The Worst and the Dullest
The Rejoinder is doing something new with our first issue of 2024, and we’re so excited about what we have lined up.
Jeremy Steen’s, “Not One Domino Shall Fall,” is a series of sketches that look at democracy, power, and hegemony around the world. To do this, they follow three characters–our narrator, a woman, and a man named Ed. These characters find themselves inside of conspiracies and political intrigue. Reading the series is a delight–I’ve gotten to look at the whole novel, and you’ll want to keep your eyes peeled for it–as Jeremy asks the reader to follow along from a political campaign to an island resort, a hunting expedition to an embassy in the sky.
The relationships in these stories change in ever surprising and original ways. I’m so excited that we get to share this series of four sketches from Jeremy to start off the new year.
-Michael
The embassy was in free fall, literally falling from the sky, careening towards the ground, and there wasn’t anything anybody could do about it. The situation started sometime in the spring of the twentieth year of the war. Give or take. It’s a war, after all. No one knows how or when these things get started.
There were reports that a bunch of acid-dropping communists were doing some big prayer circle, or Zen meditation, channeling their psychic energy, which they would then direct at the embassy. Initially, no one paid this any mind. But then the rumbling started and, looking out the window, the ground was a few feet lower than it had been before. Some of us started to wonder: Was there such a thing as a telekinetic hippie?
This theory did have some legitimacy. After all, hippies—and all other forms of degenerates and undesirables—had been the subject of many (many, many, many) experimental drug trials. Rumor had it drugs were just the tip of the iceberg. There was talk of occult methods, long hidden in the texts of ancient religions, being used to manipulate test subjects. I’m talking spiritual warfare. Spiritual torture. So maybe some of these psychedelic mutants were using the esoteric methods they’d learned during these “experiments” to strike back. Anything is possible.
We constructed an intricate series of ladders to get from the ground to the embassy but, before long, we were so far off the ground, the only feasible way to continue operations was to deliver supplies and remove waste via helicopter. As the ground below us disappeared beneath the clouds, the situation struck me as being incredibly stupid. But it’s like General Ed always says: it takes a real idiot to win a war.
As said war waged on, we continued to rise higher and higher into the atmosphere. Then, back home, came election season. There was some significant turnover, and the new administration decided it was time to cut bait; the war was over, we were giving up. And that was when the embassy started falling.
The evacuation began moments later. Helicopters swarmed the building, tossing ropes and pulleys as the staff rushed from their offices and up to the roof. The ambassadors and diplomats forced their way to the front of the crowd, stepping on toes and elbowing eyeballs. Soon most of them were offloaded. The helicopters left and another round returned.
This time the helicopters loaded up the administrators, the pencil-necked geeks who moved money around and authorized departmental approvals. Or did they approve departmental authorizations? I don’t think anyone really knew. I watched the spinning blades disappear into the clouds.
I looked over the edge and could see the ground was coming up fast. The helicopters came back and picked up the administrative assistants—the people who pushed the paper for the paper pushers—and off they went. I was starting to get nervous.
I may have given you a false impression of my importance to the war effort. You see, I worked the lunch line at the embassy cafeteria. When I was younger, I’d imagined more for myself—a position in an organization with clout and standing. Instead, I spent my twenties (and thirties) playing guitar in rock bands and waiting tables. At some point I looked around and realized I’d made a real mess of my life. That’s when I got the job at the embassy. It wasn’t much but I could at least say I worked somewhere important. Yes, my main duties were serving ham sandwiches and pouring coffee. But you know what they say. You can’t administrate a war on an empty stomach.
The only groups left at this point were my own—the custodians and the cafeteria workers—and the indigenous folks who had helped us wage war against their countrymen. Our military had assured them they would be looked after, their families cared for. After all, they were the ones with the most to lose. If they were cast out from the safety of the embassy, they would be hunted down as traitors.
Air ripped through my ears. We’d picked up some serious speed on our descent back to earth. Off in the distance, one more small helicopter was headed our way. I did a rough count of how many people were left on the roof. Things didn’t look good.
Just then a mass of shredded paper bubbled up from the stairwell. These documents were the product of millions of hours of work. They contained the names, birthdays, and villages of all our contacts in the region. A woman I worked with on the lunch line was standing next to me. She watched the blob of paper gurgle out onto the roof. Then the wind caught it, dispersing it into the sky.
She said, “That isn’t good.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “All the information is snipped up. It’s useless.”
The woman pulled a roll of masking tape from her pocket and dropped it at my feet. My ears burned as I realized the implication.
But we had bigger problems. The ground was getting closer, and we were moving faster. My ears burned hotter as the wind pounded against my skull. The helicopter chopped the air over our heads. Through a loudspeaker someone said, “Are there any more diplomats in the building?”
We shook our heads: No.
“Are there any more administrators?”
Again, we nodded.
“Are there any more administrative assistants?”
We looked around.
“Well,” the voice said, “I guess we can take a couple of you.”
A commotion came from the paper blob.
“Wait!” A man in a three-piece suit pulled himself out of the muck and began waving, strips of paper stuck to his face and clothes. “I just finished shredding! Don’t leave me!”
A ladder came down from the helicopter, and the man grabbed it. His tie whipped in the wind as he was pulled up to the chopper.
“Sorry, folks,” the voice said. “We’re full up. Our thoughts and prayers are with you. Thank you for your service, and please do your best to have a safe landing.”
The helicopter dipped, turned, and disappeared.
We were only moments from crashing to the ground. The giant trail of paper flowed out of the building and up into the sky. I crouched, put my head between my knees and covered my ears.
A voice from above cut through the noise, calling me to look up. The woman’s hands and feet were buried in the paper tower, and she climbed, moving up and away. I was afraid, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do so I followed her. The rest of the people on the roof looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. They approached the paper tower, grabbed on, and began their ascent.
We followed her, climbing up and up and up, until the embassy and the ground below it faded into the distance. I hoped we would find a place to rest soon. I wanted to find a cloud of shredded paper and sit down next to the woman. I wasn’t sure what I would say, but I felt I’d known her a long time. Perhaps, she felt the same way.
Another sketch next week…
Jeremy Steen lives and writes in Milwaukee, Wisconsin and has previously published work in the Oxford American, New World Writing Quarterly, The Racket, Rejection Letters, The Sublunary Review, among others.
Follow him on Bluesky.