That’s when Biya’s mark appeared. A pretty royal blue it was, kinda shaped like a moth. Beth called it a chicken nugget to lighten the mood, and then started drawing a blue mark on her own head each morning. Beth told Biya it was a contest—whoever could keep their mark on longest would win a shopping spree at the big toy store. Totally cool idea. What a mom, huh? Honestly, we had no idea why Biya got the mark in the first place. I guess she stepped on a bug at some point, who the hell knows? But by that time, I was keeping her inside anyway, and we had moved the TV to our bedroom, and it was mostly off, except at 8pm, once a week. Gidgidoo was damn punctual. Now, looking back, I think we should have let the TV stay on all the time just to block out all the screaming and gunfire we heard over the next week down on the street and once, even in our own building.
Now, drum roll please. You ready for this? You sure? Well, I was still working days at Wheelset during the blue phase. Yah. Factory was still open, and I was still working. Even when there was talk about mass exodus from cities at my job, I was still being an asshole. Every morning my terrified wife asked me not to go, and every morning I said something inane like: “Call me on my cell if you need to talk,” or “At some point it has to stop, honey, and we need the money.” And the award for worst husband on the planet goes to… I remember the last day I worked at the machine shop. Two guys on my wheel gang were out, and at the very least, it’s a three man job to assemble the axle with wheels, bearings and box. Union won’t even let you try to duo it. Too dangerous. Not that there were any union reps around to see. I was heading up to the second floor to track down Ted, my foreman, and ask what the hell I was supposed to work on for the day. Place was quiet. Like, wrong quiet. And instead of being scared, I clearly remember being completely pissed off about it. Passing through the truck shop to the stairs, I saw Eddie Eaton setting up a crane. Well, I heard him before I saw him.
“Motherfucker!” he politely addressed the bogie he was struggling to free from the lift. Again, another two-man job for which he easily would have been written up attempting alone. But Eddie E. was a Wheelset lifer, so if anyone gave him shit about it, he’d take pleasure in lobbing out that great old shop veteran standby, So, send me the F home then. Climbing the stairs, I’m looking around. Could it really be that it’s only me and Eddie?
Upstairs, I found Ted at his bench, pouring over census maps on Google, studying what must have been population density. Years ago for his birthday, the guys had a red and white metal street sign made for over his toolbox. It said: The foreman says: Don’t stick your finger where you wouldn’t stick your dick.
Sensing my presence, Ted wheeled around on his squeaky metal stool and announced to his audience of one, “I am taking my family to Murori.”
“Muwhatti?” I said.
“Murori, Nebraska,” Ted corrected, magnifier shop glasses pitched crookedly on his shiny bald head. He was beaming like a boy who had just found pirate treasure, and then added, “Population of 1.”
And he’s not kidding either. He shows me on a map. The least populated town in the USA. The most people that ever lived there was back in the 40s. Like 90 people or so. But these days, it was just one lady. Some widow named Tiler or Teler. She was also the mayor and ran the town restaurant. Ted had some notion that he was going to tap into his 401K, buy some of her undeveloped property and build a cabin there or something. He was rambling about solar panels, and I realized my mouth was literally hanging open as I took in his words.
“Um, Ted… dude… (clearly a talking down the jumper tone) be smart. What are the chances that you are the only guy who has this idea? I mean, if I was that lady, and it was really not gonna go back to normal, I’d be buying a shotgun and setting up some landmines right about now.”
I laugh. Ted doesn’t. Ted smiles at me with his lips pressed together. His face takes on this weird expression. He extends his hand and gently pats my shoulder, like I’m some small child that asked if Bigfoot was real. A scene from Father Knows Best flashes through my mind, and I almost think he’s gonna call me son, and then he says something in this dreamy-wise voice which freaks me the hell out. “You got a little girl, right, Doyle? Little Biya? Sweet little girl. You just think about that.” Teddy hops off his stool and wanders away. I watch him slowly head down a half-lit hallway, a few rolled up maps under his pudgy arm. I forget to ask him what job I should hit. That’s when my cell phone rings about Beth.
As I push open the deli door, I see Tommy’s got one of those dreamcatchers on the back of it, a bunch of mini, rusty, copper cow bells tied with lawn bag twist ties. Done in a hurry. It’s not pretty but it does the job; it announces another forehead. He’s even pulled the front register counter from its original spot on the right side of the store and angled it, in a very fire-hazardy kinda way, so that you actually have to walk around it to get inside the 1800-square-foot establishment. A kind of guards on the tower, alligators in the moat move if you ask me. Good for you, Tommy. Maybe that’s why your place is still open.
Tommy lifts his head with some urgency, recognizes me, relaxes, and resettles into his bean can sharpie project. I pick up one of the green plastic baskets on the floor next to the counter and head past him down aisle one. He’s only fifty-six, but he looks seventy if you ask me. I know his age only because of a birthday card from last year that he’s got thumbtacked to the corkboard behind the register. The card was from his wife, Lisa. I remember the day she showed it to me before she gave it to him. I was in the store with Biya that day. My daughter was completely engrossed with sucking on the caramel lollipop Lisa had just handed her. Lisa had pushed the card in my hands for a “guy’s take” on it. I told her it was pretty funny, which was clearly the right response, and it made her smile. Course, I didn’t have the backbone to tell her the truth. That guys don’t give a crap about greeting cards. The outside of the card is light blue, a cartoon of some old coot with a walker, and a grey puff of fart shooting out his ass. The inside says: At least I know you’re still breathin’! Love you, hubby! Happy 56th! It looks like it’s got some red gravy spots on it. They’re not, though. Gravy spots.
“Hey, Doyle,” Tommy says as I pass him.
“Tommy,” I respond. That is pretty much all the exchange we’ll have tonight. Except when I ring up. Then he’ll tell me what I owe him. He used to ask me about Beth and Biya. Or about the news of the day, the mobs, the marks, new colors, etc. People talked a lot about the Gidgidoo and the bad stuff a while back, like some degree of small talk made it all a little more bearable. Like the whole world wasn’t losing its mind. But he stopped seeing the gals come with me, so he stopped asking questions. I also never asked where Lisa was.
You know, I had told Beth to stay inside, and keep Biya inside, too. I told her if someone knocked to say I was just out buying more bullets. But we both knew she’d never say that.