Giant Men and Violent Women

Ashley Did It

ASHLEY

It's March 3, and Governor Wheat has five minutes and thirty-six seconds before his life is finished. I know, I know; it's unbelievable. He has unknowingly chosen to spend his last moments at the theater with his friends, some of whom double as both his allies and his assassins. You might think this, too, is inconceivable. Trust me, I get it, but this kind of thing happens all the time.

It's a lot like when my ancestors and the Joki Indian tribe were best friends and told each other everything—until my people began killing the Jokis for no apparent reason at all. According to the Jokis, they wiped out ninety percent of the tribe and left the remaining ten percent to starve to death. Just an example of how all relationships don't lead to happily ever after. The moral of the story is, no one can be trusted, not when their own house is in jeopardy.

Four minutes and fifty-nine seconds.

Okay, so a little bit about me. Well, I'm sitting in the state box, right behind Governor Wheat here in beautiful New York City, right on Broadway. Well, not right behind the governor; I'm angled 5 degrees to the left. Put it like this, one adjustment of my bow tie could throw my position off by a single degree. And, as in the life of a welfare mother and me, at this very moment, a single degree can make a big difference. In my case, the bullet that is set to enter Governor Wheat's throat could exit the back of his neck (which bullets tend to do, in case you were unaware), and hit the person immediately behind him. This is where I come in. And though I am thirsty, and have been for quite a while, I won't be reaching for my glass of tequila, on the rocks. Goes back to that moving a single degree and dying thing. But, let's think about this. Governor Wheat, with hair the color of a ghost, is about 6 feet tall and I'm 4 inches taller than that so, if the bullet were to hit me, it would likely enter my right shoulder. And, in most movies, being shot in the shoulder seems a lot like being popped by a rubber band. Startled, you hold the affected area and then look at the culprit in confusion, thinking, Am I crazy, or did you just assault me?

I weigh my options.

God, I'm thirsty.

I look at my tequila glass again. It's misty. An ice cube has just taken a sultry tumble, as the bra strap of a woman who already has her shirt off. I guess a bullet to the shoulder wouldn't be so much fatal as it would be annoying. This is where the accuracy of the marksman comes in—Mercer, that fun-loving mountain boy I call my best friend. Upstanding guy there. I have faith in Mercer, but it's more like the faith I would have in the God of the Old Testament. My faith depends on if he's having a good day or not.

I look over the tops of ladies with bouffants and through the crowd of tuxedos and ball gowns to spot Mercer, my lifelong friend. He's in a darkened doorway on the third floor of the theater. He waves at me. My brother, Stone, who's standing next to him, blows me a kiss. Wise guys.

No, I won't be reaching for my tequila.

Three minutes and twenty seconds before I get to drink it.

Great Aunt, Hilda Wheat, Miss New Hampshire 1952, my de facto date, puts a hand on my arm. The play has come to a scary part.

The Twenty-Four is the name of the play that we're all watching right now. It's the Broadway play that the New York Times can't get enough of this year. The entire House of New Hampshire—from Governor Wheat to my father, the attorney general, to the secretary of state, the one with the legs, and their families—decided to fly up to New York on a private flight because that's just what New Hampshire folk with money do. They fly around all fancy and shit.

Also, we're watching a musical about the founders of Darling, New Hampshire, my town's founders, the ones who murdered the Joki Indians for no apparent reason. The founders of Darling were men whom the Joki tribe called giants and women whom they called violent. These giant men and violent women killed men, women, and children of all tribes and races during the bloodiest religious war the state of New Hampshire has ever known. Yet, here in New York City, their story is being told through song and synchronized dance steps. The logical question is, why did these giant men and violent women kill these innocent people? The answer is simple. They fought Roman Catholics, Protestants, and Indians because what else did eighteenth-century people do in those days?