 The knife came up. The knife came down. The blade was slick and slippery now, and it flew from her hands, hitting the tiles with a rattle that sounded far louder than it actually was. Mona grabbed her bag, which was attractively styled and the perfect size for a tasteful leather wallet, a small charge purse, a cellular phone and a very sharp knife. The bag had cost her $399.99. Filene's had put it on sale, and she had jumped at the chance. The knife itself was an $80 Henckels, and it cut most things effortlessly. Mona heard the screen door slam as she desperately footed it onto the street, balletically leaping into traffic to the tune of an improvised orchestra of car horns and profanity.
Over coffee, weeks earlier, Mona had confessed an interest in killing someone, as a sort of intellectual experiment. She presented it as a farcical, humourous argument – if we live in a meaningless existence framed by oblivion, shouldn't we maximize sensation of any sort whatsoever before we fade away? Shouldn't we try everything? Geremmy hadn't found it particularly entertaining. He had tried to change the subject, but with little success. Mona was genuinely curious about this one: what would it feel like to take a human life? And is it really so wrong to do, if it can be proven that the world would be a better place – richer in resources, poorer in human suffering – for the removal a single irritating flicker of human spirit? Geremmy didn't think killing was much of an option for people who doubted they had the moral authority. He didn't feel as though two young people in a cafe could have the moral authority to do something like meting out death. Death, he said, was a bad thing to be wrong about. Mona laughed and said that if she didn't like him so much, she would kill Geremmy, just to get his ridiculous name up on a tombstone. Geremmy said he didn't appreciate that very much, although he sympathized with her feelings about the name. The coffee had cooled – its molecules had relaxed – and Mona let Geremmy change the topic of conversation. In the background, in the distance, a train traveled over tracks, making noises people heard and ignored.
But sometimes trains just slipped. There was generally little warning. A track would be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Wheels might screech in protest – lucky wheels might halt the incoming mass of metal, rich with inertia and the looming, playful spirit of Death. Sometimes, perfectly healthy trains hugged their passengers, ripping them apart. These bad, funny trains had little apparent concern for ethics, aesthetics, class or preparedness.
The scene: Sound waves oscillating within the range of human hearing. Mona? Yes? Was that you? Was what me? [a pause over the phone] [then - a more substantial pause] Was that you in the kitchen this morning? [more silence] Mona? [quietly now] Yes? That was $45 worth of salmon. [more quietly] I'm not sure I understand what you're talking about. You brutally murdered $45 worth of fresh salmon. [clearly stifling giggles] Yes? Yes. [another pause - possible silent, shaking laughter on one end of the phone] How did it feel, Mona? I'm glad the fish were already dead. I'm glad they were too. Are you okay? It depends what you mean by "okay." How far out are you? Far enough. You can keep the knife. Yeah, I assumed that it would be a fair trade for the fish. The knife was more expensive, Geremmy. You don't give me much credit for the emotional trauma. I give you little credit - period. [smiling] I know. Why don't you come over? I'll do that.
As the conversation raged, thousands of trains – trains of metal, carrying metal, carrying wood, carrying loads of coal, loads of people, loads of food, trains in Siberia, trains crossing South Africa, trains pulling through New Haven, Connecticut – trains failed to crash, and steel and flesh remained joyously unwed. Mona stepped into a subway car. |