Downtime

By Joseph A. Domino

Groucho Marx has said, I wouldnt belong to any club that would have me as a member, essentially the protagonists credo at the outset of Downtime. Downtime is a laymans vision of the approaching apocalypse. This dark comic tale is seen through the eyes of hapless Melford Blintze, a literate, sensitive, and timid man who is tormented by private insecurities and the excesses of a vulgar society going to hell. Blintze doesnt believe the end is near; he believes that its in progress. The setting of the novel is the very near future. Terrorists have taken over an ICBM missile base. During this crisis, oddly kept at an emotional distance by Mels urban society, Mel is unwittingly involved in a mad terrorist plot by his crazed economics professor. As the tension of approaching Doomsday mounts, Mary, an attractive Washington agent, rescues Mel not only from the terrorists, but also from his lack of self-respect.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 13, 2003
• ISBN: 9781477166819

Joseph A. Domino

Mr. Domino has been in the technical publications field for 26 years. During that period he has produced two other full-length novels (A Reign of Peace and Principalities of Darkness), as well as a novella and dozens of short stories which have appeared in regional publications. A new novel, entitled 168 Hours, is in progress

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Downtime

Joseph A. Domino

Copyright © 2003 by Joseph A. Domino.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

CHAPTER 1

AN INFINITE SCREAM

CHAPTER 2

FAIR IS FOWL

CHAPTER 3

LET ME NOT STAY A JOT

CHAPTER 4

FREE SALAD

CHAPTER 5

WALK, DON’T RUN

CHAPTER 6

A THINNING IN THE CLOUDS

CHAPTER 7

BEHOLD, I COME QUICKLY

CHAPTER 8

THE PRISONERS WILL BE HANGED AT DUSK

CHAPTER 9

THICKER THAN BLOOD

CHAPTER 10

ALL ABOARD

CHAPTER 11

UNCLE TONY’S HOUSE

CHAPTER 12

A ROADSIDE PREVIEW

CHAPTER 13

A PREVIOUSLY RATTLED SABRE

CHAPTER 14

HERE IT COMES

CHAPTER 15

THE LARGER SCOPE OF THINGS

CHAPTER 16

SEE YOU

For my most loving Judy, my devoted son, Chris, and Edgar who has praised my writing more than it deserves.

I wouldn’t belong to any club who would have me as a member

—Groucho Marx

The Doomsday Clock: symbol of the threat of nuclear war maintained since 1947; the time, which is set to the relative danger of global catastrophe, has fluctuated from 17 minutes to midnight to 2 minutes before midnight (when the U.S. tested the hydrogen bomb in 1952); set back from 6 minutes to 10 minutes before midnight in 1990 in response to the end of the Cold War as eastern bloc countries moved toward democracy in 1989; set back to 17 minutes before midnight in 1991 as the fall of Communism was in progress in the former Soviet Union and its satellites. With the threat of Al-Qaeda and other terrorist- groups and the bellicose rumblings of North Korea, involving a multitude of weapons of mass destruction, the clock had moved ahead to four minutes before midnight.

—Bulletin of Atomic Scientists at the

University of Chicago

CHAPTER 1

AN INFINITE SCREAM

Melford Blintze, in the pre-dawn hours, pondered the contrariness of insomnia in the face of downing five or six shots of bourbon while watching the Yankee game. Some time before dawn, Melford, not quite sure of the time, plodded through a series of fuzzy thoughts, trying to reconstruct the events of last night. The air conditioner always sputtered more after it had been on all night. He had left his computer on and the screen saver of Edward Munch’s The Scream, dating all the way back to 1893, flashed at him. It greeted him as he glanced at the computer on the kitchen table. Forlorn, menacing hopeless, yet conspiratorial with Mel in its assessment of facing reality. He remembered looking it up on one of the innumerable search engines to discover a diary entry by the artist:

"I was walking along the road with two friends.

The sun was setting.

I felt a breath of melancholy—

Suddenly the sky turned blood-red.

I stopped, and leaned against the railing, deathly tired-looking out across the flaming clouds that hung like blood and a sword over the blue-black fjord and town.

My friends walked on—I stood there, trembling with fear.

And I sensed a great, infinite scream pass through nature."

He couldn’t fall back asleep, but he couldn’t concentrate either. Something about a news report. But he had been watching the ball game.

The last thing he remembered was the fifth or sixth inning. The Yanks had taken a 6-4 lead, but the Cleveland Native Americans were threatening. We interrupt this program… . No. Had the renegade Colonel Kaputschki pushed the button as he had threatened? Or was that the day before yesterday? All he could focus on at the moment was his wife Deirdre, who had left him nearly two years ago. Did he dream part of it? He had dreamed about her and the way she had held out her arms to him. That was more real than anything else at the moment.

He sat up in bed and stared at the blank TV screen. Somehow, he always managed to turn it off, although he never remembered doing so. HDTV flat wall screens in every room, now the accepted standard of the FCC, turned on by themselves with news updates (a Homeland Security measure) or some pressing infomercial. Of course, one could always turn it off, but for a decent night’s sleep, one had to remember to set the volume to mute. Next to the bed was a TV serving tray littered with cracker crumbs, puddles of melted ice, and hard fragments of cheese. The whole corner of the room smelled of bourbon.

Mel closed his eyes and reached for a soggy Wheat-thin. As he chewed, the image replayed over and over—like the disputed line drive foul. Outside the stadium, a man had been apprehended: a scruffy mid-eastern type, a Shiite Muslim they said, with wild eyes and hair, snarling white teeth. He was handcuffed and strong-armed into a police wagon. The game had been suspended. But what exactly had happened? Something about a shooting.

Mel grunted and got out of bed. When he reached for his remote control, it slipped off the edge of his nightstand. He could barely bend over to retrieve it. When was the last time he could touch his toes? At thirty-four, he knew he should be in better shape, but to say motivation was a problem was an understatement. His best acquaintance, Sherman, had said all he needed was to lose the gut and smile more and he’d have to fight the ladies off. Yeah, right.

As a result of his sedentary pastimes during his thirty-four years, Mel had eaten countless between meal snacks, treated grudgingly to fast food feasts, prompting his father to consider joining the litigation fad at the time, or ahead of his time. At least in sympathy, blaming the purveyors of grease-laden burgers and fries for his son’s over-indulgence. Yet, his father ultimately rejected this abdication of responsibility, but at the same time couldn’t accept personal responsibility as a parent, knowing he acceded to his son’s cravings for sweets and fatty snacks. Jerome seemed to believe that it was judgment upon his fatherhood, imposed by fate, beyond his control, lamenting the misfortune of an overweight child, his only son, a variation of the disavowal of personal responsibility. Jerome may have felt ahead of his time, but Mel then and now felt stuck in time. By the time he entered the fifth grade, Mel weighed 140 pounds. Considered proportionately with age and height, Mel would do somewhat better with his dimensions later in life. But he always regretted not having a hard lean body, especially when he sat naked and looked down at his pillowy, stretched tummy. He straightened up and wiped the sweat from his balding forehead.

CNN, of course, had an update on the situation in the Ukraine—not a crisis. Mel found this puzzling when he considered that both the U.S. and most Russian states were on low-level nuclear alert. DEFCON2 or some such gibberish. CNN, writhing with snippets of ticker announcements, half-formed thoughts and analyses, not terrorism ratings, which had continued unabated, but real nuclear danger, clearly a more palpable threat than the saber-rattling of North Korea back in ‘03. We were at Orange III, just one notch short of Red. Over the years, the Department of Homeland Security had added various levels of security threats, all color-coded, rivaling that of the temperature reports from the Weather Channel.

Colonel Kaputschki with his Black Berets, the North Korean contingent, and the still not eradicated Al Qaeda-supported terrorists had occupied the ICBM base in the Ukraine near the Black Sea for eight days. They insisted the United States completely withdraw its presence from the Middle East, especially bases in Saudi Arabia and naval task forces in the Persian Gulf. The Colonel stated on videotape that if these demands were not met, the ICBM would be armed and fired at Israel, who was now weighing its Samson option. The U.S. somehow held the other Russian republics responsible and said that if they, in the words of President Moss didn’t do something, they would strike back for Israel and target the base in the Ukraine.

Sasha Barkov, President of the Russian Federation, and others, fearing for the desolation of the grain-producing state, responded with a threat of retaliation saying how would America like it if we blew away their wheat fields in Kansas? Barkov was rumored, somewhat unexpectedly, to be succumbing to premature senility and the requisite Russian addiction to vodka.

The terrorist force had set no deadlines. Both Moss and Barkov dispatched envoys to negotiate with the Colonel, but they had not been admitted into the base. Rumors circulated that if the situation remained unchanged by the end of next week, the U.S. would intervene with some kind of military response.

At home, Moss had his hands full with a chronically sagging economy (perpetually exacerbated by mid-east unrest) and increasing pressure from both sides of the political spectrum. He was in the middle of his second term as President, narrowly winning in ‘08 with his running mate, an ultra-conservative Congresswoman, named Judy Carrington, who advocated castration for rapists, jail-terms for women having abortions, national banned reading lists, support of militia groups, and resumption of silver mining in Idaho; she was not philosophically opposed to televised executions of drug-dealers. When questioned about her lack of support for environmental legislation in her home state, including the protection of endangered species, she was quoted as saying, It’s the white Anglo-Saxon male that’s endangered. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Moss’s Democratic opponent suffered a breakdown two months before the election. Just over 18 months later, Vice-President Carrington resigned when she tested HIV-positive.

Considering the current state of the economy, Mel found his junior-accountant salary of $68,000 didn’t go very far these days. Maybe when he finished his master’s program in economics, he could get a better paying job. This he doubted; it would probably make him less employable than he already was. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on last night’s game.

It was in the bottom of the sixth inning. There had been an argument with the umpires: the Yanks had two outs and a runner on second. A batter hit a ball down the left field line that the replay showed to be fair, but the umpire ruled it foul. The Yankees could have led by three. It must have happened moments after he dozed off, he thought.

He listened to the reporter say something about the senseless tragedy that struck Yankee Stadium. Last night, as star relief pitcher, Ducky Doland warmed up in the bullpen to come in and preserve a two-run lead in the seventh inning, a man, whose identity has not been released by authorities, leaped into the bullpen, raced to Doland before anyone could stop him, calmly pointed a pistol at the back of his head, and fired." Just before the man’s capture outside the Stadium, authorities heard him say something about freedom for third world countries. He was apprehended without further violence. The fans, some 24,000, had been stunned into silence and, when they were informed by the public address system that the game had been suspended and that they should hold onto their ticket stubs, the silence ended and loud, deafening boos filled the ball park. A future date would be announced when the game would be completed.

The strangest thing connected with all this was a report of the reaction of one of the TV commentators when it became clear what had occurred. One of them, trying to repress his emotion, began to speak of Yankee tradition and how the great teams had managed to overcome adversity in the face of overwhelming odds. The other commentator had said nothing, but at the end of the inspiring speech, suddenly broke into a frenzy and began pummeling his partner, eventually fracturing his nose before he could be restrained. Someone suggested that the hysterical man had gone berserk because he could not deal with the mindless violence in a rational manner. All the while this was going on, Doland lay dead in the bullpen, a pool of blood forming beneath him and trickling down the mound. Mel shut off the TV. He felt numb and breathless.

The hot July sun began to stream through the filmy window curtains he had taken from his parents’ house in Clifton, New Jersey. Knowing he would have to leave for work in an hour, Mel went in the living room to look for his watch. It said six-thirty. He liked to get in to work early so he could read the paper and some of the comic books that were floating around. He found it embarrassing to pick them up at the newsstand. Once he purchased a copy of Penthouse (filled with various pop-ups, CD-ROMs, and scratch and sniff aphrodisiacs) along with a special edition of Space Avenger. He calmly informed the cigar-chewing man behind the stand that the latter was for his visiting eight-year old nephew. The man stared right through him as if to say, I give a shit, you fat fuck. Melford frequently imagined these attacks on his character. He would ask himself, why put others through the trouble? Everyone felt that he was utterly despicable, he reasoned. But he shared the feeling, too. Anyway, he could relax with his reading material before starting work, and top it off with sexual fantasies involving the ladies in the office, especially Sue Cristen.

In that case, Melford just about had enough time for some Excedrin and orange juice and a shower. So, he headed for the bathroom where the only copy of Penthouse he had ever bought lay on top of the toilet tank, the cover and pages rippled and frayed. Space Avenger was tucked safely out of sight under the sofa cushions in case someone came over to his apartment. But he hadn’t had any visitors for weeks. He really should store them somewhere else. They were full of crumbs.

Melford stared at the water-proof Panasonic radio affixed to his shower tile, but did not turn it on. The batteries had run out last week. As he pulled back the slimy shower curtain and listened to the cascade of water, rising like the roar of a crowd, he again focused on last night, on the news report. Standing in the tub, he began to concentrate. When the stream of tepid water descended upon his stringy hair and aching shoulders, everything seemed to come down on him.

Melford suddenly found himself in tears, hot and salty, burning his already bloodshot eyes. First, he thought of Doland’s 4-1 record with 18 saves and 1.57 earned run average, then he thought of the man’s family and their grief. Then he thought of his own grief: his seven-year childless marriage that ended in divorce. The doctors had finally isolated the problem: a low sperm count.

It seemed like a lot had been squarely laid on his shoulders. His father had iced it. Maybe it would have been better if his father, Jerome, had said nothing on his deathbed. Then, too, he had overheard Jerome make that crack in the basement of their Clifton, New Jersey home where he grew up. His father had been helping his mother, Millie, with the laundry. Had Jerome really believed him such an abnormal child? Now, Mel sometimes felt he lived down to the perceived level of his worth—real or imagined. He wondered what had become of Deirdre, having last heard that she had relocated to Seattle after a promotion to a corporate underwriting manager with an insurance company. She never even sent him a card.

So, Melford Blintze concluded his shower with thoughts of Sue Cristen, the sweet young girl of twenty-five with whom he had been infatuated for months. Sue, married to a wonderful guy, had gotten pregnant and had still not decided whether or not to return to work after having the baby. Mel told her he thought she should come back, although he added that it was only his opinion. Although Sue was pregnant, she decided she wouldn’t stop smoking. Some inconclusive studies had shown that effects on unborn children had been exaggerated decades earlier. He struggled not to admit that he had fallen helplessly in love with adorable Sue.

He stepped from the shower, feeling like he had purged his body of all malevolence. His eyes were a mess, but who cared about his eyes? Mel calmly dressed in the bedroom, finally sitting down on the edge of the damp mattress to put on his shoes and socks. He turned off his air conditioner before leaving and surveyed the entire apartment, making up his mind to give it a thorough cleaning this weekend, and finally packed up his laptop computer, which he needed at the office and for personal use. Mel really didn’t mind the arrangement except at the office, where he needed to connect to the Merwyn Publications, Inc. corporate network. This made him nervous; there wasn’t much privacy in that regard. Once connected, all personal data on his system was an open book to the Information Services people. Nothing much to worry about unless he was working on his Master’s thesis at lunchtime. Of course, in leaving the building, you were either at lunch or leaving for the day or, dead. At your workstation, even at noon, meant to those prying eyes behind security-clad doors, badge readers, motion detectors, and real-time cameras, you must be working for Merwyn. It didn’t matter that, as a result of cost-cutting measures, employees were asked to bring in their own laptops for company use, so company systems could be redistributed or amortized by shipping them off to remote offices. It was either that or work out sharing schedules or shifts with co-workers, to share systems.

Mel stepped into the musty hot hall, locked his door deliberately, and checked the lock, tugging on the door and wondering why he did this every morning. Now he was set to walk the five long blocks cross-town over to his office at Park and Thirtieth. He felt himself fortunate to be living in the Chelsea section of Manhattan, considering what he could afford. On the way down the hall, he bumped into his neighbor, Bill Fairmount, a kind of promoter of the Christian faith, who wanted to help Mel get his life in order.

I know, Mel began.

Know what? asked Bill, his pearly teeth competing the golden glister of his hair, his Alabaman accent releasing his words like honey drops.

Didn’t I make too much noise last night?

Well, actually—

That’s all right. You don’t have to say anything. Sometimes when I’ve been drinking a little, I tend to stumble around the apartment, muttering quite loudly.

I didn’t notice, but I thought we were going to do something about the drinking.

That bottle of bourbon lasted me weeks. I hadn’t even been tipsy for—well, for a long time.

You were drinking straight bourbon? Well, I wouldn’t think the Lord would frown much on a beer or glass of wine or even a highball, but straight bourbon whiskey. My, my.

I’m sorry. Sorry about any noise.

I didn’t hear no noise, but thanks for the apology. You know, it would help if you’d come to my prayer meetings to praise the glory of God and all his magnificent works. We’re all his magnificent works.

Not me. He couldn’t have made such a mistake. Come on, I want to catch the elevator. Got to get to work early.

The two men continued on down the sour-smelling hallway to the elevator and when they stepped inside, they were greeted by the aroma of stale cigars, grime and sweat, and a faint hint of some passionate encounter. A small flattened red and white box stuck to Mel’s shoe. He squinted at some of the lettering: GUARANTEED AIDS-II PROOF!

Magnificent works, Bill Fairmount repeated, his eyes sparkling as if staring at a field of wildflowers.

Mel thought of Sherman for a moment and then said, Well, there was an awful big bug in His program last night. Bill’s features twisted in confusion and he added, My friend, Sherman, talks computers to me every day and now I’m using his metaphors. Imagine trying to distill down the richness and variety of human experience to little circuits and resisters and programming code.

Melford— Bill tried to interrupt, but Mel was on a roll. Usually, only Sherman and the ladies at the office were audiences to such outbursts. Just then, an old fat woman got on from the second floor as Mel continued.

In all the breadth and depth of the living universe, how can the intellect assign such limited and transitory images to represent eternal meaning? The woman had been picking her nose, but stopped right in the middle of the act, her red and puffy pinky still half way up her left nostril. Look, Mel continued, God does not reside in tenth-generation personal computers with their intrusive control over lights and appliances of one’s domicile, or elevators that stink of used condoms and, he concluded as the elevator halted in the lobby, He was nowhere to be found at Yankee Stadium last night. The doors opened and Mel came face to face with Joe Elmo, who worked nights and had just gotten home. Apparently, he hadn’t heard the news, but he heard Mel’s last four words.

Yanks win last night? Joe got in when no one answered him. For some reason, the fat woman didn’t get off, but rode back up with Joe Elmo, inspecting the fingernail on her pinky.

Son, Bill consolingly, read the Bible for comfort—

Instead of a Jack Daniel’s label, right?

Mel suddenly remembered that he had not checked his mailbox yesterday. He fumbled for his key and checked his watch in the same motion. When he found a long white official-looking envelope inside marked special delivery, Mel knew instantly that he had done something wrong, but he had no idea what.

Outside, a plain metallic blue van waited to pick up Bill and take him to the McGraw-Hill building. Bill was an assistant editor in the religious division. Bill actually made less than Mel, but acted as though the riches of heaven had been bestowed upon him. Bill was O.K., Mel felt, but he felt compelled to say at least that about everybody, even people he didn’t like.

Bill stuck his head out of the van window. Hey, Mel how about a ride? Come on and join us.

No, thanks. If I walk to work, I can just about trick myself into thinking I don’t need any other exercise.

Does he want a ride or not? said another voice inside.

Before Bill or Mel could say another word, the van sped off, kicking up dust and fumes from the curb. Mel let out a sigh of relief as the van pulled away, convinced of the odd notion that, had he gotten into the van, Bill and the other passengers would have started singing religious hymns. A mini-TV, suspended above the dashboard, spewing a rush of news bites, televised prayer services, and coca-cola commercials.

He began his walk in earnest and, as usual, dodged and feinted around the passersby on the sidewalk, their concentration totally absorbed by their PDAs, holding in one hand the thick rotundity of the world, all manner of current and up-to-date facts and information, staying in touch, connected 24/7, yet seeing very little right before them. Mel found himself fingering several times the envelope he had placed in his coat pocket. He couldn’t even remember checking to see who had sent it. The hot glare of the sidewalks made him squint and his head ache. Canyon walls of glass, concrete, and steel loomed over him, their tops lost in the hazy skies. Melford felt like a defenseless ant moving from one hole to another, temporarily thrust into the vast unprotected deserts of the Manhattan streets, risking his survival in a daily ritual that had to be performed; the PDA people thinned out and despite that relief, still felt alone, more detached. He knew people were dead wrong when they attributed his uptightness to the standard urban claustrophobia. But Melford also knew that his resolute lack of courage would ensure his sense of being threatened no matter what the circumstances. His bloodshot eyes darted about, as he was certain of some impending doom.

He almost lost the envelope when he reached for five dollars to buy the Daily News. He quickly scooped up the letter and handed over the money, not even seeing the man selling the papers. His eyes were fixed on the bold headline: FAN KILLS RELIEF PITCHER. He read no farther. As he tucked the paper under his arm, he decided to take out the envelope and at least find out who had sent it. DEPT. OF COMMERCE: OFFICE OF BUSINESS ECONOMICS, OFFICIAL BUSINESS, $5000 FINE IF UNLAWFULLY OPENED. Mel wondered what constituted unlawful opening. He had his head bent low, squinting at the official-looking black letters in small capitals on the snow-white envelope. Evasion of taxes? No, that would be the I.R.S. Social Security? Computer error placing him prematurely in some kind of limbo status, not quite dead, but just as well? A non-person?

In any case, Mel had not been paying attention to where he was going. So, he suddenly found himself face to face with one of the many prophets of doom, the other class of sidewalk denizen, who haunted the streets. An old grizzled black man in a torn flannel shirt with spittle in the corner of his mouth hovered uncertainly and blocked Mel’s path. The man peered at Mel, not like he was the average passerby, but more like the angel of death come for him who sermonized the deaf masses in the street, those who would not believe the end was near. Melford did not believe the end was near; he believed it to be in progress. The old man shook a cardboard sign at him like it was a magic charm when he became convinced that Mel posed no threat. In fact, a sarcastic smirk even slowly spread across his ragged features as he eyed Mel from head to foot. The sign read AMAGEDIN IS NYE in cramped and sloppy handwriting.

Melford grinned and said weakly, You’re right. I couldn’t agree with you more. This was probably the worst thing he could have done, and it occurred to him, but he couldn’t stop the words. Suddenly, the old man took on a completely different aspect. He was no longer the prophet of doom, beckoning to all who would listen from his timeless stance. He now became familiar in his setting: representative of a harassed race trapped in the decadent city with its modern urban blight.

Hey, man, what you fuckin’ around wid me for? Don’ give me none of yo’ shit. I ain’t botherin’ nobody. Mel turned white and tried to step around. Hey man, what you fuckin’ around wid me for? Mel thought the man would keep repeating those three short sentences until the recording short-circuited right there on the sidewalk. Mel continued, his head lowered even more than before. The old man stood his ground where his path had been blocked, now muttering unintelligibly, a little microorganism having grazed a similar species floating in a faceless sea. The little round creature would turn and turn until some other encounter disturbed this pause and sent it spiraling on where it would meet many but know none.

Melford Blintze hardly dared to breathe a sigh of relief as he neared his office. He now found himself attempting to decipher something else puzzling about the mysterious letter he still had not opened. It had been addressed to Mr. Melford Blinze. He knew for a certainty that this was an uncommon misspelling of his last name. Yet, he knew it happened before, but he couldn’t recall where. Most people left out the n, but not the t. Of course, no one hardly ever cared enough to correct the error. But, Mel found this intriguing. Now, if he could just find the courage to open the letter. A spasm of anxiety raced icily through his bowels when a pretzel wagon rounded a corner and nearly ran him over. The vendor clutched his cell phone tightly, sputtering garbled phrases into it. He averted the collision and felt secure for a long instant, but this gave way as it always did. The dilapidated exterior of hot white concrete, pigeon excrement baked on its surface, gleamed in the sun for an instant as Melford escaped his mounting agoraphobia. Even now, new fears amassed at the pit of his stomach and the dark corners of his brain danced with the anticipation of urbane conflicts of office society, the thin masks of polite words and overt consideration which concealed man’s basic cruelty and self-servicing nature. There were many pitfalls and hazards on this first leg of his daily journey. Now, he would deal with those of confinement, an all too finite universe in which the predictability of irrational behavior gave absolutely no sense of preparation for it. It was the never-ending game in which Melford fared so poorly and this morning, he chuckled grimly with drawn