The One Percenters (10 page)

Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary.)

I reached for my knife, sheathed in a leather case attached to my belt. I don’t know
why
I reached for it initially. Perhaps I subconsciously hoped that I’d finally get some good old-fashioned masculine use out of the damn thing. Up till then, it had mostly served as a carry-along. It had a smooth black handle, marked with a small silver star at the base of the shaft. Gleaming in the sunlight, the blade looked larger than it actually was. I took the knife in my hand and sliced into Cristen’s ankle. I think I wanted to end it. I wanted the screaming and the madness to stop so that we could retreat to our tranquil weekend, perhaps even catch another on-air ball game. I was beginning to like that strategy. My actions at the lake only made the screams worse, and the effect was cyclical. I
really
wanted the situation to end, so I buried the knife.

I plunged the four-inch blade into her breast, which was not quite as easy a task as you might imagine.

Besides the psychological block, the body isn’t nearly as fragile as we make it out to be. Normally I would never have been able to get past the initial stab. It turned my stomach. However, I was no longer acting rationally. I was now at the mercy of adrenaline and emotion, an elixir that acts a lot like excessive alcohol. I stabbed repeatedly.

The screaming stopped. Perhaps had she been able to look up into my eyes, to instill a sense of guilt and a sense of ‘
why?’
perhaps then I could have stopped.

Maybe she still could have been saved. I guess she would no longer have been my friend after that, so I would have lost Jill either way. Cristen.

It doesn’t matter, though, because she didn’t look up at me. She had lost consciousness. I don’t know
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if she swallowed water or passed out from shock or if I had pierced a lung, though I doubt it was the latter because she let out an awful scream which really put a jump into me. She didn’t look at me, and I never had the privilege of a last glimpse into those feeling, moving eyes. I do, however, remember her hair shimmering in the bright sunlight, wet with lake water.

The slice on her calf actually bled more than the chest wounds. I retrieved my knife and threw it into the lake. Had my mind been clearer, I would not have done this, because even though
I
knew I was no murderer, the cops might not be so quick to buy it. If my mind had been clear, I might also not have released her body. I let it sit there, perhaps with a guilty conscience, hoping whatever would come of this, it would come quickly.

I didn’t hurry off. Instead I sat and wept at the evil in the world. The true evildoers—the Jeffrey Simonses—bring shame to the rest of us who might be so unlucky as to find circumstances of heartache, angst, and unfortunate coincidence. Our actions are judged by their intent. Even the holiest of men might steal bread were his family starving, but our laws don’t always see things that way. They ignore extraordinary circumstances and befriend hard facts. What can I say? It’s a complicated, fast-paced world we live in; sometimes hard and fast lines must be drawn in the sand. I had the feeling that I had just stepped over one of them. This is why I wept. I wept for the world. I wept for reason, and passion, and love.

I sat there for what must have been twenty minutes. The thought that the fish and the parasites and the insects might find my lover tasty was too much to bear. Just hours ago we had been in passionate embrace, and now there was a psychological universe between us. She knew things now that I did not, and may never. At last, she was back in the hands of God, which are soft and warm and tender. God has hands like blue jeans fresh from the dryer.

Finally, I rose from my place on the rock, shook the water from my jeans, and stumbled shoreward. I had collected my thoughts, and now there was work
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to be done. Not that I knew what my next move was supposed to be. They don’t hand out manuals for this situation when you’re in the Scouts. You learn how to tie knots and build fires and survive with only a fishhook, but no one can educate you as to how to survive a loss of innocence.

There are nations and cultures in this world-which have very real and obvious rites of passage into manhood. America lacks this. Sure, there’s the old driver’s license, the loss of one’s virginity, but these thing are more about getting old than growing up. That day at the lake was my personal rite of passage. My life was about to change, for obvious reasons, but beyond that, I knew I was now enlightened. I was learning a life lesson.

I took one last look at my lover, who’d been cleansed by the air and water. She looked so innocent, and I must admit, at that time I had a pang of guilt.

If only I could have those precious moments back! I forced my gaze from her body, and had to stop myself from glancing over my shoulder on the walk up to camp. She was no longer Cristen. She was a body, I reminded myself, and that body would serve to nurture the natural world. It’s all part of the plan. Bacteria need to eat.

I could not help thinking, though, how many men that body had known, how many children that smile had made happy, how many friends had gained pleasure from the person who now lied limp by the rock in the lake. I wondered exactly how long it takes before the body starts to stiffen with rigor mortis. Could it have set in already? How quickly does the blood pool?

If I touched her, would she (it?) feel human? I was tempted to go back to her corpse—how often do we have the chance to touch death, to shake its hand, dare I say to make love to it? I resisted the urge splendidly.

I rolled the tent up clumsily, wrapping it crepe fashion around most of our supplies. I threw the whole mess in the back of the truck, cleaned camp, and made myself a bagel with cream cheese.

The ride out of the woods was tremendously bumpy. I was not driving my own vehicle, and frankly,
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I don’t think I’m all that good with a stick shift. I mean, really, who can think about three pedals and a stick all at once? I had opened a soda and placed it in between my legs. It spilled over when the truck hit one particularly high bump. The contents of the can spilled on my pants, and I found myself wishing I had packed one of those lemony sodas instead of the grape stuff. I looked awfully silly with a purple crotch. Purple is not a flattering color at all. I cursed aloud, just as I would have if someone were beside me. For some reason, cursing makes us feel better. I cursed a lot in those days. Fuck yeah.

I abandoned the truck outside of town in a parking lot. I used a tarp to cover the goods in the bed, and left the keys in the ignition. I hoped that someone else would get some use out of the pickup. It had quite a few miles of exploring left in it. Now that I think of it, they probably auctioned it off when the shit hit the fan, meaning that some lowbrow businessman probably bought it cheap and is now using it to haul around patio furniture. Hardly a fitting use for such a beautiful machine. Too many people buy off-road cars for on-road lives. I thought about Cristen’s body again. It must have been warming in the afternoon sun. I wondered if it would smell. I had to remind myself that she was in a better place. Oh, why did she have to hurt herself?

By this time, I had walked three blocks to the bus depot. It wasn’t really a depot, but a sidewalk stop without so much as a glass enclosure to protect you from the weather. It wasn’t too long before the 72 pulled up. One thing about these parts: they sure have a fine system of public transportation. I don’t know where they got the money. Taxes around there were low, and most people had cars anyway. At the time though, I was thankful that someone had made the effort. I put my buck-fifty in the slot, thankful I had the exact change.

Bus drivers get all crabby about that. I suppose I would, too, if I had to deal with people asking for change of a fifty all day long.

The bus pulled away from the curb amid a cloud of blue smoke, chugging along with its 40-odd passengers until I finally reached home.

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I went inside and slept. This might come as a surprise, but I slept deeply and restfully. I was at peace.

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“Killer” bees were introduced purposefully. An accident gave them their opportunity to wreak havoc upon the natural order in the western hemisphere, but their initial introduction into South America was very much planned. The problem in this case was control. The idea was to breed a bee that would provide increased honey production—a clear benefit for the human harvester. But as often happens when people attempt to manipulate their environment,
something
happened.

The bees inevitably got loose, worked their way out of Brazil and through Latin America, and eventually crossed the border into the American Southwest. Now, don’t let the media buzz mislead you.

This is the same media who portray sharks as evil man-killers who take lives for sheer joy. This is a media without a soul. Still, there is a clear story here.

The bees themselves aren’t much to look at, but well over one hundred people have died as a result of human tampering in this case alone. Over and over, the natural world has cast its hard, gray eyes in our direction and stated in a stern voice, “Don’t fuck with me.” Clearly, we should have learned by now. But we all need to make our own mistakes.

Following this theme, I remember vividly that it was at this point in time—just after dumping the pickup—that I got
the idea
, an idea that would forever change my status in the world. I cannot fully explain the reasoning behind it now. I can only give you sound bites. Frankly, you lack the capacity to understand in total. This might sound a bit presumptuous, or even arrogant, but I mean no ill will. Truth is, that’s just the way it is. More than likely, you are a 98-percenter. All I can tell you is that it made sense at the time. My idea was based in fact, though I admit I might have gone about it in the wrong fashion.

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Time is short now; there is no room for further diversion. In the interest of future generations, let’s begin. Oh, one thing. Before it gets involved, I recommend you get a soda, Doctor. Soda is sweet and satisfying and taken for granted, and it might well be your last. Use a straw. Feel free to dribble its goodness down your chin. And for God’s sake, cherish every sip.

I left the body and ditched the truck. Now I was asleep. It was during this serene period of unconscious bliss that I achieved the next level. And like so many good and revolutionary ideas in this lifetime, it all began with a dream.

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Evolution is a driving force. From what I’m told, it works in two ways. Two beautifully designed (?) and awesomely simple ways. If you are familiar with these methods, skip ahead. It is, after all, in your best interest to conserve time. Life is short. For the dummies in the audience—yourself included—I’ll continue.

The first of the two ways is methodical to the point that it almost appears planned. Religious folk among you might argue that it
is
planned, and I’m not about to tell you that you’re wrong. Who am I to argue the God issue? You might say, for instance, that God, or some such, planted fossils and other evidence as temptation to ditch your faith. But whether this is the case or not, such evidence of evolution
does
exist, and that fact is damn hard to argue. Natural selection is beyond the control of humans. I’ll let it do its thing. It’s the
other
changing force that I’m concerned with.

Mutation.

It’s natural selection’s wittier, faster moving, more devious brother. It robs Peter to pay Paul. It’s the friend that stabs you in the back. It’s the recessive gene on cocaine. It’s the knockout, shit-kicking, earthshaking force that’s impossible to contend with. It acts swiftly and changes everything. Mutation makes for change in a hurry, often too fast to be counteracted efficiently.

This is when whole species die off, when they can’t find a way to combat change.

Albinism is a mutation. Now, I’m not mocking albino people, snakes, or woodland creatures. They have as much right to live as the rest of us. But when placed alone, out on the prairie, out in the wild, albinism in and of itself is a dreadful survival disadvantage. It leaves you without camouflage, without resistance to the rays of the afternoon sun. And it’s just one example.

Now, sometimes mutations make for a disadvantage, such as in the case of albinism. But sometimes not. .

and that’s the problem.

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We’ve come too far too fast. I, for one, will not sit back and see mutation—evolution’s dishwater—work to strip away our progress. Language, agriculture, industry. Much as I hate my fellow man, these are brilliant advances. I’d like to see them furthered. And that’s why I was born—me and my fellow one-percenters.

To reestablish natural selection without compromising human progress.

Ninety-eight percent of you mean nothing. You were born to live long enough to fuck, to breed, to pass your genes. What you learn in your lifetime might be significant to you, but it means nothing to the world at large. One percent of you—or thereabouts. .scientists still argue about the numbers—are mutators. You bring rapid change. Your genes are special. Don’t go out celebrating yet. Change isn’t always good.

At least your lives have true meaning though.