Under the Sun

What advantage does man have in all his work

Which he does under the sun?

A generation goes and a generation comes,

But the earth remains forever.

-Ecclesiastes 1:3-4

[America] has always been a very frightened country.

-Noam Chomsky

CHAPTER ONE

This is going to be one of those stories where everybody learns something in the end. You know how it goes already. You’ve heard this story about a hundred million times already. You know the whole plot already, how there’s some person with some problem. This person, she tries to solve her problem but things just keep getting worse.

There’s not anything new here.

Basically, this is just one more way of saying the same old thing.

In the end of the story, all of the people who aren’t dead yet or in a coma, they’re going to learn valuable lessons. Maybe they’ll even change their lives.

Like, take this one girl for example. Where she’s going to be is at the top of this building. How high she is, this girl at the top of the building, she can’t hear anything except the wind going past her face. She can just hear her own lungs breathing in and out, still rough and full of mucus. And she can just hear his breath, in and out, across her ear.

She can hear her own voice, shaking, You don’t have to do this.

The girl at the top of the building has just had her epiphany. What she’s just realized is how her city at sunset, it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. How there can’t possibly be anything else like it, this blanket of lights that stretches from here to the horizon. All of the buildings, lit up in bronze. All of the streets, these shining channels of molten gold.

Hanging at the top of the sky, the moon is a pale face looking down at her. So close she could just touch it. It’s a full round globe in the pre-night sky. Even the moon has come out to admire her city, to admire the streets of Dallas.

Please, she says.

He doesn’t say anything. He’s just breathing in her ear. His hand, it’s this wide flat pressure against her lower back. He’s not even trying to restrain her. Because, maybe, he figures the gun pushed into the side of her neck is good enough to keep her from doing anything stupid.

The gun, it’s pushing into the hollow place on the underside of her jaw. Against the black opening of its barrel, her heart is beating way too fast.

I swear I won’t tell anyone, she says. It’s a lie that no one believes. Not him and not her.

This girl, this one girl having her epiphany, she’s thinking how she’s wasted twenty-one years just complaining to everyone about how much she hates her city, how much she hates Dallas. How flat it is. How ugly. How smelly. And what a stupid waste of time. Because just because it’s all those things—and it is—just because it’s ugly and smelly, why can’t it be beautiful too?

Honestly, as stupid as this girl has been all her life? I’m embarrassed to even tell you who she is.

She says, I swear to God. Not a word.

The man pushing the gun into her neck, he says, Step away from the railing.

Her belly is pushed right up against the silver pole running horizontally along the length of the balcony. Her hands are wrapped around it. Up this high, the metal is cold under her palms. Her sweat, it makes the metal slick.

Caroline, the man says. Using her first name the way your friends use your first name. He says, Step back.

She’s looking up at the roundness of the moon, and she’s thinking about the mechanics of it. Her hands are gripping the railing already. With her arms, she pushes upwards. Her elbows lock. She kicks her feet into his chest the same way you kick off the wall of a swimming pool. For leverage, something solid to get you started moving. She goes forward and down, and for a few seconds she’d just fall. The highest of all the high dives. And her beautiful ugly city rushes up to embrace her.

Yeah, it’s still dying young. But it’s her choice to die young.

Caroline.

She closes her eyes. She steps away from the railing.

His big hand is flat and hot on her back. His palm is sweating. The wetness of it, she can feel it through the fabric of her shirt.

The shirt she’s wearing, it doesn’t even belong to her. She’s going to die wearing someone else’s clothes.

His hand pushes her, but gently. How they’re walking so slow and easy across the balcony, they could be dancers. His hand on her back, the gentle adjustments of the gun to her throat, they’re not so different from the cues the one dancer gives to his partner.

The door, he says.

She puts one hand flat against the glass of the door. Her sweat leaves a print behind. Her other hand takes the silver metal of the handle, and she pulls it. The hinges, they’re so quiet. She didn’t even hear them squeak when he came outside behind her.

You don’t have to do this, she says.

I have to do this, he tells her.

His voice, it’s so gentle. He’s not arguing with her, he’s only correcting her where she’s strayed from the proper course.

It’s funny, how hands so big as his can be so gentle. How a voice as angry as his can be so kind.

She goes into the room.

In the room, there’s a TV hanging on the wall. On the TV, the guy from Channel 12 is saying, …find out more, we spoke this afternoon with TexConnect’s CEO, Tyler Keene.

Behind her, behind him, the door shuts so quietly you wouldn’t even know it was there.

He says, Sit.

She sits.

The Channel 12 guy is saying, Tyler, there’s been a lot of controversy over your decision to open Jupiter Station tomorrow. Some people say brave, some people say stupid. What do you say?

He is in front of her. He is looking down at her. The gun is in his hand. The gun is pointed at her forehead. Maybe, with some really intense staring, maybe she can even look down the blackness of the barrel and see the little gleam of light at the tip of the bullet that’s going to end everything.

She closes her eyes.

This is the end.

This is how it ends.

On the TV, a man is saying, Well, Jerry, maybe it’s a little of both, I don’t know for sure. But what I do know is, we at TexConnect have a responsibility to the city of Dallas. People rely on us, and we’re not about to let an angry minority ruin things for the rest of us.

After you get lucky so many times in a row, you start thinking you’re always going to be lucky. You start thinking there’s something just really special about you.

But the girl? What the hell makes her think she can get away with being lucky forever? She can’t. This is it. This is the part where her luck runs out.

And this time? It’s not even her fault. It’s that stupid fucking redhead’s fault. That goddamn redhead with her idiot fucking ideas. This time, the girl didn’t do even one bad thing to deserve what’s going to happen to her.

And the worst part is?

Sitting there with the gun aimed at the middle of my forehead, with this bullet just waiting in the chamber to blow all my mediocre brains across the carpet, the worst part is that I can’t even work up one single drop of hatred for the redhead. That’s how good she’s got me. Even with a gun against my skull, all this stupid girl can think is just: At least it isn’t her sitting here.

On the TV, the man is saying, It’s like they say, Jerry. There is nothing to fear but fear itself. I believe that. I really do, with all my heart.

In the gun, some mechanism clicks. All he has to do is pull it, pull a little moon-shaped piece of metal, and the stupid girl is no more.

And I am no more.

Sorry about this, he says.

And the funny thing is, he really does sound like he means it.

I take one last breath.

On TV, the man is saying, I believe in this company, I believe in this city, and I believe in the American Dream. To be frank, Jerry, I just ain’t got time to be afraid of some maniacs out there who want to hurt and destroy everything this country is all about.

I don’t want my life to flash before my eyes. The first time through was hard enough.

I think: That fucking redhead.

CHAPTER TWO

My alarm clock comes on and it’s the sound of some guy on the radio letting me know what the weather is going to be like today.

Expect more high temperatures, the guy says.

My body is lying in bed while my mind drifts somewhere in the space above it. My mind is floating up there by the ceiling, where all the hot air accumulates during the day.

I am still alive. I am awake for at least one more morning.

Looks like those spring showers are gone for the year, the weather guy says, so you can go ahead and put that umbrella in the closet for further notice.

Floating up there above my body, my mind is looking at my bedroom. What it sees: some laundry piled up in the corner of the room, a pair of cheap shoes pushed together next to the door, one lamp standing over the bed. That’s it. My bedroom is so packed with austerity I couldn’t fit anything else inside if I wanted to.

While my mind floats up there by the ceiling, my body rolls over in bed. I pull the pillow over my face and squeeze my eyes shut, as tight as they’ll go. I haven’t got around to buying curtains yet. The sun is streaming in all over the room, all over me.

Really, if you looked at my apartment, you’d think it was a dude’s apartment.

On the radio, the weather report finishes up and the main guy takes over. He’s the guy from Channel 12, the one whose name I don’t remember. He’s talking about the power shortage we’ve been having. The blackouts.

Muffled by the pillow over my face, I say, Everyone knows about the fucking blackouts already.

Only, the asshole pretends he doesn’t hear me. He keeps right on talking.

My phone rings. It’s in the living room.

I lie there with the pillow over my face, trying to decide if it’s even worth getting up. Because it’s probably nothing. It’s some guy calling the wrong number.

But maybe it’s her.

I say, Fuck, to no one in particular. I kick my feet out of their tangle of blankets. These days, I spend a lot of time running in my sleep, getting myself all wrapped up inside sheets and bedclothes.

While the guy from Channel 12 talks about some shit one of our senators said, I shuffle into the living room. The phone is on the coffee table, the factory-default ringtone screaming from it at a too-high volume. It’s not her. It’s just Lisa Oldham, my boss, but I answer anyway.

I’m texting you an address, Lisa says.

Okay.

Crime scene. Check it out.

Right.

Anything else? she says.

I wait a couple of seconds. I am waiting for her to make some comment, but she doesn’t. The silence stretches out until I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even know.

No, I say. I’ll head right over.

She hangs up and I put the phone down on the coffee table and sit down on the sofa.

It’s not even eight in the morning, but already my apartment is full of that damp heat that wraps around your body to smother you. A layer of half-dried sweat clings to my skin. I pull my hair up away from my neck and shoulders. I’m thinking how I have a pair of scissors in a drawer in the kitchen and I could just cut it all off, leave just a pile of sweaty black locks lying on the bathroom floor. Freedom.

The voice of the guy from Channel 12 fills up the bedroom and spills into the living room. He’s been talking a while, but I only notice him when I realize he’s talking about me.

—the internet blogger known only by her sobriquet, the Daughter, he’s saying. Her actions have led many to wonder whether she’s a hero, a lunatic, or just a citizen concerned about the welfare of her city. Joining us now for comment is Police Chief Eddie Monroe. Eddie, good to have you on the show.

Good to be here, Jerry, says a different guy with a gravelly voice. Well, I’ll be blunt. This Daughter person is doing far more harm than good. We’re talking here about a person making all sorts of accusations, anonymously, on the internet. Can she prove her claims? No. Now I understand she’s stirred up some strong feelings, but justice is not mob rule.

I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. I want a cigarette.

Eddie Monroe, police chief, says, "If you want my honest opinion, this Daughter person is looking for attention, and she’s getting it by making inflammatory statements she can’t prove. Public figures operating crime rings? The DPD allegedly owned by these individuals? I think someone’s confused reality with The Godfather."

I want two cigarettes.

Now, Eddie, hasn’t the Daughter been proven right?

Are you referring to Nazar Salenko?

I am.

Ah. Well, Mr. Salenko was arrested on the basis of evidence acquired by the DPD and the FBI. I assure you, it had nothing to do with outrageous claims made by an anonymous blogger on the internet.

You’re saying it was a coincidence?

I’m saying that the Daughter did not ever factor into our decision.

What about—

But I don’t hear the Channel 12 guy’s next question, because by then I’ve made it to the bedroom and switched off the radio.

Fuck the police chief. Who cares what he thinks anyway?

The address Lisa Oldham texted me is this big apartment building. Right now there are all these cop cars parked out front with their lights flashing.

I get there at a few minutes to nine. I am wearing jeans that need to visit the laundromat. My hair is bundled up into no particular style, a little greasy and probably bad-smelling but at least not resting like a warm animal on the back of my neck.

The whole world is on pause. Cars are sitting motionless in the street, filling the space from one red light to the next. The infamous Texas wind is taking the day off. The trees drooping brown and sunburned over the sidewalk, they are as still as a photograph.

I cross the street, adjusting the bag whose strap is biting into my shoulder. Cars honk at me even though I’m not even in their way. They have nowhere to go.

The front door of the building is one of those that locks on closing. Only, someone’s propped it open with a chunk of broken pavement. Probably a cop. I go inside.

Two cops are hanging out in the lobby. I don’t know them. They’re just hanging out drinking coffee, their eyes following me while I walk past them.

There is a potted plant next to the scratched-up elevator doors. The plant is dead.

I press the up button and the doors open for me. I get inside. Kenny G is playing. It smells bad inside. I press six. The doors slide shut. There is a person reflected in the doors, a deep scratch running like a scar across her face, and I look at her and try to decide whether she’s an adult yet or still a child.

There’s this tightness in my stomach as the elevator rises. All my muscles clenching up. The way I feel, all the tension in my body, you’d think I was standing in line to get pepper sprayed in the eye.

The elevator dings when it reaches the sixth floor. The doors slide apart.

I gag and clap my hands over my face. It doesn’t help. The smell that rushes into the elevator from the sixth floor hallway, it’s already in my mouth and my nose.

It’s the smell of something that’s been dead for a long time. The smell of decomposition.

Down the length of the hallway, there’s only one open door. Sunlight spills through it into the corridor, bright against the uniform of the cop leaning against the wall. There are some people in the hallway around him. They’re dressed in bathrobes and slippers and grimy pajamas, and they’re holding their noses and looking through the open door.

I think: Fuck this.

I think: I’m going home.

The elevator doors lurch towards one another like long-separated lovers. I put my hand between them and they lurch apart once again, and I go through into the hallway.

Right when I’m thinking that this is maybe the worst crime scene I’m ever going to visit, this deep voice comes booming through the open apartment door.

Don’t touch that, the voice says.

It’s his voice. Of course it would be him. Why not?

I push past the people gathered around the door. The stench is unbearable, and if I’d eaten any breakfast I wouldn’t have it in me anymore.

"Have you ever been to a crime scene before?" the deep voice says.

He’s in a good mood today.

I come to the door. The cop sees me and straightens up, moving like he’s going to stop me.

You can’t go in there, he says.

I have a press pass somewhere. But if I didn’t leave it at home, it’s buried somewhere in the depths of my messenger bag. I say, I’m with Detective Graham, and I duck under the police tape running diagonally across the doorway.

Cops are buzzing all over the place—a woman going through drawers in the kitchen, a man taking pictures of a stack of machine parts in the corner, a uniform standing over a ragged sofa and talking into a cell phone. It’s a small place, a living room and a kitchen and, over in the corner, a single closed door.

Are you hearing me? the deep voice says.

In the middle of the room there’s a man sitting at a table. The table is square and covered in used dishes and stacks and stacks of paper. The papers are all some kind of technical diagram.

And the man. One look at him and you’ve identified the source of the smell.

He is sitting in a metal folding chair. He’s slouched down low. His head is tilted all the way back, his arms hanging straight down behind the back of it. His skin is the same color as the dirty plaster walls of the place, so pale he makes me look like I’ve got a healthy summer tan.

The man at the table, he’s got this one dark spot on the side of his neck. At the place where his jaw meets his neck, he has this wide black area of negative space. And I’m not an expert, but I’ve been doing this job long enough to know an entry wound when I see one.

I unzip my messenger bag and take out my camera.

Who the hell let her in here?

This is the deep voice speaking. I look up and Detective Graham is coming towards me. He’s this big black guy with a clean-shaven head. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt, his shield hanging from his neck by a silver chain.

Behind him, another detective is looking down at his feet. This is Graham’s new partner, whose name I can’t remember, and he’s standing next to a closed door. You can see light coming from underneath.

Good morning to you too, I say.

You’re just who I wanted to see today, Gillespie, he says.

Thanks.

Graham stops in front of me and gives me this look. You ever hear of this concept called ‘sarcasm’?

I think you’ve mentioned it once or twice.

You realize you’re in a crime scene?

Yep. I go over to the table, looking down at the diagrams the way any normal person would, pretending I’m not about to puke bile all over the floor. The diagrams form all these different crescent moon shapes, and I raise my camera to my face to take a picture of them. Who’s this guy? I say.

Name’s Julian Welch, Graham says.

What’s through the door?

The door?

The one your partner wants to open.

Graham says, It’s locked, Gillespie. I don’t know.

I raise my camera and look at Julian Welch through it. It’s a strange thing, how bodies still have names even after they’ve already died. I take a picture.

So are you going to kick it down? I say.

Graham says, loudly, to the room, Has someone found my key yet?

I say, Why’s it smell so bad?

Dead bodies stink. That’s what they do.

Dude, I smelled him from the elevator.

He’s not saying anything. I lower the camera and look at him. He’s got his leather notebook open. Inside of it, his pen is tapping a rhythm.

It was sealed up, he says.

What?

The room. With his pen, he points at the window. There’s all this black plastic around the edges of it. More plastic is sticking out of the vents in the ceiling and in the floor. Graham says, Five days decomposing in a sealed room. Like a gas bomb when we opened the door.

I point my camera at one of the vents, the corner of plastic poking out of it. I say, What for?

That’s a really excellent question, Graham says. Then, louder, Key?

One second, the woman opening drawers says.

I look through the camera again. That one step removed from the actual body in front of me, it makes things easier. I say, You think he was making drugs or something?

He was making something, sure, Graham says.

The woman says, Got it.

Everyone goes silent.

I lean against the table while the woman crosses the room and hands the key to Graham. All of us—the cops, the rubberneckers, the crime reporter—all of us are here for the same reason. We’re the people who want to see what’s hiding behind locked doors.

Graham goes to the door. All of us, we’re holding our collective breath. And not just because Julian Welch smells so bad.

Graham puts the key into the lock. It’s so quiet, you can hear a key turning. Graham pushes the door open.

He says, "Ah, shit."

This is more appropriate than it sounds. The smell comes barreling like a gorilla through the door. It’s so strong that for a second you can almost forget the stench of death. This new smell, it’s the smell of an open sewer. It’s the smell of raw human waste.

I lift the camera to my face.

Past Graham’s shoulder, the camera sees into the room. It’s an ordinary bedroom, about twelve-by-twelve, a window letting sunlight into the room. Only, Julian Welch decided to furnish it with all these huge white bags. Some of them are open, and you can see this black-brown dirt inside.

All the bags, they’re labelled with generic block letters