The Bodyguard (story 101 "PROXIMITY")

PROXIMITY
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is beside the jack-o-lantern. Walking. And stumbling. He’s not exactly beside her because she’s a little ahead and has taken his hand in hers and keeps looking over at him as if she’s afraid he’ll pass out again. He still has the bag of ice taped in place from where he forehead bonked the table at the coffee shop. When the jack-o-lantern wouldn’t let its staff call 9-1-1, they’d insisted on the bag. But she’d put it on—making sure his already broken glasses were nestled safely on his nose and being careful to keep his wire projecting far enough into his ear.

The bodyguard touches the wire as he looks around at the fleeting neon. Friday night high school kids and booming cars fill the street. His elbow grazes the stylized portico of a storefront. He looks at it, thinking how much it resembles a baby’s crib. Then he realizes he doesn't know how he got here, which ratchets him up even a few more notches on the nervousness scale. Ahead, the high-schoolers are laughing again. From the irreverent tone, he decides they are up to something. And so, like you’d expect, he reaches for his gun. BUT IT’S GONE. Red waves lash against each other in his head. Their foam scalds his throat. Did the jack-o-lantern take it? He looks over at her. For the first time he notices the geography revealed by her dress and the troubling way her black tights snake down her legs. But clearly there’s no place for his gun there. And she has no handbag.

Before he can fret more for his gun, he’s struck by a far more calamitous realization. Her hand is touching his! Not only that—their fingers are entwined. Although the tenderness does feel perversely nice, its promiscuity rips through him like the teeth of a shark. But then, suddenly, this pain is ruptured by another far more intense and physical. A squeal from his wire pierces into his ear.

They know.

For weeks he’s felt he might be under observation in regards to his possible ascendance to the next level in their echelons power: This proves it. They’re nearby. Somewhere. Watching. He’s sure of it. He struggles to contain his elation. His fellow soldiers of safety—with their tight lips, guns, discretion, and darkness—they’re somewhere near! Yes, obviously this dreadful noise can only mean he is being standardly punished for breeching the covenant in letting himself be touched. But what that implies is still irrefutable: They are here. Somewhere. Which means they must know how vigilant he’s been in not allowing himself to eat. And surely such abstinence must mean something. If only he could see even their muted silhouettes. He’s long been craving such a sign—not that he’s ever dreamed or even permitted himself to consider such a happy day could happen as to be brought back in from exile, and again have proximity to the heaven of their shiny black shoes. Obviously, yes, the return is happening at the worst time. But, still, it’s what he’s secretly so yearned for. Obviously, yes ,also, in these narrow seconds he’s failed. Guilty, gunless—he’s horribly compromised and non-compliant with the jack-o-lantern’s—ohmygawd! Her web! It’s touching him!

Suddenly a white wave crests through him. As he’s churned around by it, he hears the blue tulips of his ribs again begin to hum. Then sees himself lolling starboard toward the pavement.