The n-Body Problem

That was X. I try to talk but my throat is closed around a cancer in my thyroid. This is why I am sick.

“I don’t fucking get it,” X says, turns to me. He has a cloth and he stuffs it in my mouth. Cold water fills the spaces between my teeth.

“Suck on that. We leave here soon.”

I obey. I feel a sharp line across my upper stomach. Duodenitits. Esophagitis. Not fatal things on their own but they are never on their own.

X is watching me and I close my eyes. I lay my hands on my belly. It feels distended, wobbly. There are many reasons why this could be happening. Daylight penetrates my eyelids.

“Here. See if you need anything,” he says.

I look down at a small greasy box X has placed at my side. I expect to see machine parts and am surprised by pill bottles of various size. Lean to my side. The belly pulls down and out.

I pull one. Effexor. Another. Xanax. Others. Mostly SSRIs and benzo. This shit speeds up the receptor ganglia in stems. This shit is shit. This is why doctors don’t see us anymore. I pull the cloth from my mouth.

“Where’d this come from?”

X doesn’t answer. He stands by the shed door.

“X! Hey! Where’d this shit come from?”

X turns.

“That’s not my name.”

I sit and my middle doesn’t fold in, it falls.

“What is this?”

X crouches beside me. He has a silver spike, snapped off the bottom of a sprinkler. “Do you think it’s crazy out there?”

I rattle the box. He’s been taking these. The short-term effect is always diminished symptoms. Long term, it’s all syndrome.

“Why am I looking in a box of shit?”

“I broke into a few houses. Took whatever I could remember my mom taking. She said it kept her alive.”

That means some people died. You can’t just stop taking this stuff. Not anymore. I did. I had to taper down to grains. Over months. I still have syndrome, but I know I bought some time ditching these. Now I take oils. Moderates the immune system responses. That’s the best. Evening primrose. Flax seed. Fish oil. And Vitamin D. Fuck with brain chemistry and you die soon.

“Throw this out. This is bad fuel. Here.”

I drag my bag off my shoulder and dump the oils and D.

“I’ll share these.”

X looks sceptical.

“But my Mom—”

“Your Mom dissolved in her own shit.”

X gives me a look. His hand around that spike. I return the look. I’m not trying to be an asshole. He loosens. Thinks. That’s right. You listen.

“If you’re gonna steal, steal things we can use. Memorize these labels. This stuff we’re gonna need.”

He lowers his head and examines the cod liver oil.

“How bad do you think it is out there?” X nods to the light. The SSRIs and benzos have given him swagger.

“I don’t know, man. Probably bad. Put down the spike.”

X holds it firm and raises a cocky eyebrow—you sure about that?

“Please.”

I reach over and hold the back of his hand. The spike falls.

“Okay,” he says. “Why are we hiding? What are we doing?”

Fuck. Those damn pills sure jack up the moti-vation.

“How old are you?”

“I think I’m around thirteen.”

I nod. A little older than I first thought. But it’s feasible. Especially now that he’s accelerated his gangster puberty.

“Okay. I have to make a decision, X.”

“My name is Y.”

“Y.”

I sit up farther. My belly prevents my knees from rising.

“I have to decide whether I bring you along or whether I put you down.”

Y is crushed by this. Glassy eyes start to fill.

“Not put you down. Not really. Listen. This is my work. I’m working. And if I haul you along with me you have to understand the job and you have to let me be your boss. I mean your total boss.”

Y thinks. He picks up the spike and taps it on the tip of his sneakers. He speaks without looking up.

“What’s the job.”

“Kill a guy.”

He loves that.

“Who?”

“A guy, I said.”

Y nods, like he thinks this sounds doable. He’s all bluff. I could knock his lights out so easy.

“When?”

“When? I don’t know when.”

Y bites his lip. Reasonable, he thinks. That’s reasonable.

“The guy who burned the house out from under us,” I say.

Y’s eyes widen, darken. There’s real ugly in a child on SSRIs and benzos.

“Let’s kill that fuckin’ guy, then.”

to learn what’s going on.

Things get moving pretty early in this town. Streets get swept. The message box gets changed out in front of the Evangelical Church to “He is Risen.” I recognize Russel with the letters. I wave. He looks. The sky is covered again. Low cloud. Probably best. I’m in a low-intensity mood. High school kids are out. Golden Apple is open for breakfast. Y is walking just back a bit, studying the signs of things. He catches up.

“It’s not really bad out here.”

He’s relieved. That’s better, tough guy.

“Nope. I guess it ain’t.”

People live here. That’s what I see. Husband and wife rolling wheelbarrows into place outside the Home Hardware. You can’t tell what you’re looking at. I’m pretty sure these people are talking about suicide. Just not to me.

“Let’s eat some food.”

Golden Apple is all pine booths and blond wainscoting. Heavy lacquer. Three old guys in overalls and tractor caps stop talking when we walk past. I almost say hello.