The Bodyguard ("Good" Story #96)

GOOD
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard can feel the web of skin against his lips. And it bothers him how much he enjoys it. The jack-o-lantern’s behavior is stunningly odd. But what surprises the body guard even more is his own reaction to it. He does not push her hand away. Instead, he lets her smell get into him. It’s probably some kind of ointment partially extracted the bodies of crushed squids, but he can’t deny how pleasant it is. He doesn’t think he’s ever smelled anything so moist, soft, and sweet—yet also slightly salty. It’s quite terrifying. He hates it. He must make her stop this strangeness. Which is when he realizes the web of skin isn’t there anymore nuzzling his lips. And now, it seems almost as if it never was.

Confused, the bodyguard looks into her wintermint eyes. Not for long, but too long for him. The intimacy makes him feel completely compromised. He has total mission-failure. Time to abort the location. Without a word, he abruptly lurches up. In the process his thighs bump the table. This tips over the two paper cups and their differently tinted brown substances, causing a flood of steaming liquid to gush across the cobalt blue table at the jack-o-lantern and splash onto her blouse, staining it and scalding her. She yelps in pain. Everyone turns to look and the bodyguard’s hand goes instinctively toward his gun. But he doesn’t pull it out. He doesn’t do it even though he wants to and knows, in this instance, it is the right thing to do. Instead, he stands stock still, stricken and staring at the brown puddle forming on the floor from the steady dripping from the table. He should get a napkin. Or several. Maybe a pile. He could use them to absorb some of the mess. But he doesn’t. He’s stuck there with his hand on his gun.

He can’t believe he hasn’t pulled it out. He can’t understand himself. Plus, the jack-o-lantern seems to be in pain. He knows he should probably let go of the gun and try to assist her. He wants to. He can see her face. He knows she is in need of something. He sees how her re-stitched on lower lip trembles. So fragile. Maybe if he shook the salt shaker onto her blouse to stop the stain. No. He doesn’t know her that well. Besides, it would go against his executive directive and he can’t be non-compliant. At least not to that degree. There is a chain of authorization and duty to be respected. And obeyed. He doesn’t want to break any rules. All he wants is to close his eyes. Yet he knows he won’t do that either. He hates having so many thoughts happening at once. What is making things even worse is having all these people’s eyeballs on him. If he had his gun out, they would all go away. He knows it. It was part of his training. He worked hard to complete that training. It wasn’t easy for him, but he did it—which means he is now proudly certified. At the big awards ceremony he was even given an official plaque, within which rested the most profound treasure of all—his certificate of safety. Gold leaf. Embossed. Signed by several high-ranking government officials with elite and perfectly abbreviated letters after their names. It makes him feel good to think about those abbreviations. But it’s a different kind of good than it was having that flap of skin against his lips.