Gorzon the Magnificent
Can smiles from a young girl's heart slay a monstrous memory?
Well, of course, he was magnificent. He was about fifteen feet tall, was built like a bull, had the gait of a thoroughbred, the snout of a pitbull, the teeth of a lion, the tusks of a wild boar, the speed of a gazelle.
And he was mine. I made him. I don’t know if anybody else has my mad skills. If they don’t, they will soon enough. It’s just CRISPR, mostly. Anybody can do it. Or so they say.
The real challenge was walking Gorzon down the street. Getting Gorzon to heel was something I had to figure out before I tried walking him along my daughter’s quiet suburban street where the biggest adventures were porch thefts.
There were times I wanted to blow trumpets to force all the sealed doors open so that the people on those quiet streets could gaze at my gallant prize and fear his every footfall.
Other times I wanted to unleash an entire army of beasts like Gorzon. Take no prisoners. Leave no one standing.
“Grandpa, why are you crying?”
Tears have been dressing my cheeks with layers of salt since long before she awoke. She’s like a little starlight on this tenth anniversary. She’s standing in front of my chair, long black eyelashes overlooking the whites of her eyes, which look painted with an expressive blue daub brushed from a palette of liquid sapphire.
I smell gingerbread. It’s that time of year.
“Grandpa?”
I can’t tell her about that day. But I also can’t seem to hide the weight of its monstrous memory.
On that day, the university campus found itself stroked by a lip of fog that had escaped long, wispy strands from the cloudy mass that passes through the Golden Gate every morning. The new length of fog had shorn itself from the main bank and bragged about its newly independent formation by pouring into the sidewalk valleys full of coffee shops, breakfast joints, and shops that made up that part of Berkeley.
It was a good day. A day when I could look up at the fog as it rolled into forested hills that hid treasures of expensive homes. I could look up and smile in appreciation, but I didn’t bother. Instead, I dutifully received my coffee from the barista, dropped a couple of dollars into the tip jar, then rode my bike to my campus office.
I hear her mother: “Leave your grandpa alone, honey.”
“But he’s sad.”
“Good for him. He should be.”
I ruminate more about that good day, even as the little starlight stands in front of me. I think of that day often. In fact, it consumes me.
It wasn’t just a good day. It was supposed to be that one good day, the one that changes everything, the one that I would look upon fondly forever. I rode into campus knowing that evening I’d be receiving an honorary for my work with CRISPR, which is a gene editing science like no other. Everything smelled just a little more alive that day as I pumped my feet to class.
“Caroline?”
“Wait, Mom! I want to give Grandpa something! Sheesh!”
I trained the beast well. Gorzon didn’t need a leash. But there are leash laws in my daughter’s Charlotte suburb. There probably will soon enough be laws for whatever Gorzon is. But not now.
I observed a man polishing his Beamer. It felt like a good time to let Gorzon run loose. Just to see what he would do. A milky spittle dribbled from Gorzon’s lower canines. If I released Gorzon, wouldn’t evolution take over? Whatever might happen to Beamer Man would happen. It’s simply science.
Didn’t he notice Gorzon as we approached? Gorzon looked unspeakably malevolent. The man should have run, but he polished instead as Gorzon’s shadow enveloped him.
I use my sleeve to wipe away the tears. Ten years ago today, is what I want to tell Caroline. But I can’t. She is too young to know these things.
Class had gone well. So did the awards ceremony that evening. I had never much liked riding my bicycle around Berkeley at night, so I rented an electric-powered Volvo SUV for the short drive to the hotel holding the celebration.
I had been wanting since forever before to try out an electric vehicle like the Volvo, anyway.
“Here, Grandpa, I found this outside. It’s for you.” Caroline giggles a little when she says that.
My daughter has never liked me much. She always said I was never there for her. Science, I had told her once, has its own children that need tending. She never forgot that.
She also hated my veganism, my admonishments over the climate, and, eventually, all my politics. Called me a tree hugger.
Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? The kids are supposed to be the tree huggers. The old guy is the one with the Ayn Rand books.
Not us. Not our family. Our family is in the reverse order of how it’s supposed to be.
“Where, sweetheart?” I say to Caroline. She keeps both hands behind her back. She’s playing one of her sweet, silly games.
“First, you have to tell me why you’re sad,” she says.
I can’t do that. Not even her mom has done that. And her mom hates me now more than ever.
I’ll say this. I marveled at the technology of that SUV. When I pressed a big round button on the dash, the whole thing silently lit up in the dark of night like a roomful of laptops all booting up at once. I talked to it like it was an old friend.
“Take me to the Sheraton.”
The SUV asked me which one. There’s only one in Berkeley, I said. Figure it out.
It did. I left the SUV’s autopilot on. I stared at the wheel moving right, then left, a lot more than I watched the road. What a marvelous piece of technology.
I drank heavily that night, admiring my award, drinking in the accolades from peers, missing David and his laborious laughter that had been so painfully restrained by cancer.
I danced with people I didn’t know. I cheered when they cheered. We did some karaoke in a back room. I kissed a girl despite no introduction at all, even though I hadn’t kissed a girl since the days before David.
Shots all around, someone said. Dozens more followed.
After that night, each morning for at least a couple of years, I’d look at the grill of the older model SUV I bought, unbeknownst to the authorities because it was bought on the sly, for cash, from a local scrap dealer. After another night of relentless drinking, I’d stumble outside and peer into the grill to make sure there were no human pieces stuck inside its rectangular metal patterns.
I don’t remember anything. Not really. Not even the next morning is clear to me. Two police officers. That much is easy to remember. Something about a kid on a bicycle. “Why was he on a bicycle at that late hour?” I remember demanding.
It was seven AM, one of them said. Not late. Early. School rush early. Disgusted tones pierced the cool morning air.
Was the autopilot on? I can’t remember. Their investigation was inconclusive. I never understood that. It was either on, or it wasn’t. My plea bargain was light. Nobody would ever know the truth, because it was unknown to everyone except a very expensive Volvo SUV, and she wasn’t talking.
I would not have needed the plea bargain, but the police found an Arby’s paper cup half-filled with vodka in the Volvo’s cup holder. How can I explain where it came from if I don’t remember anything? Police sure ask stupid questions sometimes.
One day, I gave Gorzon a present. I tried telling him it was a flea collar, but I don’t think he believed me. “It’s even got your name on it,” I said, stroking his chin. Gorzon snarled and nodded his head. I thought he looked like a buffalo with an attitude.
He never wore the collar. I guess I was afraid to try to put it on. That, and I didn’t have a tall enough ladder. I had an old extension ladder tucked way in the back of the cluttered garage, but there was no way I was going to try to lean it on Gorzon while I tried to fit the collar on him.
“Please, Caroline, get away from your grandfather before he starts telling you stupid stories.” I swear that I next hear her say, “He hallucinates a lot more than he used to.”
There are words I want to call my daughter that I can’t. Not in front of Caroline, who looks at me sheepishly and shrugs. “I guess I gotta go,” she says.
“What have you got for me, my angel?”
Her right hand spins out from behind her back as if thrown by her gleaming wide smile. She’s holding a collar so big it could fit around a large chimney. She hands it to me. “Merry Christmas, Grandpa,” she says. “A man outside gave it to me. He looked just like you. Maybe he’s your twin!”
I take the huge ring and inspect the big bold letters etched within its leather exterior. The letters spell out the word, “GORZON.”
I smile weakly. “Maybe so,” I say to her. “Maybe a twin.”
I wonder where he is. Gorzon. So magnificent.
Thanks for reading!
Notes
This first appeared in The Kraken Lore in December 2023
Bitchen 🤣😁 wonderfully written ...you left me wanting more . ..Maybe cuz it's the old Berkeley thing .....those of us have to have lived there all think out of the box . ....and it's glorius
Great story. Loved it!