by Allison Whittenberg
Back then, there were so many doors to open. And that was Coop’s mission as an MP. From the early morning hours to late in the evening, he opened door after door, and got at what was behind them.
Coop worked with another guy called Johns. Tony Johns. Johns was a talker, a yacker. Shorter, with quick green eyes, Johns was about Coop’s age. He was from one of the New York boroughs, so his wordiness came out fast. As they rode up to the Northeast suburb of Philadelphia cul-de-sac that housed the fifth name on the list they were working on that day, Johns not only started conversations, but he worked mightily to keep it going.
“I mean it was no Death of a Fucking Salesman, but it was still deep as shit,” Johns said.
“And it’s called The Dungeons of Doom?” Coop asked.
“Don’t let that throw you. They may have gotten that part wrong but the rest of it was deep, and I do mean deep.”
“I get it. I get it,” Coop said agreeing just for the sake of agreement, thinking that would suffice Johns and they could move on to something else.
Like a dog with a bone, Johns continued gnawing about the movie he’d seen. “Sometimes the simplest of ideas have the most layers underneath. That’s what makes a simple story so complex.”
Coop parked at the head of the street. “I don’t know, Johns. I’m always leery of any of those straight-to-DVD DVDs.”
“But don’t you see,” Johns said, “the zombies were a stand in for terrorists.”
Coop shook his head as they approached the house, which was a red brick with vanilla siding. Their heavy boots stepped light on the quiet of the cement sidewalk.
Coop clucked his tongue. “I don’t like zombies.”
Johns stood next to Coop. “You don’t like zombies? Who doesn’t like zombies?” Johns asked in a nasal fast voice.
“I don’t,” Coop said as he double-checked the name with the place.
“How could you not like zombies?” Johns asked.
They walked past the house and hovered to the side of it.
“How could you not like zombies?” Johns repeated. “That’s like un-American.”
“I thought you said they represented terrorists?” Coop asked as he folded the sheet with the names and house numbers his superiors gave him. He stuck it back in his case.
Coop blanked out during the explanation that Johns gave him and talked over him, saying, “I don’t understand the zombie rules.”
“How do you even kill a zombie? Sometimes it seems if they fall over with a good wind other times they are shot repeatedly and they still keep coming.”
Johns went on to explain the sci-fi technobabble of zombie lore as Coop nerved up for the next step. The street was quiet during this midday.
“Most importantly if a zombie bites you, you don’t have to turn into a zombie. Some humans are naturally resistant to zombies.”
Coop shook his head. “Well that’s not me. If there’s a virus anywhere, I’ll get it.”
“I have a computer like that.”
Coop almost did a ‘ba dum ba’ drum imitation but changed his mind. Things had gotten like that he couldn’t complete a joke because everything felt too heavy. He envied Johns frenzied though loosey goosey attitude. Nothing seemed to get to him.
Coop scraped his foot across the gravel.
“At least, it had the guts to call them out. Most big budget flicks would never do that,” Johns said.
Coop sighed. Now things were taking a turn. He could predict what Johns would say next.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Johns began, his voice taking on an air of righteous indignation. “If a handful of some half Scot and half Italians set off bombs at a parade killed a hundred people, I would expect to be called something.”
Coop held up his hand. “Johns, I don’t want to get into politics.”
“Then what the Hell did you sign up for?”
Coop did basic training back in his home state, two dozen states away from where the terrorist stuck. From what Coop gathered, Johns, coming from the heart of things, was the rarity. Most of the recruits he’d met in basic were from wide open spaces like Montana and Maine.
Coop for a moment tried to remember what his uniform felt like the first time. When his fatigues were crisp and with the scent of a factory… When his boots were brand new with the smell of leather… Now, it was something he put on and off, like a costume.
“Hating the enemy is the only fun of war,” Johns said. “I mean what the fuck else is there to look forward to when your shipped 5,000 miles from home, the MREs?”
Coop laughed in spite of himself. Rarely did he really stop to think about things and when he did he realized he was on that razor’s edge between comedy and tragedy, tipping ever so slightly toward the funny.
“Do you even know what the enemy looks like?”
Now Coop frowned. “You do, Johns?”
“I do.”
“How could you? They could be anywhere. They could be anyone. They don’t have to be insurgents.”
“They could be insurgents. They could be hippies.”
“Hippies?”
“I know what the enemy looks like. It looks like confusion. And chaos. It’s the damnedest thing: everybody wants to be American but nobody wants to be an American. This is a crisis. We shouldn’t have to knock on doors. We need all hands on deck. I’d like to tell these people that they are Americans whether they like it or not. They can root for the enemy all they want but when is said and done: If America falls, they fall. Those motherfucking warmed over leftover freeze-dried hippies can put that in their peace pipe and smoke it.”
Coop let Johns’ words snap and crackle but he didn’t answer him. How could he? What could he say besides maybe he didn’t know Johns as well as he thought he did.
They stood on the narrow landing, and Coop knocked on the door.
“Mrs. Winslow, we’re here about Nathan Winslow, your son.”
No reply.
Coop exchanged a look with Johns.
There was a peephole. Coop couldn’t help but wish it pointed the other direction, if only he could press his pupil to the hole. But it didn’t work like that; it only pitched toward the street.
Inside, footsteps moved. Coop heard them, heavy and deliberate. Slow about the doorway. Then they went faint.
“What the fuck is taking so long?” Johns asked.
Coop shrugged his shoulders.
The sky was so blue and clear.
They were the sole noise on the street as the soldiers knocked again.
A drop of sweat slipped down Coop’s back. He rolled back his shoulders to relax.
“Open up, ma’am, we know you’re in there. We’re here on behalf of the government of the United States,” Johns said.
Again, no reply.
Coop didn’t grow up curious. There wasn’t a whole lot he wanted to know. This wasn’t what he figured he was getting into. He thought MPs would be protecting people during national emergency or martial law, maybe a little crowd control, but he never wanted this door-to-door shit.
“Come on, come on. What’s taking so long? Roll out of bed, slap your girdle on, and open the door.” Johns pounded on the door.
Quiet. So very quiet, like duck fat rolling a roasting pan.
What was the wait about?
They stood outside and Coop got a sinking feeling that that dusty old notion of patriotism wouldn’t work this time. But this was all part of a day’s work, this steering into the skids.
“Let’s move on,” Coop said.
Johns shook his head. “No, someone’s in there.”
Coop looked away from the door and back to the car. They were only a few paces away. Maybe everything was still normal like the Quaker Oats he had for breakfast that morning. Or was it Cream of Wheat?
“Let’s move on,” Coop insisted.
Johns didn’t budge. “They got all this, and they still aren’t grateful.”
Johns rapped on the door again and continued, “They get the most out of this country. Put these people on the front line.”
“Are you sure they have the heart?” Coop asked.
Johns kicked at the door and said, “They’ll grow a heart.”
Coop stilled Johns.
Johns resisted and said, “Come on, Lady. We’re here about your son. His ship date was last month. I know you’re in there. You and your son. I know you hear me.”
“Johns, she’s not coming to the door.” Coop said. “I’ll make the notation.”
With that Johns took a step back and cocked his head to the side. He advanced again to the door and whispered this part to the wood and who was beyond it, “Mrs. Winslow, Nathan, you’re not gonna like what comes next. ”
Johns turned to Coop.“They never do, do they?”
Coop nodded slowly. “Okay, Johns. We’re done.”
Johns backed away and joined Coop on a silent walk toward the government car and drove to their next duty station.
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Allison Whittenberg is an award-winning novelist and playwright. Her poetry has appeared in Columbia Review, Feminist Studies, J Journal, and New Orleans Review. Whittenberg is a ten-time Pushcart Prize nominee. They Were Horrible Cooks is her collection of poetry. Her plays have been performed at Interact Theatre, Downtown Urban Arts Fest, Hedgerow Theatre and many others.
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