The Button

           “'Nobody know what'll happen if you push the button. It could be something good or it could be something bad. Nobody knows. But, you're job is to guard the button and whatever you do, don't push the button, just guard the button.'” 

           Seems easy enough. The button. It's red and it has “The Button” written in white letters, like Coca-Cola”. Red on white. That's original. But why? Why make THE button, instead of a button or some button. Imagine a stuck-up child on an elevator yelling at their parents since they want to be the one to push the button for the floors or to get the next elevator. The button. Bombs are propelled by pushing buttons, words on computers are written by pushing buttons, people say, 'You're starting to push my buttons,” but why have a guard for a button instead of a safe or a plexiglass box? A guard? Well, this is the army and they do everything ass backwards here. Guard the red button. Like the soldiers who guard the grave of the unknown soldier and do it no matter what the weather. But, the button? 

           In an episode of Ren and Stimpy (quoted earlier), Stimpy had to guard a button, but he pushed it and the past, present, and future were destroyed, but that's an old cartoon. Like 90's old. Guard the button. Don't push it. I'm grown up, so don't care about buttons, just keeping this job, which pays the mortgage, the car, etc. Guard the button? Okay, whatever? I march back and forth. My location is Butt Fuck Egypt: BFE. I'm surrounded by sand and cacti, except for this one hut in the middle of no where, which has a red button called the button on an oak table in the middle of the small house. Don't know what continent I'm on; lost track. Guard the button. Maybe it's a prank. Maybe I'm on Candid Camera. I look in the corners of the room and there aren't cameras, just an old sprinkler system. Marching back and forth in front of the door, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.  

           Have to think of something, so I don't go nuts: “No, Stimpy. It is not I who am crazy. It is I who am mad.” Back and forth, protecting a button. Even if it was a person it would make sense, but a button? Whatever. This isn't the pentagon. The button doesn't look like it's even attached to anything. It looks like one of those old things from Staples that said, “That was easy”. Button. The button's looking at me and I'm looking at the button. Can't do this. Need to think of mind games to stay sane, like learning the alphabet backwards. Walking back and forth. Thinking of new ideas for stories. Back and forth. Imagining my wife greeting me at the airport with our children and making love to her in the night. Don't push the button. That's what she calls her clitoris is the button. Good, I'm distracting myself from the monotony. I think of all the men and women I'm protecting in America by making sure no one pushes the button. I glance under the table, on each side of the table and there's nothing. Just the button. Maybe it's wifi connected to something important. I look at it though. I'm protecting it even though I'm no longer walking back and forth and on the side of it it says:

            “©1974”. 1974? Electricity was invented for practical use in 1800. Marconi made radios in 1895. Wifi wasn't made until 1999. So, it's possible the button could send a radio signal, but a radio signal to who? An Atari 8300? The button. I keep walking back and forth with my rifle like the lions from Looney Tunes: “Bread and butter. Bread and butter. Bread and butter.” Back and forth. Back and forth protecting the button. Bored out of my fucking mind. Remember, always ask your friends what the square-root of negative four is. That'll keep their brains working, but I already know the answer. Think of the riddle of the three men who walk into a hotel. Don't know the answer. Memories. Think of memories. Anything but this stupid button. No, wait, shit, not this button, the button.

           People say their age is what their age is or sometimes lie about their age. But, someone told me we're not only the age we are, we're all the ages we were at the same time, too. So, if we're 90, we're 90, 89, 88, etc. and I can feel the kid in me wondering what would happen if I hit the button? Probably nothing. This is some General's idea of a practical joke. Maybe. But, why pay me for a practical joke? I scan the area: painted beige walls with chips out, cracked floor boards, dusty fans, gray ceiling. If this was a restaurant it would be on Restaurant Impossible. I brought ration food in my bookbag and will be fine for a week. Guard the button. Damn it. I went through training camp for this? Guard the stupid red button. 

           Restroom break. Small bathroom. Hope no one pushes the button when I take a shit. Come out, everything's the same. I've flushed and washed my hands. “I just can't do it, Captain. I just can't do it I tell you”. I do this until the relief shows up. Could be minutes or months. At least if there were two people guarding this button, we could talk about shit and I could shit without worrying about someone pushing the button. Of course, the only things living in this shit hole are me and some goddamn cacti. Do they think the cacti will push the button? I don't know. Guard the button. 

           I break to eat the food in my bookbag: PB & J, chips, water. Then, I use the restroom and keep guarding the stupid button. Back and forth. Back and forth. Wonder if I'll get overtime if my relief doesn't show. Who knows? Who cares? Then, I realize I'll probably have to write a report for my supervisor about what the fuck happened: No one pushed the button, no one came in, I washed my hands, ate, took a shit, washed my hands, and walked back and forth. Back and forth. Nothing fucking happened.” 

           The sun starts to set in the west. Great. I hope this shit hole has a light.  I look at the front door and there's a switch. So, I take a break from my pacing and turn it on. It's a light which looks like it's half burnt. Not fully lit, but not out either, as I pace back and forth. Don't let anyone touch the fucking button. Walk back and forth. Back and forth: “Monotonous, isn't it?” Don't touch the button. Don't fall asleep. Wish I had coffee in my bookbag, but I don't.