Seven Down by David Whitton

Author:David Whitton [Whitton, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FICTION / Epistolary
ISBN: 9781459748590
Publisher: Dundurn Press
Published: 2021-11-02T00:00:00+00:00

TAPE SUSPENDED AT 08:51 GMT/TAPE RESUMED AT 08:59 GMT

—This is [Redacted], resuming my conversation with Mr. Leonard Donna Downey, after a seven-minute intermission. Mr. Downey, do you agree that it is now 8:59 a.m.?

—Yes, I agree that the time is now whatever in the morning, though I haven’t seen a clock in days and haven’t slept since I last saw a clock, and what is a clock when time is folding in on itself? Anyway, I have no means to dispute this claim.

—And do you agree that you requested and were provided with a receptacle within which to relieve yourself?

—Yes, I agree that you let me piss into a pail before I was forced to piss all over this chair, and yes, I agree that I feel much relieved.

—And are you resuming our conversation of your own volition, without coercion?

—Yes, I agree that I’m happy to continue our rendition, I mean conversation, particularly because I have no options.

—If we could rewind to the beginning of your day, I’d like to hear once more your memory of the operation.

—From waking?

—If you might.

—Not before? You don’t want to hear about my feverish dreams? Because I can still remember them. I was lying in a grassy meadow. Wafting clover, birdsong, the drone of drowsing bees. I felt something tugging at me below my waist. I looked down only to find this Che Guevara–looking dude sucking my dick. I ran my hand through his hair, he looked up and grinned, I climaxed, he burst into a thousand tiny flowers and drifted into the breeze. I jolted into consciousness after that, my brain adrip with beta waves.

—Perhaps we could focus on events relevant to the operation.

—Less detail, sure. Okay. I woke up, made breakfast, doomscrolled Twitter, watched the YouTube thing, ran it through OpenPuff, went to work, opened doors, closed doors, hauled bags, pressed buttons, took my break, came back, went to lunch, came back, executed my orders exactly as specified — I mean, it was hard, but somehow I managed to operate the elevator, years of practice, I make it look easy — heard gunshots, cut bait, got on the subway, you know the rest.

—What did you have for lunch?

—Is this a test? A sandwich, I already told you. Why? A peanut butter and relish sandwich, paired with a bag of carrot sticks and a peach Snapple.

—And you ate your lunch where?

—On a bench in a tiny wedge-shaped parkette down the block.

—Earlier you said you’d eaten your lunch in the staff room.

—Nope. Wedge-shaped parkette.

—I see. You must have misremembered. It was a long time ago, as you’ve noted. This is likely why you’ve forgotten that on the day of the operation you made a purchase at 12:34 p.m. from a store called … just a second … Lil Punkinheads. Am I reading that right?

—That’s in your file, too.

—It is.

—Because, of course, you have access to my credit card.

—Lil Punkinheads is what, a maternity shop? Is that how you’d describe it? A baby store?

—It’s a gift shop.

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