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Home > Issue 2: March 2006 > Fiction

The Damned Eleven
by Jim Meirose

Builder came in the battered door, sat down in his rickety wooden folding chair, and opened the black and grey covered book titled THE STARS. He turned the pages slowly and carefully as though they would fall out if turned too roughly. Words came up from the book into his eyes.

—as a light bulb can be seen from all sides—

How true, thought Builder. Shifting in his seat causing loud cracking noises to come from the chair legs, he took off his cap, laid it on the table and continued turning the pages of the black and grey book.

At the Bury St. Edmunds' Manor House Museum, renaissance clocks made in Augsburg Bavaria are prized. Nothing like them was made anywhere else. The mirrored room fills with ticking and gonging and no one in the room has trouble telling the correct time, unless they're too young to tell time, of course, or too old to remember.

Jenkins chews at the inside of his cheek, closes one eye and screws up his mouth, then stoops down low and throws the dice. They bounce back from the painted wall of the tool shed and rattle across the dirt.

Seven! he exclaims. Wow! Seven on the first throw!

The large-faced Other pushes away from the tree he's been leaning on and points to the dice with a long-nailed grimy finger. His lank hair hangs down on the sides.

Oh, seven's easy to get, it's the one most likely to come up with any roll of the dice, says The Other. There are six different ways to roll a seven—the most ways of any number.

Scowling, Jenkins bends down and retrieves the dice. He shakes them in his broad fist, ready to roll again.

We'll see, he says. He spits into the dirt at the feet of The Other. The Other's shoes are brown and badly scuffed.

Bright-eyed Dale came into the room where Builder sat and he sat down at the other end of the brown table, his chair legs also creaking as though about to snap. Without looking up Builder turned a page of the book. Dale placed his hands on the table and watched as Builder continued to read.

—fainter stars have become visible through telescopes— Builder leaned back in his chair with the book held before his eyes. Dale licked his upper lip. He doesn't seem to notice me, doesn't he even notice me—

English Domestic Clocks in the museum are dominated by the Ebony Longcase Clock in the corner. Look how beautiful it is, how tall and straight. The owners are so lucky to have it—and the sound of its gong drifts softly throughout the house and sinks into all the nooks and crannies in the old dry wood. The people in the house smile at the comfortingly familiar yet impressive sound.

Having finished shaking the dice, Jenkins once more crouches down and throws the dice against the wall of the tool shed. They come to rest.

Three, he says, lifting a fist—craps!

So what does that mean? says The Other, narrow-eyed. Do you even know what that means?

Well, says Jenkins. I know that it means—

No you don't—you think you do, but you don't, says The Other, raising a hand and interrupting. He takes a step, raising the dust from the powdery bare dirt covering the ground. He comes up to Jenkins and points into his chest.

I bet you don't know that if this had been the come-out roll, the game would now be over and bets on the pass line would lose and bets on the don't pass line would win, unless the don't pass line says bar and the roll is the indicated value, in which case the bet pushes.

The Other steps back, folding his arms. Jenkins goes and stoops and picks up the dice and glowers back at The Other.

I knew all that, he says.

No—I doubt you know it.

The Other looks away toward a passing black sedan.

How's the wife? said Dale across the long table to Builder, breaking the ice. Ignoring Dale, Builder leaned back and crossed one leg over the other and turned a page of the book. Builder wore tan shoes with long laces.

—the largest parallax ever measured amounts to only point eight seconds of arc—

Builder shook his head and flexed his fingers on the book. Dale glared.

The English watches section of the museum is dominated by the Bennett Sun and Moon watch. Legend has it that P.J. Walters was buried wearing one. What a pity how they bury them; with jewelry worth a lot of money and watches running smoothly and also worth a lot of money and with golden stickpins and cufflinks and highly polished expensive black shoes in thick-skinned high-priced bronze coffins.

All wasted, thinks the mortician, sealing shut the coffin. Tall candles stand lit at each end of it.

All wasted. What a Goddamned shame.

Jenkins steps up to the wall of the tool shed and raps on it three times.

For luck, he tells The Other.

The Other smiles narrow-eyed.

Luck is nonsense, he says.

Jenkins scowls and steps back, bends over to the side, and hurls the dice once more.

Eight! he says, snapping his fingers.

The Other leans against the tree once more. The rough-barked black tree trunk is swarming with tiny black ants but The Other is oblivious.

Makes sense you would throw an eight now, says The Other. There are five different ways to roll an eight. Second highest next to a seven.

Jenkins lowers his eyebrows as he stoops to get the dice.

It’s the odds, continues The Other. The odds is what does it, what makes it all happen. Luck is just odds working.

Once more Jenkins clears his throat loudly and spits into the dust. He shakes the dice.

How're the kids, Dale asked Builder, leaning back and throwing his arm over the back of the cheap unpainted wooden chair, trying to act casual. Builder looked up toward Dale for an instant then looked back down into the book again and quickly turned a page.

—dark wedge sliding up in the long white tube makes—

In the American Clocks eighteen hundred to eighteen sixty section of the museum there stands a reversed curve American clock of fine maple with copper fittings.

You know that is a beautiful clock over there, says Aunt Mary, from her rocker. It’s a shame it doesn't work.

Her large husband puts his newspaper down in his lap and turns to her.

Its not that it doesn't work, Mary—we just don't wind it. That's all.

He resumes reading his paper, as she rocks.

Jenkins shakes the dice, blows into his hand, shifts his weight from one leg to the other and quickly snaps the dice out across the air against the wall of the shed again.

Six! he exclaims, pointing into the air.

An ant from the tree is crawling across The Other’s chest and another down his arm. The Other raises his arm to make a point and unknowingly shakes the ant off onto the ground.

Well, there are five ways to roll a six—just like an eight, says The Other. So it was to be expected.

The fallen ant makes its way across the dust toward the base of the tree. The other ant reaches The Other’s shoulder and crawls around onto his back across the wrinkles of his red shirt. Another ant comes off the tree, onto The Others' plain blue pants, and heads around toward the crotch, but it too falls off into the dirt.

Odds is science. There's no luck.

Dale laid his arm across the table as he spoke to Builder. The bare bulb above glowed down on them.

I got a new job, he said. Want to know what it is? It pays good. Really good.

Builder shoved his chair back from the table with a loud scraping of dry wood on linoleum and grunted and again glanced at Dale before looking down at the book in his lap and turning the page again.

—the small magellanic cloud—

In the clockmaker's workshop of the museum there is a lathe. A table by the lathe holds gouges and other tools. A small grey-haired man in an apron is busy counting a stack of small dark boards in the corner of the room. A regulator clock hangs proudly on the wall. Every clockmaker has a regulator clock to set all the other clocks by. It must be carefully kept set at the proper time. It must never be allowed to stop. The small grey-haired man in the apron counts through the boards in time with the loud ticking from the regulator clock. A large sundial catches sunlight in the grassy yard outside.

Jenkins kicks at the dirt, closes one eye, shakes the dice and hurls them once more against the yellow wall of the tool shed. They bounce and clatter around in the dirt and finally come to rest.

Seven again! he exclaims, clapping his hands and stamping in the dust.

Three more ants from the tree make their way down the back of The Other. The mottled shade falls across his face as he says, Well, remember seven's the easiest to get—

The ants reach The Other's belt. One loses its grip and falls to the dirt but the other two start crawling atop the belt around toward the front of The Other.

After retrieving the dice from the ground, Jenkins coughs up a plug of phlegm and, without thinking, swallows it down rather than spitting it out.

How do you know all about dice, he asks The Other.

It's common knowledge. Plus I read.

The first ant reaches The Other's buckle and the ant that had fallen to the ground makes its way up the trunk of the tree again, fighting to make headway against the rough bark.

Dale leaned forward creaking his cheap chair and clasped his hands together atop the filthy table.

My new job is in sales, said Dale toward Builder. Want to know what I sell?

Builder looked up slowly, said nothing, then looked back into his book, riffling the pages. Dale sat back and put his hands in his lap and chewed his lip, growing even more perturbed at being ignored in this way. Builder continued to read.

—all the while the radiation registered by the thermo-element has mounted—

In the time machine section of the museum, there used to be an Ousden clock by Cope. The pale-faced janitor sweeps the floor violently with his long-handled broom. He has just been given hell by the boss for getting in late and leaving early. He never dreamed it mattered if he did this, as long as all his work was done. He feels he isn't being treated fairly—and, without thinking in the frenzy of his wild sweeping, he pulls back the broom and the handle goes hard against the Ousden Clock by Cope which sits in a place of honor on a table behind him all carved with angels and cherubs and scrollwork and the clock goes over onto the floor very hard and smashes into a dozen pieces. The pieces are brought to the clockmaker's workshop, who says, This clock might be able to be put back together, but will never be the same again.

It's not my fault, says the janitor—it was an accident.

Jenkins sends the dice against the tool shed wall once more, hard. They bounce about. They come to rest.

Five, he says coldly, peering at the black dots set in the square white cubes, as he has each time before this.

The first ant goes down behind The Other's belt buckle. The second ant starts up the front of The Other's dark red shirt. The third ant coming up the tree trunk almost reaches The Other again but The Other pushes away from the tree, goes over and pulls a leaf down from a low branch and kicks lightly at the dirt by the dice.

There are four ways to roll a five, you know, said The Other. So it was due to come up.

He picks at the nails of his left hand. The ant is halfway up the front of his shirt and crawls sideways along a large slanted wrinkle. The other ant is seeking a pathway down behind the belt buckle, but the belt is tight. The Other's belly is large. He steps back from the dice and wipes his forehead with the back of his right hand.

Come on, said Dale, tilting his head back and raising a hand. Talk to me. Come on. What do you think I sell?

Builder glanced up at Dale, glowering, his eyebrows lowered. The he looked down into the book again and once more turned the pages. Dale gripped the table edge, his face still raised, lips quivering.

Rude, he thought. How Goddamned rude, who the hell does he think he is anyway?

He sits back and tightly folds his arms before him as Builder continues to read.

—the density of solid and liquid bodies—the atom as billiard ball—

In the fine and decorative arts section of the museum there hangs a painting of nymphs and satyrs. They cavort through a grassy grove of trees and bushes. One of the satyrs reclines on the ground, leaning back against the base of a tree. The scantily dressed nymphs are in poses of excitement and seem to be dancing. The other satyr holds the pipes of pan at his side and eyes the nymphs hungrily. The whites of his eyes shine from the painting. The sky in the painting is streaked with dark clouds and the leaves of the trees and the bushes are dark and shadow lies over the nymphs' and satyrs' faces only broken by the shining of the wild bright whites of that satyr's eyes.

Jenkins moves catlike, grips the dice and sends them flying with a sudden flourish.

Nine! he exclaims. He steps back scratching his head.

The Other nods.

Nine, five, he says—it's all the same. There are four ways to roll a nine, like a five. It’s all odds. The odds are working. Too well, actually.

The ant behind the buckle finds a way down into The Other's pants. The Other scratches idly at his belt, still concentrating on what he'd just said to Jenkins. The ant on The Other's shirt makes it up to the shoulder and sits there motionless, hanging on the rough flannel, as though looking around and scanning the situation from this great solid height atop The Other's shoulder bone.

Dale scratched at the side of his face, sat upright in the chair and leaned toward Builder.

Come on, said Dale loudly. Guess what I sell.

Builder spread a large hand out on the table and looked up at Dale. His great bloodshot eyes bored into the smaller man's. Dale's eyes grew hot and he looked away.

Goddamn, he just stares—just stares at me—and that damned book—what kind of damned book is that anyway—

Looking back down into the book, Builder leaned back harder against the chair and carefully turned another page.

—double stars move much more slowly—

The museum houses the Cullum collection—fine portraits of sober-looking ladies and gentlemen from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The portraits are dark and the frames are deeply carved and themselves are worth a lot of money. The janitor moves down the row of paintings with a large feather duster and brushes it around the frame of each portrait and then down the center of the canvas, as though waving hello to each person pictured, or as though trying to wake the image so as to have a long and involved conversation about the old days when the image was alive.

Jenkins dusts off his grimy hands, rubs them down the front of his brown shirt and stoops to pick up the dice. He looks toward The Other.

Should I throw again?

Sure why not.

Jenkins quickly rattles the dice in his fist and throws them again and again they come up a seven.

Seven! he says. Again!

There you go, says The Other flatly, scratching at his crotch the way men do when no women are around. Unknown to him the ant is crawling around in the warm dark of his briefs. The ant is comfortable, but keeps moving.

Jenkins picks up the dice.

But what about the eleven?

What about it?

When will it come up?

You'll see, says The Other, shrugging. The other ant crawls slowly along The Other's shoulder over the flannel toward his neck.

Dale had finally had enough. He rose and went around the table and stood over Builder and raised an open hand.

Builder—listen—why don't you want to talk to me? You always talked to me before—what's the matter?

Builder simply sat impassively without looking up, once more turning the bright pages of his black and grey book.

—vast multitude of faint stars produce milky shimmer of the milky way—

There are local scenes of beauty in Bury St. Edmunds—the Abbey Gate School, where many have learned much. Its stone buildings stand among tall trees and upon spreading lawns. A man and a woman stroll on a path through the lawns. The dark uniformed students laden with book bags and notepads flow around them. The two wear dark plain clothing.

It's a good thing this day is over, says the man.

Why? asks the woman, shaking back her long hair.

Because I know that if this day were longer, I'd have time to go back and pop that Builder right in the nose.

Why?

Because he's a wise guy. He thinks he knows everything, him and his little book—but he doesn't know anything—anything! Plus what he did to me—I told you what he did to me!

Oh, I know. That's a shame, she says—and you two were always such friends. And you're lucky you're not hurt bad.

Friends my ass! Lucky my ass! I'll pop him one! Right in the nose!

He rubs at his face and says no more as they continue on down the meandering path under the cool green leaves of the spreading trees. The neatly dressed students continue to flow smoothly and silently past, the mind of each on something different.

The Norman Tower stands in Bury St. Edmunds. Not far from the school, it overshadows everything about it with its air of history. Men died here. Swords were swung and battle-axes swung and rent torn men bled and died.

That Builder thinks he knows every Goddamned thing—well he doesn't! I'll pop him one!

They walk on.

Jenkins crouches and again throws the dice against the shed. They bounce back nearly to his feet.

Ten, he says. Ten!

Well what did you expect, says The Other. There are three ways to roll a ten. It was about time for a ten to come up—

Jenkins turns shuffling in the dust.

Yes but what about the eleven—you know, seven, eleven— what about it?

It will come.

The ants crawl. The Other's hand continued to idly rub at his crotch. The ant is finding its way through a forest of hairs, in the dark. It bathes itself in the moist sweaty warmth. The other ant, out in the light, is almost up on The Other's collar. Its tiny pincers open and close.

Well, answer me! insisted Dale, standing menacingly over Builder, his fists clenched and eyes wide. Why are you ignoring me and everything I say?

Builder suddenly placed the book spread open black and grey covers up on the table and quickly got up, hauled off and sent Dale sprawling to the floor with a single right handed roundhouse to the face. Dale lay there on the grimy parquet floor propped up on one elbow and rubbed his face with his hand and brought the palm of his hand up before his eyes.

What the hell did you do that for? What the hell—am I bleeding? I think I'm bleeding—

Dale kept feeling his face and looking at his hand. Builder uncurled his fist and turned away and sat back down and picked up the book and turned the pages again.

—one star at a distance of three thousand light years— farther out it takes a far larger space to provide one more—

There are treasures and curios in the Bury St. Edmunds museum. Silver and tortoise-shell boxes and other things that all belonged to now-dead people fill the rooms.

A small hand opens a delicate brown and silver box. The contents sparkle and shimmer.

This is beautiful, she says to him. He smiles.

It's the least I could do, he says. It's what you deserve—

And the box is so beautiful too, she says. Holding the box up to the light, she tilts her small head to the side to see it better.

I so love you, she says.

And I you.

Jenkins winds up and quickly bounces a four off the side of the tool shed.

Four, he says stooping to pick up the dice.

The odds are holding, says The Other, rubbing harder at his crotch now. There are three ways to roll a four.

But I was hoping for an eleven, says Jenkins.

The Other shrugs. The ant on his shoulder climbs up his collar and goes down under his shirt onto his neck. The Other's hand comes up, scratching.

Damn! he says, as he scratches at his crotch and his neck.

What's the matter? says Jenkins.

I don't know, says The Other, glancing up at the tree. Something must be falling on me out of this tree. Damn!

He slaps at his neck. The ants crawl and the ones on the tree crawl in spirals up the trunk over the rough bark as if looking for something that they will never find.

Dale got up off the floor and made for the door, rubbing at his face.

I could sue you for hitting me like that, he says. You know that don't you? I could sue—

He stood holding the door open waiting for some answer, but Builder just sat at the table and turned the pages of his book again.

Damn you! said Dale.

—at distances of eight million light years we encounter the first of the "external" nebulae—

Dale left the room slamming the door behind him, flakes of paint and bits of wood flying out into the room and scattering across the floor.

Builder turned the page.

And again.

And again.

Three women artists are celebrated in the Manor House Museum.

Mary Beale! calls out a well-dressed man.

What? she says, turning toward the open window, brush in hand, her dress rustling.

Mary Beale, he repeats, coming up to the window. I haven't seen you in years.

I know, she says, putting down the brush and walking to the window.

What have you been doing with yourself? she asks. The light through the window plays on the highlights of her piled-up hair.

Oh a lot has happened—I'm married now—

My God! Really—

Yes really, he says, holding up a hand—and I have three children.

Who did you end up marrying? Who's the lucky woman?

Rose Mead. You know. That other artist.

That's something, says Mary Beale, resting her hands on the smooth green windowsill. I know of Rose Mead, but I've never met her—I know of her work—I had heard she married but I didn't know who to—

Oh she's wonderful, he says, throwing back his head. And I am so happy.

His hand goes on hers on the windowsill. The warmth of their hands merges. People move smoothly past on the outside.

Well I'm glad, she says.

Thank you, he says. You know, he says in a lower voice, looking around, I almost married that other woman—that other artist—Sybil—

Sybil Andrews! exclaims Mary. She's well known for her wonderful linocuts, you know.

I—I don't know anything about that. But I know I'm happy with Rose.

I'm so glad. Well—it is good to see you.

And you too.

She pushes her face forward and he kisses her on the cheek.

Goodbye, he says, lifting his hand from hers.

Goodbye—and keep in touch!

I will, he says, waving, already making his way down the street, turning from her, moving away. She smoothly lowers the window and turns back to her canvas, and sighs. She slowly steps up to the painting, and picks up her brush. Nodding in the empty house, she touches the tip of the brush to her tongue.

It is so beautiful, she thinks, looking at the painting.

It is so beautiful I can't stand it.

She throws the brush down.

Jenkins closes one eye, stares at the wall, and quickly throws the dice.

Another seven, he says. Damn!

That's good, says The Other, now hopping from one foot to the other, scratching at his neck and crotch. The ants are crawling, like ants are meant to do.

But where's the damned eleven, says Jenkins.

Maybe in the box, says the other, scratching.

What?

I said maybe in the box.

And he laughs, though still wildly scratching.

I don't get it, says Jenkins. What box? I don't—

Alone now, Builder turned to page two hundred of the black and grey covered book.

—fourth or one-third speed of light to the most remote nebulae visible to us—

And I still don't understand what you mean—what box— come on now—where's the damned eleven?

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