Sirens Sirens.
by Pares and Laura Shapiro
He remembers sirens and he wakes up panting, but they're screaming past him.
The impersonal wail of somebody else's misfortune. The engines are racing toward someone else's fire, and for a moment Josh feels numb with relief.
He blinks and the soft charcoal gray of his dark room melts out of the gloom into the squrare, indistinct shapes of his dresser, a chair, the foot of his bed.
Sirens, he thinks. He squeezes his eyes shut, imagines sirens -- the ear-shattering awoogah kind, the ones that foretell the nosedive of a nuclear missile, coming soon to a major metropolis near you.
Fuck.
He's read about it, in those terrible novels they'd had a rash of in the 70s. Dreamed about it. Everyone turning into shadows of ash or spitting teeth on the pavement as the new cancers boil through their systems.
What the hell had he done? He could have that little card folded in his wallet right now and he could be sleeping like a baby. Fear-free. Blissful and un-microwaved.
But that was bullshit, and he knew it. The next new supervirus would stifle him in his sleep, unheralded by sirens of any kind. Oh yeah, silent creeping microbial death beat the flash and burn of nuclear destruction by a country mile.
Christ, he was morbid tonight.
He caught the amber glow of his clock on the nightstand... 3:17 AM. He could sleep another three hours, provided he could get his mind off all the exotic viruses he was currently making lists of.
Okay. Sleep.
Josh tucked his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, gently this time. He pictured.... Mandy. Mandy, when her hair had been longer. When she'd been his to tuck under his chin. His to undress and... Nah.
What was her name, that model-du-jour, yeah, the latest SI Swimsuit Edition...
The Ave Maria ghosted through his brain again, dissolved, and left in its wake some grindy guitar work from the 70s.
Couldn't think of the band.
"You really are sweet sometimes," CJ had said. He managed to *feel* sweet, thinking of that. He was still full of chili and beer, and the President had *hugged* him, for Christ's sake.
Leo, Sam, everyone had seemed surprised that he could be...well, whatever he was that made him give the card back. Josh was mildly annoyed that he hadn't taken the opportunity to cut it up into a million tiny survivor-guilt-free pieces.
He idly ran his hand over his chest, seeing Sam's startled, pleased face, remembering the President's pride in him.
There's a lot of love in this room.
Josh chuckled.
More sirens.
He rolled over. Was he an idiot? What happened to look out for number one?
But they were all so fucking *proud* of him.
He sat up in bed, disturbed. They thought he was an asshole. That's what this whole thing boiled down to.
They'd thought he was some kind of self-involved jerk, and they were all shocked to death when he'd managed to behave decently for once.
At that, he imagined Donna making what he thought of as her puppy face. Donna. Donna liked him. She didn't think he was a self-involved jerk. Except for all those times when she pretty much wanted to kill him.
He picked up the phone. He was sure that this was going to be one of those times, but he punched her number in anyway.
The phone rang 16 times before she picked it up. A groggy, wary "Hello?" reached his ears.
"Don't you have an answering machine?"
"Oh my god, is it the President?"
"No, it's Josh!" he snapped. How could she think--
"I know that. I *meant*, is the President hurt?"
"No. Why would he be hurt?"
"Why would you be calling me at 3:27 in the morning?"
"Because..." And he couldn't remember. "Well. I wanted to see if you'd be in early in the morning."
"Josh, is there any reason why I shouldn't hang up on you right now?"
"Uh..."
"One one thousand, two one thousand, you have four seconds one thousand..."
"Am I a self-absorbed asshole?"
"Yes, Josh."
"Are you only saying that because I called you at 3:30 in the morning on a work night?"
"Yes, Josh."
"Will the answer be different tomorrow morning?"
"No, Josh."
"Okay, that's all I wanted to know --"
"This has something to do with that get-out-of-nuclear-war-free card, doesn't it?"
"How do you know about that?"
"My spies are everywhere."
"Okay, now you're freaking me out. That was supposed to be..."
"Look, you were walking around the office like a dead man all day. I made some inquiries. That's what I do. It's my job. I make inquiries."
"When I tell you to. You make inquiries for *me*."
"Ooh, got it in one."
"I'm suddenly worried about all the other things you might have made inquiries about."
"Such is the source of my power. Josh, you should have kept the card."
"...I don't have a witty retort for that."
"But since you didn't, you now have to accept that everyone thinks you're sweet. Get over it."
"What?"
"You're a mensch. Get over it. Accept the love. Deal with it. Go to *sleep*." She hung up.
Accept the love.
Huh. Could he do that?
Sure he could. Why the hell not?
"I feel the love. I deserve the love. The love will bring me the finest muffins and bagels in all the land, because I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and goddamn it, people like me." As he muttered this little mantra, he let his hands wander.
Fuck this new age self-actualization crap. The old stand-by, he thought, as he slipped his hand past the waistband of his boxers. Nothing beats a sleepless night like jerking off.
END
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