His Joytime Ambassador highlighted several lines of the contract. As he explained each section he pointed to them with the cap of his marker.
“In the unlikely event of death Joytime Entertainment LLC is in no way responsible or liable. By initialing here, here, and here,” he slid the contract across the desk, “you hereby waive all rights for legal action and forfeit all rights to financial gain.”
He was good at this legal kind of speak. The way he glossed over it all reminded Gregory of the way an announcer would blur through the contest details at the end of a radio commercial. Gregory’s Joytime Ambassador looked the part too. White short sleeve shirt. A thick tie loose on his neck. The smell of burnt coffee on his breath.
Gregory moved his finger down each line of the contract before saying, “And life insurance?”
“Waived.”
“What about burial costs?”
“If you’d let me finish before you asked questions.”
“Of course.” Gregory slunk back in the chair. “Sorry.”
The Joytime Ambassador waited for him to sit still before he continued. He adjusted his glasses and read from the binder. “For an additional $10.95 we can offer you a burial rider. Our burial rider provides full clean-up, removal, and rites for your body, regardless of religious or cult affiliation,” his voice lowered, “in the unlikely event of death.”
“Cults?” Gregory said.
“We get all kinds.” The Joytime Ambassador took a sip from an exceptionally small styrofoam cup. “Let’s see.” He wiped between his lips with the side of his hand. “This covers up to but not exceeding six thousand in burial fees, including disposal tax, stationery, and program fees. However this does exclude all florals, parlor rentals, and makeup fees—as the mode of death will most certainly prevent viewings of any kind. Would you like to ensure the financial security of your loved ones by signing up for our burial rider?” The Joytime Ambassador looked up from his binder. His eyes fixed on Gregory’s. He already knew what Gregory would say but was legally obligated to wait for him to find the words himself. The Ambassador tapped his marker on the desk.
“No,” Gregory said.
“Excellent.”
“Unless you think it’ll, you know, go off.”
The Ambassador exhaled slow and loud enough to steal Gregory’s attention. “It’s been a while. But it is a Joytime year.” He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “And between you and me, there’s not much to bury if it does.” Gregory swallowed. “I think I should get it. I mean, not for me, but just in case.”
“Sure, yeah, here,” the Ambassador said. He slid his pen across the table. “Check that box before you sign.” He took another sip from his coffee. “I’ll need your card again.”
Along the outside of the building Gregory waited. It had been an hour, and somehow after all that time, he still seemed to be in the back of the line. Even in this, the Joytime Killbox held a kind of magic for Gregory. As each person entered the warehouse and he took another step toward the threshold of riding, an incremental growth of anticipation burrowed into his gut. He watched another man disappear behind the door. By his count the total ride time was no more than sixty seconds. About forty seconds to get situated in the box and the rest of the way with the light on. He counted the people in line as he took another step forward. Just a few more minutes now. Gregory forced himself to swallow. He couldn’t get his breakfast to settle. And although he had already gone, he felt a ceaseless urge to go to the bathroom. Nerves, he thought. Nothing but anxiety. It’ll pass.
In front of him was a little girl and an old man. The girl wore a Catholic school girl’s uniform and her book bag sheathed her from her shoulder to thighs. As far as he knew the two had not spoken to each other and he assumed they had not come here together. Of course they hadn’t. Riding the Killbox, Gregory couldn’t think of a more inappropriate outing for a grandfather and granddaughter. But there was something unnerving about seeing the young girl. He had heard reports of the volume of youth who had been riding. But from the comfort of his living room chair he had shrugged it off as kids looking for a thrill. Seeing it in the flesh was different. It filled Gregory with a deep, parental fear.
“Is this your first time?” he said.
She looked up at him but said nothing.
Gregory buried his nerves. He feigned a confidence he usually reserved for a job interview. A dumb smile pulled at his face. “Have you done this before?”
She leaned her head to remove something from her ear. “Me?”
“I was asking—”
“I heard you.” She put the earpiece back in her head.
“You should relax a little. Stop acting like it’s your first time.”
“Sorry. I was only being polite.”
“Look down the line. See the focus? See them talking? No. They’re getting prepped to ride. Only first timers get all chatty in line. ‘What’s it like? Is it scary?’”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. I’m a kid. I’m not stupid.” She folded her arms as if she was playing dress-up, reenacting a gesture she saw on television.
“Excuse me. Where’s that come from?”
“Just chill and get ready for the light.”
“You’re the one that needs to chill. I’m ready. You just chill.”
“Go troll a chat room. You’re not ready for the Killbox.” The girl turned toward the entrance. She swiped at her phone and Gregory could hear the crackle of music pulse from her head. He knew she wanted their conversation to end. And it was best not to agitate such an energetic youth. But Gregory couldn’t let it rest. How could she know he wasn’t ready? A child. He leaned in and spoke loud. “Listen. I wouldn’t have come here by myself if I wasn’t.”
She dismissed him with an exhale and focused on her phone. “You have no idea what you’re in for.”
“I’ve read plenty.”
“Well, I’ve ridden it. So there’s that.”
“Was that so hard? Why are you so upset?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “Look out. The line’s moving. Get ready to die. We’re going to die now.”
Gregory tried to laugh but only a strange grunt escaped his throat. “Right. It’s unlikely.”
“And still somebody wins the lottery. You bought that stupid rider, didn’t you?”
“From here we’re about,” she pointed at the door with her phone, “twenty minutes out. Which means you’ve got cotton mouth and sweat soaking into your pants. Which is weird because it’s so unlikely anything will happen.”
The old man next to her put his hand on the girl’s shoulder. He was a thin, dapper man who cast a pole of a shadow on the pavement. His fingers arched like spider legs. She shrugged off his hand. “Gross. Creeper.”
“Be kind,” the old man said. His voice was weak but still carried with it a grave authority. “It was once your first time too.” He glanced at Gregory. “Why don’t you trade me places? I’m in no hurry.” He ushered the girl in front of him. “I do apologize.”
“It’s best I get hip to it,” Gregory said. “They’ll run it all soon enough.”
The old man gave a single nod. He adjusted the sleeves of his tweed jacket. It was a beautiful coat from a lost decade. Wide peak lapels with a matching vest underneath, a period piece fit for waiting on a locomotive platform or the clubhouse of a horse track. It wouldn’t have surprised Gregory to find the chain of a pocket watch drooping from his vest.
“My father’s favorite suit was just like that when I was growing up,” Gregory said. “Said it brought him luck. He was married and buried in it.” The old man briefly met eyes with him, and it occurred to Gregory that he may have crossed a line. The man himself was close to death. But beyond that Gregory considered that mentioning death was taboo here. He quickly backed out of it. “I mean he didn’t go out, not anything like this.” His hand wheeled the air. “All natural. Nothing that could be helped, really.”
“My condolences.”
“But she was right. You ought to prepare yourself now.” He extended a finger toward the door. “Many find it difficult to take an inventory of things inside.”
Another entered and they shuffled closer to the door. Before it closed Gregory caught what he believed to be the trailing echo of a woman’s scream. He tried to take a breath but found his lungs bricked over. He did not want to be there. But he did not want to leave the line in front of all these strangers.
If he weren’t so terrified, Gregory might have been amazed at the simplicity of the Killbox. This phenomenon, which had shrouded the city in the mystery of terror, could have been assembled in his garage. The box sat atop a pedestal like a prized jewel. No matter where you stood there was a clean view. The walls and ceiling were formed from clear acrylic sheets, the corners caulked with a clear silicone. It was formed into a perfect cube, just tall enough for an average man to stand inside. With arms extended, one could easily touch all four walls and the ceiling. Inside, a single chair was bolted to the floor facing a square tile on the opposite wall. It appeared as if one was to sit in the chair and stare at the dark reflective square. The tile was attached to a black box that protruded about a yard, it seemed to him, outside the wall of the Killbox. From the black box, a coil of black wires twisted out of sight into the rafters. The long line of riders circled in toward the Killbox. No cry or twisted face deterred them. They were drawn quietly to the center of the warehouse.
“Oh, God.” Gregory veiled his nose with a hand. He watched as an attendant carried an invalid out of his wheelchair and up the steps of the box. “They’re going to let him ride?”
The old man’s eyes seemed to hide deeper in his skull in the dark of the warehouse. Gregory could not tell if the old man was looking at him. “He signed the waiver. Joytime doesn’t make any distinction. So long as you sign and pay.” The old man pointed toward the gleaming box. “Don’t turn away yet,” he said. “You shouldn’t miss this part.”
On the far wall of the box the attendant strapped the man’s locked body into the chair. His ankles were bound to the front legs; his torso fastened around the dowels of the backrest. The attendant exited and secured the door. The man was alone on the stage. His head slumped on his shoulder and his arms pulled tight against his chest. His face distorted into a cavernous frown and he began to cry.
Gregory’s chest surged. “Are they electrocuting him? It looks like it’s shocking him.”
The little girl turned to Gregory. “Serious?”
“He’s in agony. This wasn’t in the waiver.”
“You have no idea how this works.”
“Not all react the same,” the old man said. He chewed at his cheeks. “This isn’t unheard of though. This is the part that’s never reported. Screams, the occasional incontinence. Only a rider knows this.”
“The light’s not even on yet,” the girl said. “That’s when the real fun begins. This guy’s going to totally pop. I’ll put money on it. You watch.”
Gregory’s lungs shrunk. His heart flexed tight and he felt himself grow sick. He looked for an exit.
“You can tell he’s a noob,” the girl said.
“Me?”
“That guy. Look at him. He’s trying to wiggle out of the chair. I don’t know why he’s yelling to get out.” She made a falsetto voice. “Help me. Oh, God. Help me. Like that’s going to work.”
“They won’t let you exit,” the old man said. “Once you’re in you must ride. Never an exception.”
“Get ready.” The girl rocked to her toes. Her nose pointed up toward the Killbox. “Here she comes.”
Gregory grabbed his shirt collar. The old man handed him a handkerchief from his breast pocket. “I’m alright,” Gregory said.
“You know the best part of a wedding, my favorite part?”
“No,” Gregory said.
“When the bride is revealed.”
“Of course,” Gregory said. His eyes focused on the black box. The wires began to pulse to life.
“Most look back—of course they do. She’s beautiful and they want to see the dress.”
“The box. It’s shaking. Is that supposed to happen?”
“Completely normal.” The old man put a hand on Gregory’s back. He extended his other arm toward the rider. “When everyone rises to watch the bride I like to turn the other way. I watch the groom. The way a man looks when he sees his bride for the very first time. What it does to him. All that emotion on display. You rarely see that in a man. The way he fights to hold it together as his eyes well over. That’s the best part.”
The tile slid up and there was a momentary quiet that stilled the line.
“It’s moving. Look,” Gregory said.
The girl jumped and stretched her neck. “Yes. Here we go.”
Gregory held his breath. The pulse in his neck pounded his head forward. His heart quickened as he watched the box give birth to a sleek rod. From the darkness the barrel of a shotgun glinted inside the Killbox. The gun slipped into the room until it settled just short of the man’s chin. The man’s cheeks puffed and he snorted from his nose. He jerked his head violently to the side in an effort to avoid the barrel, but the restraints held. His chest tugged and he began to pant in quick, sharp cries. His eyes and nose ran. Horror gargled from his throat.
“My God,” Gregory said. He grabbed the old man’s sleeve. “I don’t think I can watch.”
“That’ll be you soon enough,” the girl said. She cupped her hands against her mouth. “Come on, man,” she said. “Ride hard or go home.”
The old man took a gentle hold of Gregory’s wrist. “You shouldn’t miss this. Look, there. It’s just now starting.” He guided Gregory’s view to the Killbox.
The warehouse lights dimmed and the Killbox gleamed like a precious stone in a store window. A hush settled the room. The little girl held out her hand and began to count on her fingers. As she got to five a buzzer chirped and a timer lit up above the Killbox. A red light triggered and the Killbox was bathed in an ominous glow.
A roar crashed through the warehouse. In unison the riders counted down the numbers of the timer. “Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen.”
“Now it’s live,” the old man said. “No safety with the light on.”
Although he had barely entered the warehouse, the pedestal in the center of the room offered him an unobstructed view of the rider. Gregory winced. He did not want to witness this. He was not ready for the lifelong burden of carrying around something he could not unsee. A man shot. His blood slapped against the glass. But he could not turn away.
The invalid shook. His screams carried over the crowd with the fervor possessed only by a man condemned. He stretched his neck, exposing a map of sinew and veins. But his fits held no reward. The barrel stared him down the same. Gregory veiled his eyes. “Oh, God. Please, no,” he said. He removed his hand and watched the timer cross into single digits. The crowd raised their fists. As the timer drew closer to its end their chants grew louder. “Look at him,” the girl said. “Man, he’s really going now.” The invalid shook faster. His body rocked with an increasing intensity as if it were building to one great crescendo before remaining forever still. Gregory’s heart thudded. His throat cinched tight and his tongue dried in his mouth. He grabbed at his chest. Please let him make it. Not here. Not sobbing in a box like this. Gregory closed his eyes. He could not bear the final seconds. The crowd pumped their arms to the beat of the timer. As it struck zero a buzzer rang out and the red light turned off. The crowd screamed and the house lights came on. With the commotion it was hard to be certain, but Gregory did not think he heard a gun blast. He was hesitant. But it could not be avoided. He opened his eyes. The invalid was alive, panting and exhausted in the box. Gregory chuckled. He began to clap with the crowd and a laughter overtook him. As it did he put his hands on his head in disbelief. He felt as if he might weep from the excitement of seeing the rider alive in there.
Two attendants carried the man back down from the Killbox. His head bobbed loosely as they installed him in his wheelchair. His clothes had been steeped in sweat. As he sat, his shoulders collapsed and it looked as if he had come from the back half of beyond. They pushed him toward the exit and the crowd cheered. If he had a hat, Gregory might have removed it as he wheeled past him. The man looked up at Gregory. He wanted to speak to him but did not. He wanted to know why. The man scratched his head and smiled. “That was it.” His eyes fogged over. “Greatest day of my life right there.”
Before the next rider, they sprinkled the floor with sawdust and swept it clean. They spritzed the chair, the buckles, the straps, and toweled them dry. Gregory was impressed with the keen urgency of the attendants’ work. It reminded him of a grounds crew primping an infield between innings.
“So who fires it?” Gregory said to the old man.
“Nobody,” the girl said. She thumbed at her phone before nodding her head to the music.
“Guns don’t just go off. Somebody has to fire them.”
“Don’t be stupid,” she said. “That’d be murder. You can’t kill people.”
“It’s an algorithm,” the old man said.
“You should learn some manners,” Gregory said.
“From you? Please, that’s unlikely.”
“You could at least have the respect to put away your phone.”
She shook her head before turning her back to him.
Gregory threw his hands up. “I don’t get it.”
“They’re just mathematical rules for a problem.”
“These kids. I’d burn my hair to rip that phone from her head.”
“Best not to feed in.” The old man shifted his stance. “It encourages them.”
Gregory watched them load another rider. This time, a young mother. She had with her a pair of children in matching overalls. They waited for her outside the Killbox, gleefully pounding on the glass with their palms, jumping and shouting for their mother.
“This can’t be,” Gregory said.
“What?” the old man said.
“That woman. What is she thinking?”
“I know. Those kids lack guidance, smudging the glass like that.”
“She’s going to let them watch? It’s disgusting.”
“What?” the old man said. “Would you have her leave them in the car? It’s not like it was in our day. Do that and they’ll call CPS.”
“But if it happens. Their noses are on the glass. They’ll witness their … I don’t even want to picture it.” “Answer me this.”
Gregory watched them strap her in. As they fastened her ankles the mother waved to her children. “Look at Mommy,” she said. Her hand fluttered and she blew them kisses. “Mommy’s in the box. Look at your Mimi in the box.”
“Would you give a second thought, say, if she were flying on business and her children watched with the same delight you see here, as her plane soared in the air?”
“That’s rhetorical,” Gregory said.
“Of course you wouldn’t.” The old man stuck the tip of his tongue from his mouth. He pinched it with his fingers. “When in truth, her children carry a higher probability of seeing their mother’s untimely end there than here.” “This is different.”
“Is it?”
The light came on and the crowd gave a less than enthusiastic cheer. “This is a spectacle. We’re talking about a violent, awful end.”
“Versus a fiery crash.”
“It’s a barrel to the chin. And they’re right there.” The children jumped for their mother. They banged their palms on the glass. “It’s a load right to the face.”
The little girl snickered. “Load.”
“You know, for someone so cool, you take an interest in our conversation.”
“I’m not.” The girl turned to them. “It’s a boring ride.” Gregory and the old man watched the woman in the box. She paid little attention to the gun in her face, but instead waved to the crowd, her lips growing proud. The little girl pointed her thumb over her shoulder. “I’ve seen her around. First couple times she was a dumpster fire. It was friggin’ awesome. Now she acts like it’s open mic night or something. Totally dumb.”
“Doesn’t she care about her kids?”
“There’s a welfare waiver thing,” the girl said. “It’s like, five bucks or something, and pays out the face.”
“It’s a sick type of show for her. How is she not afraid?”
“Understanding the odds. The algorithm,” the old man said.
“I heard some of the youngsters at the office talk about it. Like getting struck by lighting on a clear day.”
“Thereabouts.”
“But it’s still a loaded gun.”
The attendants removed the mother. They cleaned the box and loaded another rider. The old man counted on his fingers for Gregory. “It’s simple, really. The gun can go off only when the light is on.”
“Certainly.”
“A couple hundred thousand riders a year. That’s about four million seconds with the light on.”
“You’re saying I have a one in four million chance of dying today?”
“Not quite,” the old man said.
The girl held up her fingers, mocking Gregory. “Four, eight, twelve, sixteen.”
“The algorithm is set for a four-year cycle,” he said. “So once a cycle starts it will randomly pull a trigger once in that period.”
“So there’s a one in sixteen million chance it goes off on me.”
“Nope,” the girl said.
“Yes and no,” the man said.
Gregory pressed his fingers into his eyes. “Just forget I asked.”
Another rider entered the Killbox, a fetching young man. He wore sunglasses and stared into the barrel with a pitiless gaze, his mouth held fast in a pursed scowl. But when the light came on urine rilled down his leg. The crowd moaned.
“Look out,” the girl said. She pressed toward the glass. “We got a leaker.”
The old man stayed with Gregory. “All that matters is this. Whatever the odds may be, the algorithm will make the gun go off. The math demands it. And the rider must face it.”
The young man’s knees quivered and his hands began to shake. His face struggled to hold its expression. “The poor man,” Gregory said. “I hope I’m not like that.”
“One more and I’m up,” the girl said. She nodded her head to a song they couldn’t hear. “You watch. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
As the man left the box he staggered past the line. The old man held out his hands and applauded. “Now here’s a man who knows. Well done, young man.”
Gregory watched the girl take her place on deck. An atavistic fear took his stomach. In a rush he felt himself unsettle.
“That one,” Gregory said. He flicked his chin toward the soiled youth. “That impressed you? Even I could’ve lost myself like that.”
The old man leaned in. He took care to ensure his words slipped from his teeth to Gregory’s ear. “There’s never been a better chance than today.”
The girl unsaddled her book bag and dug toward the bottom. She forced two pieces of bubblegum into her mouth. Gregory watched her scan the crowd as she chewed. She looked lost and alone and more than ever it occurred to Gregory that she was just a kid. She was here alone. This sad creature without peers, trying to impress some strangers she’d never see again. His fingers trembled and he hid them in his pockets.
“Why?” he whispered. He could hardly move his mouth to speak. “Just, why?”
“That man knows what I know. Something a nice man like you ought to know before you go through with it.” The old man’s head tilted back. He looked down his nose at the rider in the box. “Never gone this long before,” he said. “Only a couple days left in this cycle. Tomorrow, perhaps today, someone has to die.” The light came on, casting its bloody glow on the old man’s face. And the grooves of his face deepened with black. Gregory turned away. His heart struck and he felt the thump in his ears. He watched the old man’s face. There was a sharp hope in the way he watched the rider. Still and expectant. Like watching a bare horizon, waiting for news. He held this expressionless gaze. Black hollowed beneath his brow. The ridge of his nose reflected a stripe of red light. And when the timer broke to single digits the old man set his jaw and Gregory couldn’t tell whether he wanted the man to live. The buzzer clanged through the warehouse.
Over the kick of the crowd Gregory could hear the girl’s voice. Thick and wet with gum she said, “Zero. That’s right, move him out. I’m up.” She had a confidence Gregory could not understand. The folly of Catholic girls. The youthful revolt in a staid uniform. He did not know why. But he knew he must protect her. He would not let her ride.
Gregory moved forward but the old man stopped him. He clicked his tongue as he shook his head. “That’s not for you to decide.” Gregory wanted to call out. He wanted to tell her she didn’t have to ride. But it occurred to him that he did not even know her name, so he stood there silent. The attendant took the book bag from the girl and set it next to the stairs. His hand circled her arm and he helped her onto the platform. She made her way toward the door but before passing the threshold of the box she turned. Her hair bounced as it brushed past her shoulder. She tugged one of her socks, evening them on her skinny legs. She let her arms dangle loose against her skirt. Above the crowd she looked even smaller, more frail. She was a child. Up there all alone. About to do something she couldn’t possibly comprehend. Gregory saw the fear building in her eyes. A single touch, a simple act of sympathy, and she would have unraveled. Her eyes looked down at Gregory. She bent her arm and gave him a slight wave. Gregory looked to the floor. He did not want to see her there waving at him, asking for help in her way.
“She’s never ridden it,” Gregory said. The attendant turned her and herded her through the door of the Killbox. “Wait,” said Gregory. “She can’t ride.” But the attendant was already inside securing her to the chair. Gregory pressed forward but was stopped by another man. “Stop,” Gregory said and he flailed his arms toward the platform. “It’s going to go off. You can’t let her ride.”
“No cutting,” a man yelled. “Wait your turn,” another said. And the crowd began to stir near the platform.
“Listen.” The attendant shook Gregory by the shoulders. “I have the authority to open that back door with the front of your head. You take your place in line.” The attendant’s nose jabbed at him. Gregory shrank. “You’re up third. He’s on deck.” He pointed to the old man. Then he held up his arm and gave a thumbs up. The other attendant raised his hand and extended his thumb and the wires began to shake into the ceiling. The Killbox came alive. The old man stood tall and soundless. He folded his hands in front of him. He held a distinguished stance and kept a keen eye on the girl, his lips slightly puckering as the gun stopped short of her head. Gregory pressed his back against the platform and slid to the floor. He buried his eyes into his palms, pressing them so tight sparks spidered out in the darkness. He heard the crowd bellow. The child’s shrill scream. He wanted to pray, call out to some sympathetic god, but did not know how. “Please, Jesus. Oh, God,” spilled from his mouth. Over and again he offered his manic plea, his spine waiting for the rough blast of the barrel to wake him. The crowd bellowed. They chanted down the numbers. Gregory cried into his hands. He readied himself for the sacrifice. But the amen of fire did not come. The girl finished her ride with the long blare of the buzzer. The relief brought more tears. His chest heaved and his palms slid wet against his cheeks. Gregory uncovered his eyes to find a crowd staring at him. He dried his hands on his thighs as he stood.
“Look at you,” the girl said. “Were you crying?” Gregory turned to her. His face was red from his panicked bleating. She laughed. “God. You’re such a noob,” she said. “You were crying? You actually thought you were going to save me?” Gregory wiped his face with his sleeve. His throat shook but he had no words.
“If it helps, you’re not the first.” The old man gave Gregory his silk handkerchief. “She always does this. Latches to someone new, the poor orphan thing before she rides.” Gregory felt ill. His head. That vice on his lungs. The curdling of his bowels. He was here for a purpose. A grave matter had brought him here. And it was just a game for her.
An attendant held out his hand to assist the girl. She pushed his arm away and hopped down the stairs. She whipped her bag over her shoulder and checked her phone.
“Why would you do that?” Gregory said.
She looked up for a beat and then was back down at her phone again.
“You let me believe—”
“Look, I need to go if I’m going to ride again before fifth period.” She made her way to the exit. “But if you really want to hash it out,” she pointed to the back of the line with a limp wrist. “Yeah, I’ve got to go.” She left him there before he could think of anything good to say.
A mist of disinfectant stung the air. The crew was at task spraying down the Killbox. Gregory watched as the old man prepared. First the focused look, sharpening his eyes. Then the anticipations. His body leaning square toward the door. He was ready to ride and Gregory was timid to disrupt such concentration. He folded the man’s handkerchief. “Sir?” he said. He held out the cloth. “In case you need it.”
The old man glanced over his shoulder. He had a leg propped on the step, eagerly waiting the sign to move into the box. “Keep it,” he said.
“But it’s embroidered.”
The attendants had the box gleaming and the man began to tap his foot. “I want you to have it,” the old man said. “Something to remember me, all of it.” Gregory stepped forward, pushing the cloth toward the old man. “Don’t,” the old man said. He turned toward Gregory. “Why are you even here?”
Gregory stammered. “I’m, I don’t know. Why’s anybody here?”
The old man fanned his fingers at the crowd. “For her it’s all a game. I’ve got nothing left here. And you.” He shook his head in disappointment. “You’re not even a voyeur. You don’t even watch.”
“Rider ready?” an attendant said.
“Yes.” The old man took the podium.
“Wait,” Gregory said. The old man sighed before turning. “It’s just that I’m tired,” Gregory said. “Of being ignored, passed up and left alone. Because I’m too young to be with it, or I’m not quite old enough to be put to pasture yet. I don’t know. But I know I just want to be part of something.” Gregory could feel his chin quivering. He could not stop it from happening. “I want to be—”
“Nice speech,” the attendant said. “Sir, get in the box please.” The old man gestured for him to wait.
“Then watch,” the old man said. “Don’t turn away. Watch me ride this out.” He sat in the chair the way a royal might. Shoulders back. His hands dangling from the armrest.
It hadn’t occurred to Gregory before seeing him so singularly displayed in the Killbox, but the man was more than dapper. He was beautiful. And the thought of him being culled from this world in a glorious bang might be beautiful too. When the barrel revealed itself and the box illuminated in red, Gregory found himself clapping for the man. His fist, still clutching the man’s handkerchief, pounded on the platform. He cheered and as the clock rode down he found his fear giving way to a spark of excitement.
The man held his noble posture. He didn’t bargain or plead with the box. He didn’t act brave or allow himself the blast of adrenaline. Instead he leaned his chin to the center of the gun. His head tilted back and he looked down his nose into the cold spiral of the barrel. It looked to Gregory like the old man was daring it to go off. He didn’t fidget or writhe. There was no fighting the restraints or hope of escape. He didn’t gnash his teeth in the face of death. No, he stared down the beast with a fearless gaze. What manner of man does this?
Gregory wanted to know him. He didn’t want him to die alone in the box, his history lost with his blood. But before Gregory had a chance to plea for the old man’s safety the box clicked and the light turned off. His ride was over.
With the call of the horn the door opened and the attendants entered the box. The old man’s posture had changed. His head hung. His shoulders rose and slightly fell, a small gesture, not of relief, but of an unspoken failure. Quiet disappointment. He had defied the odds yet again. As the attendants ushered him out, Gregory waved the handkerchief like a flag. “My God. You made it,” Gregory said. He pressed himself against the stairs. “Thought for sure you were going to buy it in there. What a ride.”
The old man swallowed. His throat seized midway and he coughed into his fist. “It seems it is not my day,” he said. He scowled at the mob. Somebody here would have his prize.
“Look,” Gregory said, “I don’t know anybody here. And it’d mean a lot if you’d stay and see me ride it.” Gregory climbed onto the podium. “Don’t want to do it alone,” he said. “Don’t really want to do it at all.” He forced a sad laugh.
“I’d be honored,” the old man said. “But it’s not allowed. You’ll be fine. Look at them.” The crowd was stirring. They shouted for the light to come on, to load another. “If they can make it, you can.” The old man brought his hand to his brow. He motioned as if he was tipping the brim of a bowler hat. Then he slid his hands into his pockets. “Until then,” he said, and the attendants showed him out.
“When?” Gregory said. But the man was too far off to hear him. He felt a hand push at the small of his back, forcing him to walk, and with just a step he found himself inside the box. As he sat in the chair he was surprised at the cold sting against his legs. His arms tightened against his sides.
“Alcohol,” the attendant said. He pressed Gregory’s chest against the backrest and began strapping him in. “The spray makes everything feel freezing. Loosen your legs, please.” He took hold of his ankle and bound it. “But a little cold beats—who knows what you’d catch from that chair?”
“Like what, hepatitis?” Gregory tried to lift himself off the seat, but he couldn’t move.
The man was pleased with his work. “Okay, looks like we’re all set.”
“Wait.” Gregory’s arms tugged but stayed put.
“If I was in there, I wouldn’t breathe through my mouth too much.” He stepped out of the box and gave the wall two deliberate knocks. Gregory flinched. His chest heaved around the strap. “Good luck with the ride,” the man said. With the door shut, the box was quiet. Gregory watched the man’s mouth overemphasize each word through the glass. Now that he was alone there was a stillness that unnerved him. No movement to the air. The sound, quiet and dead. Gregory tried to move. His body shimmied against the chair. It held him. He looked between his feet. A drain was cut into the floor. He hadn’t seen it before and seeing it now seized his mind with the thought of death. If it happened, dear God, his life would slip between his legs. And what remained—whatever else clung to the wall and arms of the chair—would simply be mopped away.
“Shit,” he said. His teeth locked together. “Hey. Let me out. Please, don’t start it. Let me loose. Please. Somebody?” He thrashed in the chair.
The attendant stared at Gregory. He didn’t care enough to smirk. Instead he put a piece of gum in his mouth. He smacked a few times while Gregory wailed in the box. Then he held his hand high in the air, his thumb pointing to the ceiling. A whirring sound came from the black box. Gregory looked to the black tile on the other side of the Killbox. He could see his reflection disappear as the tile slid open. A heat burned in his chest. He felt a wet heat flood his eyes and his stomach caved into his spine. From the black square the gun barrel speared the air. First a small hole, no bigger than a dime, but as it thrust toward his face the barrel grew to the size of a cavern. Gregory puckered his mouth. He shook his head side to side but he couldn’t escape the dark stare of the gun. Gregory shuddered. His lungs clenched in a hysteric scream. The light came on and the barrel reflected a menacing hue. A deep black-red, like blood not yet spilled from a body.
Gregory flexed against the chair. His arms torqued and he stretched his neck. But he could not hide. He puckered his mouth and tucked his chin. A feeble defense to stave off a shotgun. The barrel stayed centered on his face. Ominous. Merciless. As he looked into the depth of the barrel he took no inventory of his life. He thought not of his seventh birthday when his father took him to the sporting goods store and let him buy a football jersey, or his wedding day, his bride-to-be walking down the aisle, a veil so long she nearly tripped, and he did not think of their child, taken from them inexplicably, and he did not cry to God, forgive me, save me. His mind was empty, and he felt as though his insides, from lungs to groin, had hollowed, as though his emptiness was total and complete. And he felt the floor give way beneath him, that he might tumble headlong into the barrel. Nothing but him and the gun. Oblivion in waiting.
The light went off and the gun retracted. Gregory gasped for air. He took it in like it was his first. And as he took another he found that his shirt was plastered to his chest. Then the sound of the crowd returned in a rush. He could hear them chanting, clapping with abandon. The door was open. An attendant came in to free him.
“Did you see?” Gregory’s hands came loose and he cradled his head. “That was—I had no idea.” He tried to stand but his knees folded. The attendant draped Gregory’s arm over his shoulder and shuffled him out of the box. Gregory gave a tired smile to the crowd. He was like a prize fighter that went the distance, staggering through the crowd with a beaming exhaustion. As they carried him to the exit he pumped his fist in the air. “It’s so great,” he said, before shaking into tears.
After the exit was a narrow hallway that led him to an office. Behind a desk a woman waited, a bank of monitors behind her, dozens of screens tiled up to the ceiling. They all displayed various pictures of Gregory. Him getting in the box. The barrel in his face. His fear. His anguish. The relief. Release.
“I like number four,” the woman said. “Just look at that face. What a reaction.”
Gregory laughed. Number four showed him from the gun’s point of view, right down the barrel. His eyes clamped shut. Sweat pouring down his forehead. A deep frown cutting his face. It looked like he was passing a stone. “Classic,” he said.
“We can print it and frame it,” she said. “We got T-shirts, mugs, keychains.”
“I survived the Killbox,” Gregory read from a display coffee mug. It had a cartoon explosion with the picture of a man screaming inside the box.
“You can have it say something else. That’s just the most popular.”
“Can you put number four on a mug, like that?” Gregory pointed at the display.
“Give me two minutes,” she said.
As he waited, Gregory helped himself to a cup of water from the cooler. He sat and thought about how nice it’d be to go into work. He’d amble through the office and into the break room, fill his mug with coffee. He was eager to place it on the edge of his desk so when a co-worker walked by and mentioned something about it, he could sheepishly brush it off, like it wasn’t a big deal. He wondered what they’d say to him and what that’d lead to. He knew that mug would make things different. And he wondered if he came here again, maybe not tomorrow, but perhaps next week on his lunch hour, would he see the old man waiting in line with his hands folded, hoping to punch his ticket? And the girl, too. If he rode it again would they cross each other? He hoped to God they would. He wanted to know.