eugene

There he is: Eugene. I see him. But I cannot describe him. Each time I try, he dissolves. Hair: nondescript; clothing: nondescript; even the potentially interesting oversized black briefcase he holds is bland. 

Eugene is a man without qualities. 

This man without qualities waits for me outside a sprawling complex. It’s good he’s out front because the place is sealed behind complicated gates, with wires and fences draped like Christmas garland from high concrete walls. Meanwhile, several tall towers survey the area from behind what look like giant mirror sunglasses. 

“Yeah,” he says grimly as he settles into the backseat without greeting me, “You don’t want to try to go in there. You’ll never get out.”

“Well, thanks for coming out front to meet me. What is this place, anyway?” I’m thinking prison and a little leaf thrills somewhere in my chest.

“That?! That’s Barnes-Westfield Regional Airport, home of the 104th Fighter Wing of the Massachusetts Air National Guard base, responsible for patrolling the entire Eastern seaboard of the United States!”

“Whoa! That sounds pretty serious!” I am impressed but no longer thrilled. “So you work in there?”

“Yes sir. Something Something Military Title Eugene Something Something ACRONYM, United States Air Force, Communications Specialist, Retired.” 

Meanwhile, I imagine Eugene in aviator goggles, hunched behind Snoopy in a World War I fighter plane, tapping out mayday signals in Morse code on telegraph keys, his white scarf billowing wildly behind him because they’ve been hit! They’ve been hit! Going down! And air is rushing into the cockpit but before they can eject, it’s all up to Eugene to send vital communications regarding enemy positions!

My daydream wavers, dispelled by the indefatigable drone of Eugene’s very, very serious explanation of the very, very important job he has done for the last 25 years: maintaining the public face of the base’s website. Why, just today, he had to come in because those knuckleheads they’ve brought to replace him messed up something on the something, and it took him all morning to clean up their mess. Knuckleheads!

So it’s good to be retired, and the pension is great, especially now that he has to pay his bitch ex-wife alimony—“I mean, how is that fair?!”—and support his ungrateful daughter—“It’s called a job honey, j-o-b?! Ever heard of it?”

Decades of bitterness swell and burst forth. It dribbles, then pours, then gushes from his mouth in a steady stream, like foam insulation, filling the backseat. The last thing I hear as his projectile complaint fills the car completely is “Plandemic—oh, sorry, I mean, pandemic.” 

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