CHAOS: a story about gods and afternoon recess (#ONC2023)

Chapter Eight

Now that I have no concerns about any lack of power, I simply mask myself as I climb the steps of the school bus and take a seat beside Matthew. His grin has yet to fade, but he is dragging his oversized backpack and once we're both settled in, he lays his head on my arm and closes his eyes. He's asleep before we leave the school parking lot.

The girl across the aisle blinks at us like an owl. "Is he dead?"

"Dead asleep. He's had an exhilarating day."

She leans forward to peer at Matthew for a moment as if to assure herself that he's breathing and then pulls a large book from her bag and starts reading.

At Matthew's stop, I lift him from his seat and carry him off the bus while the driver stares ahead in a daze. I release the man from my hold once we're safely on the sidewalk. He gives a slight shake of his head and a half-hearted wave before pulling away.

Matthew's mother must see us because she's on the front step as we approach.

"What's wrong?"

"Not a thing. He had a lot of excitement with field day and all. I'll let him tell you about it. I just noticed he was wiped out and thought I'd help."

Her smile looks a little uncertain, but she isn't threatening to kick my ass, so I suppose I'm in the clear. "Bring him in. You can put him on the sofa."

But when I lay my priest down on the soft cushions, he stirs and a frown line appears between his brows. "I ain't no baby. I don't need a nap." A small brown dog so fat its belly nearly touches the floor approaches and sniffs my feet.

Matthew's mother sighs. It is the sound of long-suffering, accepted. "Come on and get a snack, then."

I remain beside the sofa, uncertain what is expected of me.

"You should let Zamoofoo stay for dinner," Matthew says as he climbs onto a stool in the kitchen. The dog follows and lays down on the tiles of the kitchen floor, clearly hoping to feast upon the boy's crumbs.

The woman shoots me an uneasy look.

"That's not necessary," I assure her. "I will eat elsewhere."

"Not at Wanda's I hope."

"No, not at Wanda's." Someday I'd like to meet this notorious woman.

"Zootootin helped us win field day," Matthew declares.

"Zatyafan," I say softly.

"He ripped Pittysans pants right open and showed everybody his banana."

"What?" She stares at me in wide-eyed horror.

"The man was wearing very restrictive clothing. It split across his bottom and displayed his undergarment, which had pictures of bananas printed on it."

"Pink bananas," Matthew adds.

The mother snickers. "For real?"

"Indeed," I confirm.

"He's an ass," Teela says.

"Indeed," Matthew mumbles around a mouthful of cheese.

Teela's laugh grows more hearty.

Inclining my head, I promise Matthew I will see him the next day.

Something about our brief encounter must have put his mother at ease. "No, come on. Stay. You don't really have any other plans, I can tell. We've got some steaks. We'll put them on the grill. There's plenty."

"I don't wish to—"

"Oh, stop." She cuts me off. "Stay. It'll make Matty happy."

Matthew grins, pushing bits of cheese through his teeth with his tongue.

His mother taps him lightly on the back of the head, but her discipline carries no bite. "Stay," she says. "Matty's dad gets home around four thirty. We'll eat at five."

"I will stay."

Once Matthew finishes his snack, his mother tells him to take Buster outdoors and play with him. "He needs the exercise. If he gets any fatter, he won't be able to walk anymore."

As if in reply, Buster farts.

Matthew squeals and races for the back door, holding his shirt over his nose.

I follow, and Teela does not stop me.

A litter of toys is scattered across the backyard. Matthew picks up a green ball and tosses it.

Buster heaves a sigh and waddles slowly in that direction. I sit on the wooden step of the porch and watch Matthew use a wooden bat to swing at a ball on a tee. The ball is attached with a string. It flies forward and falls—its potential for chaos restrained by modern convention.

"Can I ask you something?"

The boy shrugs and lines up the ball for another hit.

"Do you like all the routines and schedules? The orderliness of everyday life?"

"You're so weird, dude."

Buster finally returns with the ball and drops it at Matthew's feet.

Matthew tosses it and the dog whimpers before waddling away once more.

"Do you eat dinner at the same time every day?" I ask.

"I guess."

"Is it always steak?"

"No. On Tuesday we have Tacos. Fridays are for pizza. Sometimes Mama gets me a Happy Meal on Sunday."

"Why do your people do the same things, day after day? Why not eat pizza for breakfast on Wednesday and have pancakes for Sunday night dinner?"

Matthew's eyes gleam. "I love pancakes." He smacks the ball, and it flies, stops, falls. "Mama says we can't have them because if she makes them, then she'll eat them, and if she eats them, she'll get fat as a blimp." He puffs out his cheeks and belly and waddles quickly toward Buster, who sees him coming and veers off in a different direction, leaving the green ball behind.

"Does everyone eat Tacos on Tuesday and pizza on Friday?"

Matthew reaches the fence, lowers the waistband of his pants, and urinates on a plant. By the scraggly look of the thing, it's been "watered" in this manner before. "Probably," he says without looking at me.

A new thought occurs to me. "Maybe your people have been following their routine for so long, they've forgotten how to do anything else."

He finishes, readjusts his pants, and wipes his hands on his shirt. "Probably. They're old." He draws the last word out, giving it half a dozen syllables. "Old people are always boring. Except you. You're okay, and you're old, right?"

"I am old, yes." I prop my elbows on my knees. "We must save them, Matthew. I have been sent here for this, and you have been chosen by destiny to be at my side. We will break their patterns and help them evolve."

"Okay, but can we still have tacos? I like them."

I consider for a moment and tell him that I think tacos are fine, but they must be eaten on days that do not allow for alliteration.

He holds out a filthy hand, and we shake.

Buster flops into the grass by my feet and starts snoring. The fart he releases is truly the essence of chaos.