One Slip

Word Count: 3100

-1-

2001

The first time it happened, Atlas was too busy mourning his dead wife and daughter to care about the song. The second time it happened, he didn't want to believe the song meant anything.

         Number three now.

Hello? Is there anybody in there?

         The blond he was trying to booze up into fucking said, "You really met Orlando Bloom? Really?"

Just nod if you can hear me

Is there anyone home?

         Atlas jumped from his stool and shouted, "Turn it off! Turn it off!"

         The bartender flipped around.

         "Hey!" the blond said. "What--"

Come on, now, I hear you're feeling down

I can ease your pain, get you on your feet again

         Too late now.

         "It's a good song, man," the bartender said. "Pink Floyd rocks, man, what do you--"

         "Get out. Everyone get out!" Atlas stumbled back from his stool.

         Nobody moved.

Relax, I need some information first

Just the basic facts, can you show me where it hurts?

         "Get out for your fucking life!"

         It was hopeless. They peered at him like he was crazy. The blonde's jaw hung open.

         That ruthless guitar melody.

         "Get out."

There is no pain you are--

         Fuck them. He raced for the door, jumped down the stairs--

You're only coming through--

         --ran past the few cars parked outside and then struggled over the wall and fell down on the other side.

         He covered his eyes in his arms, but the explosion was too bright and even behind his closed eyelids he saw a uniform burst of white.

#

-2-

1987

This is how it happens.

         Polly wants to play batetbaw.

         That's Polly-speak for basketball.

         The last day of vacation, and Atlas is terribly glad Shirley and little Polly are home.

         She wants to play basketball

         Sure, they can play basketball.

         Atlas says, "Hey, Mom, where's Polly's basketball?"

         "Check the closet, Dad," Shirley shouts from the bedroom.

         Atlas checks Polly's closet and there it is: big, plastic, brown.

         Not a real basketball by any means.

         He takes it out, throws it at Polly, and Polly spreads her arms wide open and circles it. She rests her cheek on it, and sings:

Ba-ba-ba, ba-ba-la-ba, doo-doo-doody-doo

         She's so adorable Atlas picks her up and gives her a big smackeroo on her head.

Ba-ba!

         "That's lovely, darling," Atlas says, then sits her on his shoulders and takes her to the four foot tall hoop in the middle of the west wall.

         He sits cross-legged there.

         Polly swings the ball behind her, then throws it down. It misses the hoop, even though it's right in front of her.

         "Aw," Polly says.

         "You'll get it," Atlas says. "Polly'll get a slam dunk."

         "Wunk!"

         "Hey Mom, throw me the ball, will ya?"

         Shirley shuffles into the room, picks the ball up, throws it.

         Atlas catches it.

         "Mommy! Batetbaw!"

         "Yes, basketball," Shirley says. Smiles.

         Atlas hands Polly the ball; she throws it again. Misses.

         Shirley goes and picks it up again, and Polly says, "Want danth! Polly want danth!"

         Polly wants dance.

         Which means Polly wants the radio on.

         Atlas puts Polly on the floor, and Shirley turns the radio on.

         They're playing a horrible dance song Atlas wouldn't be caught dead listening, but Polly likes it, so it doesn't matter.

         Look at her tapping her foot! Look at her roll her hand in the air like she's screwing the lid of a jar, and the crazy way she shakes her head and rolls her eyes!

         "She's gonna be a star," Shirley says.

         Atlas completely believes it. Why the hell not? "A Rock star," he says.

         Shirley nods.

         There's a commercial break and Polly fidgets with the ribbon on her dress, and after that, completely out of the blue, this is what comes on:

We don't need no education

         Atlas and Shirley both jerk their heads at the stereo, and yes, it is Pink Floyd. Wonderful!

         "Thoth contol!" Polly sings with the song, and though her dance is terribly out of sync with the beat, who cares?

         "Hey, she likes Pink Floyd," Atlas says. "How about that? Our daughter likes Pink Floyd!"

         "Genes," Shirley says, and shrugs.

         "Bwith in wa! Aw in aw ith wath nuth bwith in wa!"

         Shirley chuckles and sings along: "All in all it was just another brick in the wall."

         Atlast joins in, and they all sing.

         The song ends, and after that:

Is there anybody out there?

         The song fades to a low hum, and the host, says, "Hello and welcome to TNUC's Pink Floyd special." She sounds peppy, like she's just won a lottery. " I'm Jonnie G and we are proud to--"

         His cell phone starts buzzing in his pocket.

         A message from Doggett:

Im in ur garden come down

         Damn, he completely forgot about Doggett.

         Gotta go. Can't bum out now.

         "What is it?" Shirley asks.

         He tells her.

         Jonnie says, "And good news for all Pink Floyd fans: there is--"

         He kisses Polly's head, gets into his jacket, and then hears the song come back on just as he gets out.

         He takes the lift, gets out, jogs past the lot into the garden.

         He catches a glimpse of Doggett sitting on a bench admiring two teenagers wearing extremely short skirts

         (won't let Polly wear 'em what the hell are you talking about of course she'll wear what she wants dummy)

         and behind him, God stomps His foot down on Atlas's idea of a life.

#

-3-

1999

THE EVENING TRIBUNE

LOS MEGAN STADIUM DESTROYED! NO SURVIVORS! NATION ON FULL ALERT!

July 14

The final match of the World Cup between Japan and Brazil ended in terrible tragedy: the Los Megan Soccer Stadium was destroyed in what is allegedly a suspect terrorist attack. There are no survivors. Prime Minister Jack Jones has issued a full alert and citizens are requested to stay indoors until further statement. The total death count is as yet undetermined. Radio sports jockey Goldie Jay says the irony of the situation is far too obvious...

#

-4-

That was wrong, of course. There was one survivor. Atlas Mercury. Just like right now.

         What had he been doing at the game?

         Majorly pissed off at Brazil for screwing it up so badly, that's what. And how in God's name could they give a goal to Japan? Japan, for fuck's sake! Like a lion losing to a lizard. Preposturous!

         He'd had one earbud of his father's iPod in his ear, and was hearing music to waste the game away because the radio sports jockeys were talking crap as usual, and if he wanted to hear that crap he would've just stayed home and watched it on TV.

         How had he escaped?

         He didn't remember. Not for the life of him.

         The song came on and he didn't really give it much thought till the ground started shaking.

         Then it all just came together in his head. Clicked.

         Next thing he knew he woke up in a trash can.

#

-5-

2003

Was he cursed?

         Was it a test?

         You see so much bullshit in movies sooner or later you start believing it.

         When what happens makes no sense, you stop looking for sensible answers.

         You ask yourself the same questions over and over again: Is it fate? Was this supposed to happen? Why couldn't it happen to someone else? Why me?

         You ask yourself the same questions over and over again and instead of coming up with blanks you start coming up with the wrong answers.

         After Los Megan, he'd though the next time the whole world would die. Nice progression: a building, a stadium, a planet.

         Call it geometric.

         How many people died in the bar?

         Ten?

         Twelve at the most.

         Nothing of consequence. Nothing noteworthy.

         What was it? Why was it happening?

         It made no sense.

         It made no sense.

         You still had to live.

         Did you?

         After losing everyone you held dear?

         Was it worth living carrying so much guilt on your conscience? That you could've been dead, that you should've been dead--and the idea made more sense with every passing day now--but somehow you're not?

         Telling yourself God was saving you for something special was ridiculous. God? Fuck God. Atlas would spit in His face if he saw Him. If? He wanted to meet God. Spit in his face.

         How can you meet God?

         Die, perhaps.

         Yes, die. Go upstairs. Kick him in the butt.

         How?

         Hear the song.

         Hole up somewhere and get rid of everyone else, and hear the song.

         That's what he did.

         Hired a small house in a block full of small houses.

         Bought a stereo.

         Jacked it in.

         Bought the album--The Wall.

         Popped it in the stereo.

         Hit Play.

         What he couldn't do was jump right to the song.

         Call it living those last few precious moments.

         Call it scared out of his fucking mind.

         Call him a pussy.

         Here was the song. Hello, is there anybody in there?

         Here was the melody.

         Here were the first words.

         Here were the comfortably numbs.

         Here was the guitar.

         Then the song was over.

         He was still alive.

         He was still alive and he had pissed in the chair.

#

-6-

2005

Live8 London: Late Evening

Pink Floyd is playing live. For real. All four of them. No kidding. Man, I just don't believe it! I'm standing in the fucking stadium and I'm gonna watch them play live! Yes, Roger Waters back with the band. For Live8. For Africa. For a cause. Yes, they're playing. For real. Tonight. Fuck U2, fuck R.E.M, fuck McCartney! Fuck Africa! Fuck Gedolf! I'm here for Pink Floyd! Aren't you? Yes! Of course! I never thought I'd get to seem 'em play live, buddy. Absolutely not! But hell, as they say, pigs will fly! Can I have a piece of that burger? Looks good. Say, thanks! Glad to meet a fellow Floydian, man, really, really glad! Here, you can have some beer. It's not Kingfisher, and it's not American, but who gives a shit, right? Beer's beer. Say, you watch the Simpsons? Gets you everytime! Ha, I mean, those motherfuckers are motherfucking geniuses! It's just so funn--

         Hey, wait; I'm not putting you off, am I? Man, I really should learn to shut up. Anyway, great to see you. Great to be here! I'll probably tell my grandkids about it. Kids, I saw Pink Floyd live! Man, I saw them fucking… wait, wait, don't go away, man, don't--

#

-7-

2004

He just couldn't shoot himself.

         Suicide was just not his thing.

         Scared pussy? Bet your fur.

         But hey, who the fuck are you to judge him?

         He was piss drunk, and didn't have enough money to get a piddling blowjob on a street corner, and he was too bored to go to the bank to get some more.

         What? You think he didn't try figuring it all out? You think he didn't try playing that album again?

         You think he wasted all these years?

         You're fucking stupid.

         Hey, what? Don't get mad, just telling the truth.

         Drunk truth.

         He got up from his chair, scratched his ass, went to the bathroom and pissed on the potty's closed lid, then felt his piss pool around his leg, contemplated letting out some profanity, decided against it, and played that song in his head.

         Playing it in your head didn't do jack shit. He had to hear it randomly. He wasn't sure about this, but do you have a better theory?

         The TV was on.

         The radio was on.

         Nowadays he begged and prayed that someone would play that song so he could die.

         Praying. What a bitch.

#

-8-

2005

Live8 London: Late Evening

What a crazy bastard! Atlas holds the man's beer in his hand, and turns and shoulders his way into the crowd.

         Behind him, the man's yelling about how he'll tell his grandkids he saw Pink Floyd live.

         Fucking babbler.

         Mariah Carey's doing something up on stage, and he's pretty tired of screaming insults, so he apes what a few others are doing: he flips her the bird.

         Yes, Pink Floyd are playing today.

         That's why he's here.

         He wants them to play the song.

         What? What about the other people here, you ask? Won't they die too, you ask? He doesn't give a fuck. Besides, so many die in Africa everyday anyway (as Gedolf and company have repeated countless times today: we don't need your money, we need your name to save the dying in Africa blah blah blah-de-blah). Who cares?

         Do you?

         He drinks the man's beer, it's not cold, and so it's bad.

         He throws the half-empty can right at Mariah, but someone jumps up in the air at just the right time and it hits the man's back, and the man doesn't even notice.

         Behind him, a pack of insane chicks dripping in sweat and smelling completely ugly keep poking and prodding him. They're dancing, sorry for the trouble won't you dance too it's so much fun it's all so cool you--

         Fucking idiots.

         You're asking, what if Pink Floyd doesn't play the song?

         Well, what if they do?

         It goes both ways.

         It's random.

         That's why he's here.

         What? You got a better idea?

         Mariah's over, and thank fuck for that, and then some other jackass band comes and then a few other jackass bands and--

         And--

         And here's The Who!

         What is going on? The Who!

         Woo-hoo!

         Who are you? Who, who? Who, who?

         I'm Atlas Mercury, no relation to Freddy. Pleased to meetcha. Where's my cake?

         How would Polly sing that song?

         She would probably get the chorus just right. It had all the Polly-speak syllables.

         But she would be a big girl by now and she probably would be here with her boyfriend. And they'd--

         Suddenly, just like that, Atlas starts crying.

#

-9-

They kick it off with Breathe.

         Atlas still finds enough amazement in his heart watching them all perform again. Fucking Christ, they don't look a bit older, and they don't sound a bit older.

         Ol' Gilmour and Roger are standing way apart, but they're sharing comfortable glances.

         Breathe, then.

         The crowd, all of London, swoons to the music.

         Behind the Floyd, a giant pig floats on the screen.

         A poster reads:

THE PIGS HAVE FLOWN!

         After that, they play Money.

         Ol' Gilmour still plays a wicked, lean, mean guitar.

         And you can't even begin to question the drumming.

         Someone's throwing beach balls around.

         After that, they play Wish You Were Here.

         The tears stinging in the back of his throat come forth once again.

         Why?

         Why?

         Why is he alive?

         He doesn't want to be a goddamn lost soul swimming in a circle.

         He doesn't want to move over the same old ground, and he's tired of the same old fears, and he desperately--as he always has--wishes Shirley and Polly were here, but--

         There is no pause.

         Pink Floyd, live, play that song.

         Atlas feels terribly sad, and completely alone.

         He's about to die, and this is how it shall happen. In this stadium. With all these people. And his favorite band.

         His last few minutes in this world.

         How do you spend your very last moments?

         Do you say goodbye?

         Do you make love?

         For one clear, warm moment, Atlas wants to do everything. Everything. He wants to run away and do everything. Getting out in this crowd would be impossible. And that is somehow comforting.

         He will surely die.

         So he sings.

         With the band.

         As loud as he can.

         He waves his hands in the air, and closes his eyes, and the sound--his voice, Floyd's voice, the crowd's voice--it all echoes inside him, and perhaps for the first time since forever, he feels electric, and alive, and there's a pulse all around him, and then he is the pulse, and his heart fills up.

         There is nothing but the song.

          They sing:

Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying

         But he can hear it all, and he is not afraid, and though he knows he is killing so many people, he does not feel guilty.

         Gilmour misses a guitar note, and Atlas picks it up in his mind--he's heard the song so many times he knows it the way you know an old, warm, long love--but it doesn't matter.

         The roaming lights create strange shadows behind his closed eyelids, and he is engulfed in bodies--all of them connected in a young, delicate and timeless heartbeat.

         Then the song is over.

         Everything goes silent.

         Liquid trickles down Atlas's ears.

         He touches it and brings his fingers to his eyes and knows it's blood before he sees it.

         Around him, everyone is alive.

         Around him, nothing falls down.

         Around him, he can't hear a thing.

         In the nights to come, he will ponder upon everything that happened, and then one day he will stop pondering and start living and though he won't live happily ever after, he will have a pleasant--though deaf--existence.

         Right now, he drops to his knees, and brings his palms together, and brings them to his head, and then, lost in the hustle of arms and legs, he thinks, one wrong note. One wrong note.

         One simple wrong note.

         Maybe, he thinks, maybe something made Gilmour play that note wrong. Maybe something didn't want so many people to die.

         One slip, he thinks. One slip.

         That's all it takes.

#

Note: The cautious reader would do well to note four things which are put here for reasons that clear the text better than the ending does: 1. There is no Los Megan stadium. 2. In 1999, probably no one had heard about the iPod. 3. Jonnie G is about to mention something special for Pink Floyd fans. She's about to mention a reunion. 4. There are a few small discrepancies in the text that this scribbler shall--for reasons entirely of his own choosing--refrain from unmasking.

--Atlas Mercury, 2021.