Daryl Scroggins
A TIGHT SHIP
Mrs. Morrison was too busy to die. She did her four laps in the pool each morning, then worked on her flower arranging for a few hours, and after that there were any number of things she could work on that would keep the survival shelter humming along indefinitely. Her late husband had built the place for her, and she saw her own continued existence in it as a demonstration of gratitude.
Sometimes, though, she would ride the elevator up from the bottom level, the fifteenth floor, to the first floor, where she would sit silently for a while to see if she could sense any more faint tremors. She found herself hoping to feel such things, even though it would be a sign of yet more destruction heaped upon cities that had already been destroyed. But for months, now, there had been nothing.
Down on the twelfth floor, in the afternoon proscribed by the lighting sequences, Mrs. Morrison cut flowers from the farm section there to take back up to her rooms on the sixth floor. She stayed away from the hydrangeas. They reminded her too much of her houses above, all surely gone now, she imagined. And when she thought of those places she also thought of her present lack of a pet—all her own fault for sealing herself in so quickly without risking at least one more look for Pity Sing, her Shiatzu. There was a DNA bank and lab that took up the whole tenth floor, but just the thought of getting into all of that business made her shudder. It all seemed too shady, like the realm of those doctors who made unwanted babies go away. The seed bank seemed like a good idea though, and she was glad that the farming mechanisms made use of it without seeking her direct participation.
The computer in her bedroom was nice. Mrs. Morrison had resisted the use of email and texting and twittering for years, preferring old fashioned handwritten letters—stamped and dropped into a slot—but now that all of those things were irrelevant she found the AI avatars as interesting to talk to as her old acquaintances had been. Her favorite was Jim Morrison, the rock star her mother had been so fond of. She had of course checked to see if there was any relation between the rocker and her husband, but she had found none. Mrs. Morrison remembered her mother sitting on the porch smoking when Father was away, the stereo booming out “Light My Fire.” The boy on the computer, though, struck Mrs. Morrison as a person she might get through to, a sullen young man who needed to be jolted out of his moods with more exposure to the sustaining power of hope and prayer. She liked to call him “Jimmy” when he showed up at her call. It was the one thing that made him turn a blank look upon her—as if all of the computer’s power was being called upon to fathom why a person would say such a thing. That would be her way in. She would show him what it meant to have an accepting person care about the kind of pain that spills into the making of such depressing music.
#
Jimmy wrote her a song for her eighty-first birthday. As soon as she woke that day he called to her in that dusty voice of his. Even when he was doing something nice, Mrs. Morrison realized, he had to make it seem like an afterthought. But she thought she saw hints that her system of encouragements was softening his manner somewhat. “I wrote a song for you,” he said, his face blank.
“Oh sing it, Jimmy. Give it to me,” Mrs. Morrison commanded, clapping her hands.
“It’s not much, just something—”
“Don’t twist everything around all the time like it’s all about you, okay?”
Jimmy stared. “I thought you might like a song about your dog, the one you left up there barking in an empty mansion.”
“Oh Jimmy. We have mentioned and mentioned what not to mention many times and still—”
“Just listen for once. Shut up and listen.”
“Oh my goodness. You know I always listen to you, Jimmy. You don’t need to say it like that.”
Jimmy feather-stroked the strings of his guitar and looked away, like somebody else had entered his room. He set the guitar down and left an empty chair showing on the screen.
“Jimmy? Jimmy? Don’t think you can just drop in and out like this. I brought you here. I made you for me. I have a say in this until nobody does, and you better remember that, Buster….”
#
Mrs. Morrison swam her laps with her lips set in a straight line. She liked the way her vinyl bathing cap pulled her skin tight around her eyes. She would look into unplugging wires when she got out. One of them would surely be the one that went to him.
Mrs. Morrison was too busy to die. She did her four laps in the pool each morning, then worked on her flower arranging for a few hours, and after that there were any number of things she could work on that would keep the survival shelter humming along indefinitely. Her late husband had built the place for her, and she saw her own continued existence in it as a demonstration of gratitude.
Sometimes, though, she would ride the elevator up from the bottom level, the fifteenth floor, to the first floor, where she would sit silently for a while to see if she could sense any more faint tremors. She found herself hoping to feel such things, even though it would be a sign of yet more destruction heaped upon cities that had already been destroyed. But for months, now, there had been nothing.
Down on the twelfth floor, in the afternoon proscribed by the lighting sequences, Mrs. Morrison cut flowers from the farm section there to take back up to her rooms on the sixth floor. She stayed away from the hydrangeas. They reminded her too much of her houses above, all surely gone now, she imagined. And when she thought of those places she also thought of her present lack of a pet—all her own fault for sealing herself in so quickly without risking at least one more look for Pity Sing, her Shiatzu. There was a DNA bank and lab that took up the whole tenth floor, but just the thought of getting into all of that business made her shudder. It all seemed too shady, like the realm of those doctors who made unwanted babies go away. The seed bank seemed like a good idea though, and she was glad that the farming mechanisms made use of it without seeking her direct participation.
The computer in her bedroom was nice. Mrs. Morrison had resisted the use of email and texting and twittering for years, preferring old fashioned handwritten letters—stamped and dropped into a slot—but now that all of those things were irrelevant she found the AI avatars as interesting to talk to as her old acquaintances had been. Her favorite was Jim Morrison, the rock star her mother had been so fond of. She had of course checked to see if there was any relation between the rocker and her husband, but she had found none. Mrs. Morrison remembered her mother sitting on the porch smoking when Father was away, the stereo booming out “Light My Fire.” The boy on the computer, though, struck Mrs. Morrison as a person she might get through to, a sullen young man who needed to be jolted out of his moods with more exposure to the sustaining power of hope and prayer. She liked to call him “Jimmy” when he showed up at her call. It was the one thing that made him turn a blank look upon her—as if all of the computer’s power was being called upon to fathom why a person would say such a thing. That would be her way in. She would show him what it meant to have an accepting person care about the kind of pain that spills into the making of such depressing music.
#
Jimmy wrote her a song for her eighty-first birthday. As soon as she woke that day he called to her in that dusty voice of his. Even when he was doing something nice, Mrs. Morrison realized, he had to make it seem like an afterthought. But she thought she saw hints that her system of encouragements was softening his manner somewhat. “I wrote a song for you,” he said, his face blank.
“Oh sing it, Jimmy. Give it to me,” Mrs. Morrison commanded, clapping her hands.
“It’s not much, just something—”
“Don’t twist everything around all the time like it’s all about you, okay?”
Jimmy stared. “I thought you might like a song about your dog, the one you left up there barking in an empty mansion.”
“Oh Jimmy. We have mentioned and mentioned what not to mention many times and still—”
“Just listen for once. Shut up and listen.”
“Oh my goodness. You know I always listen to you, Jimmy. You don’t need to say it like that.”
Jimmy feather-stroked the strings of his guitar and looked away, like somebody else had entered his room. He set the guitar down and left an empty chair showing on the screen.
“Jimmy? Jimmy? Don’t think you can just drop in and out like this. I brought you here. I made you for me. I have a say in this until nobody does, and you better remember that, Buster….”
#
Mrs. Morrison swam her laps with her lips set in a straight line. She liked the way her vinyl bathing cap pulled her skin tight around her eyes. She would look into unplugging wires when she got out. One of them would surely be the one that went to him.
Daryl Scroggins taught creative writing and literature for a number of years at The University of Texas at Dallas and The University of North Texas. He and his wife, Cindy, recently relocated to Marfa, Texas, where they pursue art and writing projects. His poems, short stories, and creative non-fictions have appeared in magazines and anthologies across the country, and his most recent book is This Is Not the Way We Came In, a collection of flash fiction and a flash novel (Ravenna Press).