It’s over dinner, Miss Sneezy blows her nose. She sniffs and coughs and says she really, really needs to tell us a story . . .

 

  

 

 The Interpreter

 

 A Poem About Miss Sneezy

 

 “My grandma made money,” Miss Sneezy says, “by saying ‘I Love You.’”

 

 As many ways as possible. For people who could not.

 

 

 Miss Sneezy onstage, the cuffs of her sweater sleeves sprout

 

 the scraps and ruffles of dirty tissues stuffed there.

 

 Those tissues, yellow and matted with nasal discharge.

 

 Her nose running, bright with snot and blood, and her eyes

 

 busy with red lightning and watering down each cheek.

 

 

 Onstage, instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment:

 

 a scene from some medical drama, showing doctors and hospital staff

 

In white coats, holding test tubes,

 

 busy finding a cure.

 

 

 Between sniffing her nose and coughing, Miss Sneezy says,

 

 “Until she died, my grandma made money saying ‘Happy Birthday’ for people.”

 

 Saying, “Deepest Sympathy.”

 

 Saying, “Congratulations.” And “We’re so Proud of You!”

 

 And “Merry Christmas.”

 

 As many ways as possible, her grandma said, “Happy Anniversary.”

 

 “Happy Father’s Day”

 

 and “Happy Mother’s Day”

 

 for a greeting-card company.

 

 

 Between blowing her nose and stuffing the tissue back into her sleeve, Miss Sneezy says,

 

 “My grandma’s job was to interpret what other people had no words to say.”

 

 But every “Happy Birthday,”

 

 really, every card, she wrote with Miss Sneezy in mind.

 

 Her grandma’s ideal target audience.

 

 And the card rack is her bank account, her left-behind trust fund of future best wishes

 

 for her granddaughter.

 

 So, after she was dead, her Miss Sneezy could come and find the right “I Love You”

 

 or “Happy Valentine’s” for that moment of the distant future.

 

 Long, long after her grandma was dead.

 

 

 “Still,” Miss Sneezy says, “there’s one card, one special occasion she never covered.”

 

 There needs to be a card that says: I’m sorry.

 

 Please, Grandma.

 

 Please, forgive me.

 

I didn’t mean to kill you.

 

  

 

 Evil Spirits

 

 A Story by Miss Sneezy

 

 The intercom comes on. First is a crackle of static, then a woman’s loud voice, saying, “Good news, girlfriend.” Coming out of the little wire-mesh speaker, it’s Shirlee, the night guard, her voice saying, “Chances look good you might get laid in this lifetime . . .”

 

 Just admitted this week, Shirlee says is another Type 1 Keegan virus carrier. This new resident, he’s asymptomatic, and, better yet, he has got a huge dick.

 

 Shirlee, she’s as close to a best friend as it gets here.

 

 You know that boy who had to live in the plastic bubble because he was immune to nothing? Well, this place is the opposite. The folks who live here, on Columbia Island, the permanent residents, they carry around bugs that would kill the world. Viruses. Bacteria. Parasites.

 

 Me included.

 

 The government types, the navy brass, they call this place The Orphanage. This is according to Shirlee. It’s called The Orphanage because—if you’re here—your family is dead. Chances are, your teachers are dead. All your old friends are dead. Anybody who knew you, they’re dead and you killed them.

 

 You know the government is a little over a barrel. Sure, they could kill these folks—to protect the public interest—but these folks are innocent. So the government pretends it can find a cure. It keeps folks locked away here, drawing their blood every week to test. Providing clean sheets every week, and three square meals each day.

 

 Every drop of piss that comes out of them, the government sterilizes it with ozone and radiation. Their every exhale is filtered and scrubbed with ultraviolet light before that air goes back into the outside world. The residents of Columbia Island, they don’t get head colds. They never rub elbows with anybody who might give them the flu. Except for the fact they’re each carrying their own personal potentially world-pandemic plagues, they’re the healthiest batch of folks you could ever not want to meet.

 

 And it’s the navy’s job to make sure you never do.

 

 Most of what I know comes from Shirlee, my nighttime guard. Shirlee says being locked up here, it’s not much to complain about. She says people in the outside world have to work all day, every day, and still don’t get half of what all they want.

 

 These days, Shirlee tells me to order up a set of hot rollers. To pretty myself up, some. For my new groom-to-be. This new guy, the Type 1 Keegan virus carrier.

 

 Here, you just go to the computer and type a list of what you’d like. If the budget allows, it’s yours. The biggest hurdle is when you get too much stuff. Books. Music CDs. Movie DVDs. They can shovel it in here, but after you touch it, the stuff is toxic. The bigger problem is how to burn it down to sterile ash.

 

 To get around this, Shirlee has you ask for stuff thatShirlee wants.Shirlee loves old-time Elvis Presley shit. Buddy Holly shit. I put that on the list, and Shirlee pockets the music when it arrives. No muss. No fuss. And no big accumulation of toxic crap in the room.

 

 The navy folks, they say they can’t expense poetry books. If some public watchdog saw an item likeLeaves of Grasson some Freedom of Information document, there would be hell to pay. So Shirlee buys my books out of her own pocket. And I pay her off with Elvis CDs I order but don’t want. Most nights, Shirlee wants to educate me about current events, like who’s dropping bombs on what country and who’s the new boy singer every girl wants to fuck.