The Purpose

It was white and tiny and during the rainstorm shackled by a leash behind the camouflaged sofa because I could not trust what it would do. I could not trust what it would be. For me, it was nearly dinnertime, a time where I tune out all but the rattle of the newscast. But for it, it wasn't really the time for anything except, perhaps, to die. I looked at it. It looked at me. My eyes followed its pattern. Its eye followed mine.

The rain outside was turning into thunder, then from rain to sleet to snow. Not uncommon for late fall or early winter. The snowflakes were melted when they landed on the pavement. Later, perhaps, they would pack the streets and hide our cars until we danced the Indian prayer - from snow to sleet to rain. Now, it was simply the time to listen to the news and dream of skiing 20,000 feet.

The news had said that the bill had never passed. The war was still the war. Nixon was alive and well and the house sub-committee was in short temper with the protestors. Would anything ever be new? Lenny Bruce had died but it was nothing fancy. Just the suicide of someone reaching for something that just wasn't there.

A vice-president and an actor, a suicide during the war; and my own mind reached for the answers to the questions. Where had it come from, for instance. Walnut Creek? Come on. That was just what the man had said. It was just a word on a permit, not the fact of the matter. Where had Walnut Creek come from? All that we are trained to believe in.

I looked at the tabletop and sighed. Three round plates, white and splattered with a little bit of gravy. The potatoes were white, the peas were to one side and a steak lay half-on, half-off the plate. There was a bone two-thirds of the way to one side and a stretch of fat lay kitty corner to the bone. The salad was leftover for tomorrow.

My glass was a clear but jaded crystal green. I had filled it with milk but was dreaming of wine, white wine. Too expensive. Living in the west, living in the Rockies, was taking its toll compared to where I had been but what could I say? The man had sent and now I was stuck with it and that was quite simply that.

If you really want to know, I was bored. I stared at it and it stared at me. My ears listened to its noise and its ears listened to me. Friendly company, it knew my every move. Tic. Tic. Tic.

I knew the time had finally arrived when a knock sounded at my porch. I stretched my legs then flipped my old glass on the coffee table and paced to the door. I already knew who it was.

"Hi." "How did you know who it was?"

I shrugged. "In my business, they're all the same."

He gave me a funny glance but didn't say anything.

"I suppose they would be. Are you ready?"

I shrugged again. Why not?

And he was all the same too. Dark hair, blue eyes, fair complexion, about 5'11" and a three-piece suit. His tie was a little out of place but it was all the same to me. He kicked off some loose slush at the doorstep then crossed into the sofa and pulled off the leash. It had grown to about the size of a football by now. Then it snared on the quilt when he picked it up but the man tugged it by its handle and tucked it under his arm. It growled a bit and then subsided.

"All right, let's go."

Outside it wasn't raining. It wasn't snowing. It wasn't even the much of anything only possible in Colorado, I thought, or perhaps Southern California. The streets were wet, the sidewalks damp, but the skies were grey and white and the mountains in the distance were snowcapped.

I had kept the Peugeot warm so we stepped to the car through the rain that wasn't there. I opened the door for the man, gave the scales a push and it jumped in lightly with a plop. It seemed resigned to what was going to happen so I patted it on the leaf and climbed in besides.

"Where to?"

The man gave a grunt, kicked the ignition, then touched the brake.

"I thought they told you."

"Not this time."

"Headquarters."

"Yeah, headquarters. Where to?"

"Pick a direction."

"South."

"OK, south it is."

The wheel twitched in his hands and the Peugeot swung out into the traffic.

There wasn't much of it at this time of day. A Ford passed us from the other direction, a semi from behind. It was a three-lane road winding out of the city and I was worried that they would hit, but the semi streamed on with his foot to the floor and all I saw was his license plate shrinking into a mathematical point. Nothing doing. We drove out of the city and into the hills.

"Where did it come from?"

I was still curious.

"Walnut Creek."

"That's just what it said on the permit. Where did it really come from?"

“No one knows. Where do any of them come from? Someone finds one and brings it to us. We know where people find them, but not where they were before then. Come to think of it, we don't know much about them at all."

"What do we know?"

"I don't know."

His eyes swept across the dashboard.

"Do you really know what to do with it?", he asked.

“Yes."

We fell silent when there was nothing left to say and I took to staring out the window when there was nothing left to see. We were further up into the wandering foothills, climbing the road to the peak of a mountain. There was snow on the slope of the shoulders; too bright to see, too white to miss. The canvas of the silent hills was dappled with the pastel streaks and dots of a hundred thousand leaves on this our holy night, on this our holiday eve. The car radio was spinning the tape about Lenny Bruce again; the rain was slipping into sleet and it was all the same to me.

There was a patrol car stopped in the middle of the road and we pulled on over to the side.

"Sorry fellows, but the road's closed up ahead. Too much snow."

He stopped himself when he saw its hooves and looked at the side of my car.

"Oh, you're with the department."

"Can we go on ahead?"

"Well, if you're with the department I guess it's really up to you. But I'd rather that you didn't. There're still people coming down from the hills."

The man gave me a glance. "Well, where do you need it?"

"I'd like to have it further up in the snow," I replied.

"Well, how 'bout up there on the bank?" The officer pointed towards the slope of the shoulder.

"Too low."

"OK, how 'bout that hillside just down a piece?"

I shaded my eyes as a car whirred past from that direction, white, flicking snow flying from the tires. It left a half-inch tread mark on the darkening road. The sun was low, the shadows deep and the sky was cast in purple and light. Soon, it would be just past evening and there would be no turning back from this night's encounter. My eyes locked with its pattern as I looked at it and it looked at me. I caught a whiff of brandy and it gave me a quizzical glance.

Think we can make it up that hill?

It meowed a plantative, wet tongue and I stroked its barbequed fur.

I nodded to him and to the man.

"Yeah, that'll do just fine. We can lug it up to the top by hand."

"Need any help?"

I grinned. "Thanks, but it gets to a certain point and then I'm the only one who can handle it."

"Yeah, I know. I'm that way with the wife." He touched his trooper's cap with the fingers of a hand. "Appreciate the kindness."

His boots made a soft, steady screunch as he paced through the non-existent rain and back into his car. He waved us through and my eyes returned to the reflections in the window, to the images and the shadows in the glass.

There was no deer leaping through the snow, there were no tracks that I could follow. There were no tricks that I could see, there was no magic that I could work. Soon, it would only be it and I, and I would win the meaningless game. It wouldn't compete, it could hardly even protest and then I would stand as king of all of emptiness. The only thing that I would need would be a cup of coffee in my hand.

The hill was finally looming in front of us. The man stopped and we looked at each other in silence, knowing what was to happen, knowing what was to come. It took the two of us but we lifted it out as best as we could. It dragged a bit, but the ground was slick with snow.

And then we reached the top of the hill.

"Where are the buttons?"

I rubbed its mane and touched my fingers to my tongue until I found the tint of orange. And then I lifted the beak and showed him the bank of dials and plugs.

"How do you know which one to push?"

"It's this one."

"Are you sure?"

I gave him a glance. "I'm the one who wishes I wasn't sure."

The snow was white and strong and bit my cheek and hand. The ground was hard and the rocks were rough. The wind was coming from the west and there was no smell of salt. For evening had come and evening had gone and there was no moon for tonight. My eyes stared at it and its eye stared at me. My ears listened to its noise and its ears listened to me. It was the moment that we had come this far to see.

I pushed the button.

"EEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiuuuuuuuuuuuuugh!"

It groaned with the agony of accomplishment. The handle twisted and the leaf turned to brown. It must've been the leaf that did it. I cried. But that was the only way that it could be. A wilted leaf, a twisted handle, and a whimper were the only gifts that it could offer. But that would be enough.

It hurt. “How much they pay you for this?” He asked.

“$20,000.”

The man was incredulous. “For all that? Hardly seems worth it.”

“It isn’t.”

“So why do it?”

“I need the money.”

He stared at me, not knowing what to say. He paused, then finally continued.

“All right,” he asked. “What’s next?”

I reached into my pocket and glanced at the next page in a small, black notebook. It was tiny, really.

“The periscope.”

He dipped his head. Then the man and I turned and started slowly down the hill. But he stopped and turned back halfway towards the peak.

"Don't," I said.

He still didn't move.

"Come on. That's the only way that it could be."

He nodded once more and we slipped down the hill. The snow was cold and the wind was wet. I needed a cup of coffee and this wasn't the time to stop and wonder. I wasn't in the mood and it wouldn't do me any good.

And so we continued on to the warm and waiting car; to where the bill had never passed, to where there was no funeral for Lenny Bruce, and to where the sleet had never turned to rain.