Exit Papers from Paradise

LIAM CARD

EXIT PAPERS

FROM

PARADISE

A NOVEL

For anyone who knows the depth of a rut

It’s never too late to be who you might have been.

— George Eliot

I

I’ m as alive as my prey but feel nothing but resentment toward him. Does his brain refuse to shut off, like mine? Does he have trouble falling asleep, fearful of what he might dream? Is he constantly on trial with the voice in his head?

No.

He simply exists, and as an envious witness to this, I notice the pressure on my trigger finger increase as the final grains of sand in his egg timer of a life race to the other side.

Nature’s scent has led him to this field, like a teenager to a high school dance. Fuelled by opportunity. You won’t find what you’re looking for, Mr. Buck. She’s not here. She doesn’t even exist. I tricked you. Life is what you smell, but there’s nothing but death for you in this particular field.

After much voyeurism through the scope on my Winchester Model 70, it strikes me once again how strange a fetish voyeurism truly is. But I completely get it. I fully understand the desire to lay eyes on something beautiful, while remaining anonymous. No judgmental eyes staring back. No expectations. That, mixed with the excitement from getting away with it, which I’m sure for the peeker is more thrilling than the act of physical lovemaking itself. Voyeurism isn’t right. It’s a violation of privacy and I would never do it — but I felt obligated to investigate the fetish. I clicked on voyeur-cam Internet porn once (to try to get a sense of what it’s like) and watched a supposed sorority collegian towel dry after a hot shower. Brushed her long brunette hair for awhile in the nude. Skin cream went on next. Deodorant was then applied under her arms, but I couldn’t tell if it was anti-perspirant, which contains aluminum, and aluminum has been linked to Alzheimer’s. Regardless, she then lay splayed while leafing through a magazine on the edge of a motel-looking bed — the kind you put quarters in. But that’s not real voyeurism. I knew the camera had been set up and the fraud was likely a coked-out amateur porn star or failed actress. Are you sure that she knew the camera was there? Because if she didn’t, then it classifies as true voyeurism, and you violated her privacy, Isaac. No, she knew it was there. Every stilted action was blatantly played to the camera. Let’s hope that was the case — or you’re a huge pervert. No I’m not, because it didn’t get me off, and it was for research purposes. Fair enough.

My diagnosis, then, is that voyeurs are either addicted to the endorphin rush yielded from the act itself, or they suffer from severe lack of confidence — bordering on depression. Either could be dealt with professionally. No one is born a voyeur, and that is a fact.

I find myself increasingly concerned at the tense in which I talk to myself. I hear the word you get thrown around a lot in my head: ‘You’ should do this. ‘You’ can’t say that. ‘You’ need help. ‘You’ shouldn’t think that.

Who is that speaking to me in my head? Is it me? It can’t be.

It sounds exactly like my regular inner voice — the one speaking right now. Which thoughts are my own, and which don’t belong? Or do they all belong to me? Could it be that my inner voice has more than one personality? Possible. I’m not schizophrenic. I don’t suffer from hallucinations or delusions or incoherent word salad. My inner voice must be schizophrenic. How would a professional even begin to treat a schizophrenic inner voice? There can’t be medication on the market for that — something to make the conversation in my head stop talking to itself. Or me. Even for a second. And what if it stopped? Would I cease to be me? You’d be bored. Maybe. That’s scary, too. In no way is this a professional prognosis, but I may be fucked in the head. Inconclusive. Perhaps this is all very normal. You have no idea what the inside of someone else’s head sounds like. That’s a great point.

It is too hot for a late October day, and I am beginning to smell bacteria multiplying in my armpit as the scent escapes from the neck of my camo, waffle-knit thermal. I am going to define this natural fragrance as vinegar mixed with gym sock and a hint of Parmesan cheese. You smell like a hobo.

Slaves must have worked on hot days like this, and I have no idea how they managed that. You would have made a shitty slave. They would have lynched me for repeatedly boarding the Underground Railroad. Some slaves didn’t get caught. I would have. I, Isaac Sullivan, would have been made an example of, but would be proud to go out that way — having defied an institution. Taking a stand. Changing the world. Doctors change the world. Yes, but you are not a doctor.

Not yet.

But I could be.

You are a plumber, Isaac.

A plumber in Paradise. That is an oxymoron. No, that is an oxymoron on steroids and, of those steroids, most likely Winstrol-V. That oxymoron is not passing a urine test. That oxymoron rebuilds damaged cells faster and can train harder than other oxymorons. That oxymoron suffers from rampant acne, increased aggression, and testicular atrophy. Still, no matter how often that oxymoron sticks a needle in its ass, it remains both a tragic and accurate description of my role and location on this planet.

But the dozens of online IQ tests I’ve completed tell me that I, in fact, am quite capable of handling a college-level, pre-med curriculum. My SAT score placed me in the ninetieth percentile. What kind of loser takes the SATs in his thirties? Pathetic. I am, apparently. I’m the loser who took them in his thirties. Proud, and ready to secure my notch on the SAT measuring stick, I sat with two hundred seventeen-year-olds battling oily skin who couldn’t give a shit about their scores and who lacked the capacity to appreciate their opportunity. Unable to understand what it felt like to take the test at my age or what it felt like to be on the receiving end of their confused, dirty looks.

More resentment to add to my toxic pile.

Raised by a father who instilled in me the idea that my aspirations of being a doctor were ridiculous, I wonder if it’s possible to grow any more resentful of him. You’re not college material, he would say. Obviously, my SAT score and online IQ results have proved him wrong. But the evidence of that would never matter. I could never present it to him, and it wouldn’t change anything or his estimation of me, because I’m still here, in Paradise, living someone else’s life.

Someone else’s career. Not mine.

I could have been a college student at the University of Michigan. Ann Arbor. The Wolverines.

An undergraduate, first. Medical school after that. Then a real doctor. The thought, the image, the words — they make my stomach flip as though catching a glimpse of the object of one’s affection.

I hope Mr. Buck didn’t sense my intestinal acrobatics. Yes, he’s that good, and the last thing I want is to scare him off. Stay still. He’s chewing right now, and I will wait to end his life until he finishes his mouthful. His last supper. How thoughtful.

The hundreds of medical textbooks and journals that line my antique bookcase have all been read twice. I’m like the kid who begs his coach to get in the game and play, but whose talent is left on the bench undiscovered. I could have gone to college. I could be a surgeon by now, but there is no M.D. after my name. Instead, I followed orders, did what I had to do, and took over the family business: piping routes for water, shit, and piss to travel, and maintaining them.

For now, I lie flat on my stomach just inside the tree line, peering out into the soybean field where Mr. Buck’s chewing is nearing an end. Barely even breathing, I lie hidden, looking through the scope into the animal’s retina. This isn’t hunting. From this distance, I couldn’t hit him with a baseball or a small stone — not even with a slingshot. But through the scope, I can almost smell him.

The fly on my arm cleans his wings, in no danger. A snake could cross in front of my mud-streaked face. It could even touch me or coil itself around my arm. I wouldn’t budge. Lie. You hate snakes. True. But maybe I just haven’t met one I liked.

The woods behind me are alive with noise, random chirps, rustling, calls, mating, and digging, but my prey is intelligent and in tune with nature and is deaf to these sounds. The wonderment here lies in the fact that one wrong breath from me, one cough, one small clearing of the throat, one misplaced body shift, and the balance is off, and so is he. No, the wonderment here lies in the fact that he hasn’t smelled you, because your armpits are a Petri dish. True. Lucky I’m downwind.

I look over to Gilby crouching silently beside me. He knows better than to pant, despite the fact that it is too hot for an October day. You’re a good soldier, Gilby. You’re a Marine, pal. We are an army of two. His dirty yellow coat seems to blend in nicely with our current vantage point. He looks back at me. I agree. It’s time. I feel the calculated intake of air into my lungs. Fuelled by power and poise, I have to remind myself why I do this. It’s not about the buck. Resentful as I am, this is not about the buck. It might be about the buck. Enough. It’s time to get focused.

Crosshairs sit between his eye and lower ear, dancing a few inches in every direction because I can’t hold perfectly still. If I popped a Diazepam, I would be more still. Snipers take Diazepam. Two things: Diazepam can be tough on the system, and its side-effects include depression and impaired learning, both of which you can’t afford. True. I walk the line of depression daily, and I can’t afford anything to impair my continual intake of medical knowledge. Also, you’re not a sniper. You’re a plumber. Shut up.

Focus.

Focus.

Focus.

The mounting pressure on the trigger is too much. I feel it give way. It’s at this point that I close my eyes. The weight of the rifle kicks back into my shoulder, but I am too strong. The cracking sound of the bullet, ignited with new purpose, is succeeded by two of my favourite things: the smell of the powder, and the thud of the fallen kill.

Eyes re-open. Mr. Buck lies on the ground as his peers dash away. Don’t worry, peers. No more bullets. I only brought one. And thank you, Mr. Buck. You have unwittingly volunteered your body to medicine and will be this week’s surgical practicum.

Home schooling is hard and takes tenacity and creativity. There are no fetal pigs, and there are no rats or other small mammals soaking in formaldehyde to operate on, so I’m forced to provide for myself. As a result, I shot Mr. Buck, and the more hours behind the blade, the better.

Training.

Preparing.

You can’t qualify cleaning Mr. Buck as surgery. Why not? It’s more of an autopsy, except you already know the cause of death. Fine. It’s surgery and it’s an autopsy. An autopsy isn’t surgery. I agree — but a heart transplant is, and he has one coming.

One day it will not be a buck or a wolf or a mallard. It will be a human being. That human being will unconsciously rely on my confidence with a scalpel and, like an athlete in training, I am dedicated to perfection. Fact: It would be much more beneficial to practice on humans, but I won’t be granted that divine right until medical school. Fact: There are a few characters in Paradise I would love to select for an educational dissection — Tyson Fleming being the highest on the list. Second highest on the list is Mrs. Bennett on West Portage Lane. Mrs. Bennett, whose hot water heater I installed three months ago and who hasn’t paid me yet.

Dressed in a Mossy Oak, Realtree HD camouflage jacket and pants, lying at the edge of the tree line, I stare back out onto my fallen buck.

Gilby licks my face, pleading to go check the kill. I motion with the slightest nod, and he takes off like a malnourished greyhound chasing a plastic rabbit. Gilby. So loyal. If I installed a water heater in his dog shed, he would pay me on time. I release the bolt on the Winchester and slide it back. A smoking brass shell pops out.

I approach my fallen prey with my tools and a large blue cooler in tow. Precious time has elapsed since I downed Mr. Buck. I should have raced to slit his throat and let his heart pump out as much blood as possible before it got the memo. Surgery will be messier now. Understood.

Crouching down beside the noble creature, I lay both of my hands on his torso, carefully, as if not to wake him from an afternoon nap. Gilby has come over to sit next to me, panting heavily and biting at the flies circling his head. He knows what comes next. He is my operating room nurse.

Thank you for your contribution to medicine, Mr. Buck.

Even in his death, I am more resentful than ever of this animal. And why you? Why you, out of all of your qualified peers? There must have been a reason. There must be karma, and if there is karma, then I am begging for it. While digging a ditch for a sewer connection, do I get to be unsuspectingly crushed by the shovel on the backhoe? Mercifully released from this nuclear meltdown of a life to start from scratch sometime in the future or in tandem or however that afterlife thing works — if it works at all.

Enough questions. The sun is burning hotter, and I have to clean Mr. Buck to salvage the meat.

Gilby. Scalpel please, I order. He looks at me and sniffs the air. Typical.

From my tool bag, I grab the transportation tags and wrap one around the right ankle of Mr. Buck like a hospital bracelet. Honestly, don’t call him Mr. Buck. I’m sick of it already, and it’s weird and really messed up. I will call him Mr. Buck if I like. He deserves a name. He is a patient, and one day they will be real people who have real names. I remove the plastic cover from the scalpel and catch my reflection in the blade.

Not sure what to think of what I see.

I bring the white surgical mask to the ready position, and it hugs tightly to my nose and mouth. Two rubber gloves are snapped on over my sweaty, dirty hands. Will someone catch me this time, out here with the mask and gloves and scalpel instead of a proper cleaning knife? Why not add the white surgical cap for good measure, moron? The cap would be too much. They would still call you a freak. The lack of a surgical cap is not saving you from that. True, but this freak is dedicated to saving lives, and no one can see me because this is my property and it is private.

My scalpel cuts away Mr. Buck’s genitals. Not my fault. It has to be done: Step One in field dressing and the worst part. Your hand is shaking a bit. Are you nervous? Shut up. Why are you cutting with your left hand? Good point. I’m right-handed, but I also cut my food with my left hand. That’s odd. In medical school, they will force me to cut with my right hand because I am right-hand dominant. Be proactive and switch it up then. Next time.

From around the genitals first, the scalpel travels backward, cutting a circle around the anus.

The hard part is over. I insert my scalpel under the hide and make one single incision up the belly all the way to the base of his neck. Skin spreads apart behind the blade, releasing it like a zipper.

With purpose, I walk into the O.R., dressed and scrubbed for surgery, my gloved hands arrogantly positioned in the air awaiting surgical tools.

Status update, I demand from the eager team already in place.

Penetrating ballistic chest trauma, says the Blonde Nurse. Patient is in hypovolemic shock.

More info, I command.

B.P. is 70 systolic, and blood ox is 88 on 10, she fires back.

I love Blonde Nurse. She looks like Gwen Stefani mixed with Madonna, and Madonna attended the University of Michigan for a brief academic romp — which makes her significantly hotter. So I guess Blonde Nurse looks more like Madonna than Gwen Stefani for my purposes. Focus. There is a human on the table dying. Who is he?

Name? I yell.

John Buckley. Fifty-five. Hunting accident, says Asian Nurse.

Let’s get an X-ray up here for a portable chest. I want a chest tube in there to get the air out of the pleural cavity, I order.

I understand that this is a high-pressure situation, but Asian Nurse had better watch herself. She has given me two looks now in the span of only a few seconds. Two flirty looks. My general rule of thumb is that the first two are free. The third will result in my asking her out for a post-op martini or ten — the preamble to waking up beside her the next morning with a hangover and several important questions that need answering.

Let’s get three bags of O-negative up here, stat, belts out Asian Nurse.

I look into John Buckley’s chest and then over at Blonde Nurse’s.

Both equally fascinating.

Give me a 10 blade! I yell. Instantly, a 10 blade is placed in my hand by an overweight Fat Male Nurse.

Larger issue: Asian Nurse just gave me the third look. She is mine.

Larger issue: John Buckley’s chest — spread open on the table in front of me. I begin to hunt for the bullet with my scalpel but can’t see shit from the bleeding.

I can’t see shit from the bleeding! More suction!

My request is instantly granted. Blonde Nurse returns with blood bags. A new Brunette Nurse, who looks like the real-life version of Belle from the cartoon Beauty and the Beast, enters with the chest X-ray. Cartoon Belle was hotter. I really can’t debate this right now.

Focus on the dying human.

Just as I thought, the bullet is lodged against the heart — the trickiest of removals. One wrong move and life is over for our calamity-stricken hunter. I wonder if Blonde Nurse would join me in a threesome with Asian Nurse. I’m getting self-conscious now. That’s weird. Why did I just get self-conscious? Is it because there are two of them? Maybe. Are you afraid that they will pleasure each other more than you possibly could? That’s impossible. I have hardware that they lack. You do have hardware, but your refractory period isn’t great. True. Conclusion: In a threesome, I am quickly expendable.

B.P.’s dropping, announces Fat Male Nurse with a sense of purpose. I’m working as fast as I can, for Christ’s sake. No, you’re not. Fat Male Nurse looks over to me, his eyes suggesting he could do a better job. Really? Do you think so, Fat Male Nurse? Fact: He should be fired and forced to jog five