I stared at the patterns for far too long, suddenly remembering that I was staring at a woman, starting to look away just before she turned around. She gave me a brief smile and went back to scrolling through her phone, balancing a tray with her free hand. Her tray had a salad liberally doused with the sorts of things that make salads less healthy but far tastier, along with a muffin encased in plastic wrap.
When she returned her attentions to her phone the tray slid in her hands, and she too hastily readjusted, causing the muffin to slide to the edge of the tray and then topple off. She tried to grab it but ended up batting the muffin into the air. On reflex, I caught it, and put it back on her tray.
“Nice catch,” she said.
I nodded like it was no big deal, but didn’t say anything in return.
Mostly because I was looking at a message of “+25 Experience Points” floating in midair, a message that nobody else seemed to notice.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Sitting in art history, listening to my professor talk about her experiences during an archaeological dig in the northern Peten region of Guatemala, I stared in rage at a fly that had decided its life’s work was to land on my forehead. It kept resting on my desk, catching its breath before once more launching itself to the promised land of my forehead, where it would briefly alight before I waved it away, and then we would play the game again.
This time, as the fly rested on my desk, I slowly, patiently, gradually moved my fingers into position to flick the insect away. I’d tried several times before, but just at the greatest moment of tension the fly always seemed to sense the attack and buzz away onto my forehead, from where I could almost hear its taunting laugh.
This time, though, the fly was too late.
I flicked my finger.
It caught the fly like a wrecking ball, smacking it into the wall next to me. The fly dropped to the floor, buzzed weakly, and then went still.
Except for the “+1 Experience Points” that rose up from the tiny corpse.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
I met Binsa after my classes to help move her old mattress out from her apartment. She’d bought a new one and the store was both delivering it and taking the old one away, but the old one needed to be waiting outside on the curb, where she’d take delivery of the new one.
“Lot of memories on this old girl,” Binsa said as we stood on the sidewalk, patting the side of the mattress we’d wrestled through her kitchen, squeezed through her front door, and then failed to fit into the elevator before wrangling it down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk.
“Naps and farts?” I asked. “Those kinds of memories?”
“Lots of those. And maybe seven women. And a guy.”
“Whoa! What? A guy? You slept with a guy?” This was news to me.
“Not really. Tried, though. I read an article that women aren’t ever sure of their sexuality. We’re more fluid, apparently.”
“Was this article on a website geared toward men?”
“Yes.”
“Thought so. That’s bullshit. Don’t ever believe anything a guy says about sex, except ‘I would like some, please.’ Other than that it’s all lies.”
“Well, I thought I should try. But he was all penis-y.”
“Yeah. That’s… yeah.”
“We ended up playing video games. I let him kiss my boobs. Not the nipples, though.”
“I really treasure these conversations. I’m not in the least bit uncomfortable.”
“I just enjoy joshing you, Josh. That’s why Dad named you Josh. I mean, yeah, that was your name in the first place, but even more so once you came to live with us.”
I didn’t say anything in reply. I just held one side of the mattress, waiting for the delivery driver from Sentinel Springs Beds, wondering why the two of us were holding the mattress on its side rather than just letting it fall to the lawn.
I was also thinking back to those first days after the Hester family adopted me. Remembering the smells of home-cooked food and the clean bathrooms. The perfumes of having a girl in the house, Binsa with her junior high fascination for makeup and Mrs. Hester with the spray she’d always put in her hair, which she once described as smelling like a loud peach. I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but I agreed.
Holding Binsa’s mattress, I wondered what the person who’d murdered Salena was doing, back then, during those days, when my babysitting witch was only a few years in the grave. What do murderers do after a murder? How do they live? I couldn’t come up with anything. It wasn’t something I could conceive.
“You’re awfully silent,” Binsa said.
“I’m just thinking about my old life. My babysitter.”
“See? I told you moving back into that apartment was a bad idea. You’re just stirring up old dust.”
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
“Sometimes dust needs to be stirred.”
“Oooo! So spooky and wise! ‘Sometimes dust needs to be stirred,’ said the wise man, with the words echoing from where his head was wedged firmly up his own butt.”
“Doing you a favor, here,” I noted. “Helping you with your mattress.”
“I helped move your mattress and twenty-seven thousand other things. I’m way ahead.”
“True,” I told her. The two of us fell silent as a pair of women jogged past, along with a dog that looked like a cross between a Beagle and a pit bull. It was an ugly, beautiful creature, loping along with the two women, both of whom were in jogging clothes and attractive enough that Binsa and I stood up straighter. The two women looked at my sister and I, standing the way we were on the lawn, holding an old mattress, and then jogged on.
“I wonder if we looked like an opportunity for an immediate threesome,” Binsa said.
“Foursome.”
“Right. Well, five if you count the . . . well, nope.”
“Nope,” I agreed.
“How are things going with you and that Tub Mermaid?”
“Molly,” I said. “Her name is Molly.” We paused as Binsa’s phone let out a couple chirps, alerting her that the delivery driver was only a few blocks away.
“And?” Binsa prompted me.
“And I told you. She’s just a friend.”
“With benefits?”
“I kinda wish. But, no.”
“Keep wishing. Maybe there’ll be a falling star, and it’ll all come true.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I said, and then part of my world broke down. Just like when I’d been standing in my living room holding the fern, now another memory came crashing back.
This time, though, it wasn’t my memory. It was Dad’s. A bar. He was holding a gun. I was holding a gun.
I was feeling and seeing the memory from two perspectives, one of floating in the air, watching like a ghost, and the second of being inside my father’s mind, watching through his eyes, feeling his emotions, catching his thoughts.
I needed money. I’d borrowed three hundred dollars from the wrong person and they were going to break my legs if I didn’t pay. I was half drunk on beer, more drunk with fear, feeling like my life was seeping out of me along with my sweat. Everything was sticky. Everything was too loud. Nobody ever let me speak.
I thought of my son. Of Josh. He was always in the way. Without him, I could leave. I could run. All those bills. Too much. Everything was always too much. Everything needed money. Simone at the Friendly Shore strip club, she needed money. So did the other girls. Money. Groceries. Rent. The gun felt cold in my hand. It was burning me. I only had three bullets, so if it came down to shooting, I’d need to be smart.
But for once, everything went easy. It was exactly like the script I’d written in my head. Walk in, have a beer to calm my nerves. Don’t forget to get the goddamn best beer. It’ll cost more but who cares? I’ll get the money right back. Just show the gun. Just let them know who’s in charge, that you’re the only one who gets to make the rules. Let them know not to call the cops. Get the money.
Standing next to Binsa, holding her mattress, I lived the final moments of my father’s life. I could feel his heart beating too fast. The feel of the mattress I was holding—standing next to my sister in the real world—faded, replaced by the feel of the money I was scooping up from the bar. Tens and twenties. God, there’s even a fifty. That’ll help. That’s a treasure. Maybe I won’t even pay back that fucker with his three hundred dollars. Maybe I’ll get a bus ticket. Maybe I’ll listen to the wheels of the bus go round and round, like in that children’s song. Maybe I’ll be like those men in the movies, the ones who punch Fate in its fucking face, get on a bus in a land full of fog and smoke and step off somewhere else, somewhere better, somewhere with women, a beach, a new life, no fucking kids, an apartment with a big bathroom, a royal bathroom, a king-size shitter. Maybe I’d call Simone to come visit. Maybe I won’t give a fuck about her.
Clutching the money, Dad was almost to the door when a man stepped out from the shadows.
Something was wrong.
I knew the man.
Standing next to my sister, I almost fell. The memory was too strong. Too . . . everything. I knew that man. I knew him. But I could feel barriers in my mind, locks and chains straining, holding back his name, his face, his memory.
“Josh,” my sister said. “You okay? You look like a fucking dishrag.”
“Please,” I whispered. “Quiet.” I waved a hand at her, trying to get her to understand, and then I was back in my memory, or my dad’s memory, or someone’s memory, at least.
The man who’d walked inside the bar had a blur for a face. He was dressed in a black suit with a lapel pin in the shape of a golden fox. He was tall. Lanky. Predatory. His voice came from blurred lips, beneath his misty face.
“You’re hungry,” his voice said.
“I’m hungry,” my dad’s voice repeated.
“There are peanuts on the bar,” the voice said.
“There are peanuts on the bar,” I told him. And then I found that I was hurrying back for the bar. I’d been so stupid! The peanuts! I could eat peanuts! I was so hungry!
When the bartender shot me, it was an inconvenience. Didn’t she know about the peanuts? I stumbled, letting money drop from my fingers. Then there was another shot. It was . . . such a bright fire in my chest. Alarms were ringing out. A bitter cold came sweeping in. My legs were gone. The bartender shot me again. Things were wrong. I needed air. Gravity was everywhere. The man with the blurred face stepped aside so I could fall, but I knew that if I fell I’d die, so I vowed to stay on my feet, but then I felt my cheek slam into the floor. Everything in my chest bounced and twisted. There were loose things. I couldn’t find any air. It was all gone. Everything was blurred, everything was… it was… no… oh shit.
“Fuck,” I whimpered, standing next to my sister, feeling my father die. I let go of the mattress and fought for balance. Binsa lost her grip and the mattress slapped me to the ground, with my cheek hitting the grass exactly like my father’s cheek had slammed into the dirty wooden floor of the Downhill Bar.
“Ah, Josh!” my sister yelped, helping me out from under the mattress. “Sorry! It slipped!” I was amazed the two attractive joggers hadn’t returned to witness me crawling out from under the mattress like some dazed cockroach from beneath a rug.
I clutched my chest where I could still feel the bullets that had killed my father. I was still focused, in my mind, on trying to capture the face of that blurred man. What was his name? I knew him. But those locks and chains in my brain were still holding fast, keeping the information locked away. What the hell had happened to me as a kid? What was stored behind the closed doors of my mind?
“You okay?” Binsa asked, staring into my eyes. I wondered what she was seeing. Could she see all the secrets? Could she tell me about them?
“Just got dizzy,” I said. “Been staying up nights, getting unpacked.” It wasn’t really a lie. It was just an omission of truth. Now I was the one keeping things hidden.
“God,” Binsa said. “Go home and get a nap. You’re a college student. You’re supposed to grabbing naps between doing drugs and having orgies.”
“You’d make an excellent student advisor.”
“I’m all about real world education. Seriously, go home. I’ll manage the mattresses.”
“You can’t carry your new mattress upstairs alone.”
“Those joggers will come back. I’ll invite them upstairs to test out the mattress, if they help carry it up.”
“Your optimism is a wonder to behold.”
“I like to focus on the positive. Keeps me from turning to the dark side, like those Star Wars people. The Ewoks or whatever. Seriously, you okay? You look dumb in the head.”
“I’ve just been ragged, lately. Oh, here’s your delivery guy.” The mattress truck was pulling up. Conversation was put on hold as two men who looked like mixtures of sumo wrestlers and German dock workers parked on the curb and then silently unloaded a mattress and took away the one my sister and I’d dropped on the ground.
I could tell that Binsa was a little sad to see it go. Because, as she’d mentioned, my sister had definitely had some good times on that mattress, and people do get hooked on their memories of the past.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
picture is one I took of a dog at a cafe and I am willing to have that creature as my Adventure Companion because I've no doubt he could best an Owlbear)