, monitored by twelve closed-circuit cameras, and standing next to a man-made moat, there is something about the arranged foliage that gives the head bodyguard a sense of being at peace with nature.

When the head bodyguard returns to the mansion, the Dictator has retired for the night. One of the other bodyguards is in the shower washing various fluids out of his hair while another drops a few soiled items into the washing machine and presses start. It is at this time that the four bodyguards can relax and discuss their bodyguard duties with each other at leisure. The last bodyguard has cracked open a few bottles of the Dictator's imported Château Duras. The bodyguards hang their black coats over the backs of their chairs. They remove their black sunglasses, put down their black briefcases, kick off their black shoes, and wiggle their black-socked toes. The bodyguards play their cards and drink their wine, hunched over in their wooden chairs. They drink the red wine in gulps. The night grows long.

Although a short and almost unnoticeable man when face-to-face, it is after the Dictator has departed that his presence is felt most strongly. While the Dictator has retired for the night, the bodyguards have a slight nervousness in their eyes as they play cards. Every now and then, one of the bodyguards twists his head and hops slightly from his chair, as if a command has been barked only to him, before sitting back down and taking another gulp of wine.

The head bodyguard has not watched the news in many years. He wonders just what it is that the Dictator does. What does he govern? What enemies stalk him in the night? When the first bullet is fired, which of the four bodyguards will leap into its path? While the head bodyguard is pondering these questions, the youngest bodyguard gets drunker and angrier.

He has emptied a bottle and a half of wine himself, and his face has grown as red as the woman's red dress. He bangs his fists on the table. He says he can no longer be a party to the Dictator, whom he calls the little twerp, making the head bodyguard cringe reflexively. The youngest bodyguard says the people are angry, and it will only be so long before these angry people put bullets into the Dictator and each and every bodyguard. Well, I'm not going to take a bullet for a kid who cried every time he got a wedgie, the youngest bodyguard says, and leaps up with his gun already in his hand.

Instantly, the head bodyguard's training takes over. He whips his own chair from under his behind and knocks the gun out of the youngest bodyguard's hand. The other two bodyguards join in. The four descend on each other as they used to do to boys on the dusty playground of their high school. With each punch, the head bodyguard is transported back to that innocent place.

All the crashing and yelling awakens the Dictator. He lies awake in bed staring at the door. His room is completely black, and he pulls the silk covers tightly over his face. There are many people who want to kill him, and he imagines each and every one working their way up the stairs. Thousands of imaginary feet march up the staircase of his mind. After a minute, the Dictator shouts down to the bodyguards.

Sir, please go back to sleep, the head bodyguard shouts back. We are only fighting over the inestimable honor of being the first bodyguard to accept your assassination bullet.

THE MAYOR'S PLAN

T
he new mayor thinks it would be good publicity to give out keys to the city to distinguished citizens. Not real keys of course—the gates to the city were torn down a long time ago—but gold-plated hunks of metal that have to be carried with two hands.

The mayor is a popular mayor, and his keys become popular items among businessmen, politicians, architects, and the like. The mayor gives out more and more keys, until soon they became de rigueur for any respectable member of high society.

I work down at the key factory. All day long I hammer away at those shiny lumps. I live in the old meatpacking zone in what used to be a slaughterhouse. Every morning I take the bus across town to the factory. Along the way, I watch the latest buildings shoot up like weeds. The city is booming, and sometimes heading home, I look around and don't even know where I am.

But, as is the nature of things, the mayor's popularity doesn't last. There's a scandal about misappropriated funds used to produce the keys and rumors of an illegitimate child. To keep up his popularity, the mayor increases the order for keys tenfold. He begins to award keys to all the wealthy and popular residents, then to all the artists and musicians of any stripe, and finally to anyone with full-time employment. Soon the mayor's assistants set up a stand on Main Street and hand out the keys
to anyone with proper ID. Everyone in the city has always felt they were special, and now they have a symbol to prove it.

The output at the factory is crazy. We're popping them out like popcorn. To cut down on expenses, the mayor made us switch to fool's gold, which glints just the same. I return home at midnight, my hands cracked and splintered by shards of fake gold. It's winter, and my radiator is broken. I sleep shaking in the cold. In my dreams, thin golden planes plummet through lock-shaped clouds toward the earth.

I don't know the mayor, and I'm not sure if the keys are saving his job. I do know that everyone I meet seems angry. They yell at each other on the streets over whose key is bigger or brighter. People carry their keys around and use them to knock others out of their path on the subway. Just yesterday I myself was mugged by two youths who held me against a wall with a shaft of fool's gold pressed into my neck.

What has the city come to?

Recently the mayor announced a new plan to address the social unrest. He has worked with several top designers to come up with a beautiful bow that will be dispensed to the citizens and when worn will display one's love of the city. I've already seen a few at the unemployment office. They're a dazzling blue.

COLONY

I
received my acceptance to the colony in the mail. Or rather my husband had laid it out for me when I got home. The letter said I should be proud of my acceptance, and that almost no one, or at any rate very few, was chosen.

The letter suggested I get my life in order so that I could come to the colony as soon as possible. I suppose it was just an odd way of phrasing, “get your life in order,” perhaps a phrasing that showed the artistic leanings of the colony.

“Good,” my husband said. “It will be good to have some time apart.” My husband was in the process of becoming my ex-husband. He was very eager to affix that prefix.

“But I haven't worked on anything in a long time.”

“And now you will,” my husband said. He reminded me that I had that project I always talked about, the project I had applied with.

He stood up and extended his arms so that his hands alighted on my shoulders. “I'm glad. I'm glad for you.”

I arrived at the colony by taxi. It was fall, and the trees were either bare or covered in yellow and red leaves. The colony consisted of two barns, one white and one gray. The barns and much of the woods had been owned by an artist famous in these parts. She had thrown, I read in the acceptance letter, a large number of scandalous parties in the field down through
the woods. I was allowed to visit the field, as long as I remembered to carry a pass.

I was late, and the director of the colony met me in the driveway. She had her car door already open.

“The first barn is where you sleep and eat,” the director of the colony told me, pointing at the large white barn. Then she pivoted and pointed at an equally large gray barn. “The second barn is where you work.”

In addition to myself, there were five other residents at the colony. According to the director, we had all been selected from a large pool by a rigorous process.

“We encourage you to spend your time working, not socializing,” the director said. “You don't have to interact with any of the other residents unless both you and they want to. And I won't be around.”