The Zero Game

“Just keep talking!” she shouts, stuttering slightly. Something’s definitely wrong. I tell myself it’s just her fear of being trapped underground, but as the silence once again descends, I can’t help but think it’s something worse. “Tell me about work… your parents… anything…” she begs. Whatever else is going on, she needs something to take her mind off it.

“M-My first day in the Senate,” I begin, “I was riding the metro to work, and as I got on board, there was an ad – I forget what it was for – but the ad said, Reach Beyond Yourself. I remember staring at it the entire-”

“Don’t give me locker room speeches – I saw Rudy!” she shouts. “Tell me something real!”

It’s a simple request, but I’m surprised how long it takes me to come up with an answer.

“Harris…!”

“I make breakfast for Senator Stevens every morning!” I blurt. “When we’re in session, I have to pick him up at his house at seven A.M., go inside, and make him Cracklin’ Oat Bran with fresh blueberries…”

There’s a short pause.

“You serious?” Viv asks. She’s still wavering, but I hear the laughter in the back of her throat.

I smile to myself. “The man’s so insecure, he makes me walk him to every vote on the Floor, just in case he’s cornered by another Member. And he’s so cheap, he doesn’t even go to dinner anymore without bringing a lobbyist. That way, he doesn’t have to pick up the bill…”

After the pause, I hear a single word from Viv: “More…”

“Last month, Stevens turned sixty-three… We threw four different birthday parties for him – each one a thousand-dollar-a-plate fundraiser – and at each one, we told the invitees it was the only party he was having. We spent fifty-nine thousand on salmon and some birthday cake – we raked in over two hundred grand…” I sit up on my knees, shouting into the darkness. “In his office, there’s a homerun baseball from when the Atlanta Braves won the World Series a few years back. It’s even signed by Jimmy Carter – but the Senator was never meant to keep it. They asked him to sign it, and he never gave it back.”

“You making that up…?”

“Two years ago, at a fundraiser, a lobbyist handed me a check for the Senator – I handed it back and said, ‘Not enough.’ Right to his face.”

I hear her laugh. That one she likes.

“When I finished college, I was such an idealist, I started and quickly dropped out of a graduate theological program. Even Matthew didn’t know that. I wanted to help people, but the God part kept getting in the way…”

From the silence, I know I’ve got her attention. I just have to bring her in. “I helped redraft the bankruptcy law, but since I’m still paying back my Duke loans, I have five different MasterCards,” I tell her. “My most distinctive memory from childhood is catching my dad crying in the boys’ department of Kmart because he couldn’t afford to buy me a three-pack of white Fruit of the Loom undershirts and had to buy the Kmart label instead…” My voice starts to sag. “I spend too much time worrying what other people think of me…”

“Everyone does,” Viv calls back.

“When I was in college, I worked in an ice-cream store, and when customers would snap their fingers to get my attention, I’d break off the bottom of their cone with a flick of my pinky, so when they were a block or two away, their ice cream would drip all over them…”

“Harris…”

“My real name is Harold, in high school they called me Harry, and when I got to college, I changed it to Harris because I thought it’d make me sound more like a leader… Next month – if I still have a job – even though I’m not supposed to, I’ll probably leak the name of the new Supreme Court nominee to the Washington Post just to prove I’m part of the loop… And for the past week, despite my best efforts to ignore it, I’m really feeling the fact that with Matthew and Pasternak gone, after ten years on Capitol Hill, there’s no one… I don’t have any real friends…”

As I say the words, I’m on my knees, cradling my stomach and curling down toward the floor. My head sinks so low, I feel the tips of the rocks press against my forehead. A sharp one digs in just under my hairline, but there’s no pain. There’s no anything. As the realization hits, I’m completely numb – as hollow as I’ve been since the day they unveiled my mom’s headstone. Right next to my dad’s.

“Harris…” Viv calls out.

“I’m sorry, Viv – that’s all I’ve got,” I reply. “Just follow the sound.”

“I’m trying,” she insists. But unlike before, her voice doesn’t boomerang through the room. It’s coming directly from my right. Picking up my head, I trace the noise just as the darkness cracks. Up ahead, the neck of the tunnel blinks into existence with the faint glow of light – like a lighthouse turning on in the midst of an ocean. I have to squint to adjust.

From the depths of the tunnel, the light turns my way, glowing at me.