Walking into Doors

And with that, we told our abusive boyfriend he could move back in. We washed the sheets, we freshened our breath, we put his favorite beer in the fridge. And when our body turns up in a dumpster behind a Walmart, nobody, but nobody, will be surprised.

Nice guys truly finish last.

What For

We didn't know what to call it. I guess you could say it was like getting from Point A to Point B in an instant. Suddenly you're here and then, even faster than an instant, you were there. No one could explain it. And really, we knew what it was. But we didn't want to call it what it was because it sounded so stupid, no one wants to call it that. No one wants to say those words. So mostly we kept it to ourselves. We knew it was there, but we didn't mention it. It just was. But then, slowly, everyone started talking about it. And when that happened, well, it was horrible. Everyone could be anywhere at any given moment. You could be expected halfway around the world and back again in only a few minutes. It was exciting for some, for those that don't get out, those that would never see anything of the world. But me, traveled, learned, a man of the world, what was I to do? The world was suddenly populated by nothing but men of the world, we were all instantly the same. We could be anywhere. And not only that, not just the notion that we had the possibility to be anywhere, but the reality of it. Never knowing quite who was around each corner, lurking down each hallway. You could walk into a room filled with one crowd and leave it filled with another. This never happened in a pure sense I suppose. Some people are intent on staying with their own. I was never resigned to stay with my own, but I was content with it. I certainly didn't want to be around just anyone. I wanted some modicum of choice, something on which to grasp, some frail idea of me being me. And what did this say for crime, what for love? What was to be done with responsibility? It didn't take long for people to realize exactly how much power they had, how much they could gain, how much they could ruin. It didn't take long for the bodies to pile up, for beds to be filled with philanderers, for things to go missing. Cars, cash, jewelry, clothes, food, hair, pictures, paper, antiques, children, animals, anything, anything that wasn't nailed down and even those items weren't off limits. The work became too much for the police, how could it not? And so people did what people do and they took to the streets. It was the age of the vigilante, but there were too many factions, too many imposters, too many languages. By the time something was reported it was already too late. None of it did any good. It was chaos. And then, of course, in an instant, it was over.

When your fantasy becomes reality you get bored. You get angry. If anything is possible there is no point. That's a horrible realization to have, and we all had it together. People will tell you that we're good. That we are born this way. People will tell you that we all want what's best for each other, we just go about it in different ways. No. Not true. I'm here to tell you it's not true. Because I've seen it, I've seen what it does to people. I've seen the greed, and the lust, and the corruption, and the apathy. I've seen the hordes doing it just because they can, not because they want to, not because there's anything to be gained. But because if you can, and you don't, well, like I said, what's the point?

An Alibi

It was a long way to go for such terrible food. But he could do it. The walk, the brisk air, they would do him good. The grease would do him better. That's what propelled him, put one foot continuously in front of the other, the unwrapping of the paper and the small pool of liquid fat inside. Delicious. Delightful.

It had been raining, and now there was a fine mist. The kind that's refreshing, and light, and makes you close your eyes, makes everything glisten. And his eyes were closed when he passed two drunken underages on his way. "Are you a magician?" the girl asked.

"Yes." It was the only thing to say.

"Show us a trick!" The girl loved magicians.

"Can't, I don't have my bag with me."

She didn't take kindly to this news, and neither did her male counterpart. "Hey, Houdini, she wants to see a fucking trick." But he just kept walking, breathing deeply, clearing his head, knowing that he took bigger steps and he took them quicker than either of these children would. And when he heard a tumble, a scuffle, and the girl cry out someone's name, he didn't stop.

It was a long line to wait in for such terrible food. But perhaps it looked longer, more crowded than it actually was. Perhaps he would make a friend, get to talking, share some points about his night. Perhaps he'd find some common ground. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, although at this stage of the night he was happy to be thinking such clear thoughts. And perhaps he'd see someone he knew, although he didn't wish for that. To be alone in a place like this on a night like that, when everyone around him was coupled, at least, it was bad enough as it was.

There was a pretty red-haired girl just there over his left shoulder, standing by a window. She was with a group but it didn't look like she was with any one of them in particular. She seemed disinterested, she wasn't really there, she was only dragged by her friends. It was a relief to see someone like that. But how to approach her? To approach her at all? If he had seconds with him, his own group, then maybe. But now, like this, to address her in front of friends like that. No, it was not ideal. None of this was.

He got to the counter and enacted his usual plan. He ordered a large amount of food, and when asked if that was all, replied, "Yeah, that should be enough for us." That was the key, in case anyone was listening. An alibi, so he wasn't just some guy stumbling in for himself, he was a messenger.

Waiting in another long line, waiting to get his bag, he decided he would talk to the girl. Why not? Why not say something, try to pull her aside, to give her some sort of knowing look that said, I get it, I get you, we're the same. What's the harm in that. He felt good, nearly, and perhaps a little too excited, receiving a wide-eyed look from the nice lady handing him his spotty paper bag. No one is that excited for these contents. No one should be, that is.

But the girl was gone. Her group, gone. He was looking at nothing but a window. And on it was taped a sign, facing the street, backwards to him, reading "CAUTION." Now they tell me.

He walked outside. He clutched his bag. He was suddenly worried it would not be enough. He stood on the street corner, letting the mist coat him. The light turned green. He closed his eyes and walked. It wasn't that bad of a night. It would turn out to be all right. But the white pedestrian stripes had become slick with rain, and he slipped. And he braced his fall with his spotty bag, and felt it burst, and felt the contents flatten with the weight of his crash. He saw the food in the glow of the lamps and lights, resting there on the ground, destroyed, collecting mist, getting wet, glistening. And then, from the other side of the street, he heard a familiar voice.

"Hey, Houdini! Houdini! Show us a trick!"

Trigger

Trey crawled out of his room somewhere around noon. This was the time for oatmeal. His roommate, Kris, was in the kitchen, making a turkey sandwich. "Rise and shine," he said. "How'd it go last night?"

Trey poured himself a mug of coffee. Looking at it, it didn't look black enough. "It went."

"Successful?"

"I liked talking to her and got her number, so in that sense, sure." Was it possible to make the coffee blacker? To compress it into itself? To thicken it in some way?

"Oh," said Kris. "Is there another sense?"

"I mean, that wasn't the goal."

"What was the goal?"

"To bring her back here, what kind of question is that?"

Kris took a bite of his sandwich. It was times like this where he didn't know exactly what to say, and what he wanted to say was better left not said, so he found ways to avoid talking, like eating turkey sandwiches. "You got her number though," he chewed, "so that's good."

"I guess." It tasted almost sweet. How was that even possible? Did Kris add sugar to the pot? "Did you add sugar to this?"

"Oh my god, how is it not good?"

"It's, like, sweet."

"The number."

"That wasn't the goal."

It was one of their famous early morning—when put in context—glare-offs, when whatever they didn't put down before bed mixed with any combination of empty stomachs, aching heads, and pent-up bodily fluids. They knew to mostly not take these moments too seriously.

Trey continued. "I wanted to come back here for a drink, hook up, and worry about whether or not I was going to call later. I don't even know if I want to put it more work than one night."

"Well," said Kris, "you just might have to." Trey was filling more of the awful coffee into his mug. It was better than nothing. Was it better than nothing?

"My problem is I don't pull the trigger soon enough. Had I asked her fifteen, twenty minutes before I bet she would've come over no question. But I wait and wait and I talk and talk, and by the time I eventually ask they realize that, oh, they don't want to hook up with me, they want to see me again and maybe date because I'm actually a nice guy. It's goddamn infuriating."

You're goddamn infuriating. Oh no! A cute girl wants to talk to you? She gives you her phone number? She likes you? Poor, poor, poor, poor you! It's your own fault, not pulling the trigger, you said it yourself. You don't want to end up with a bunch of date prospects? Learn how to muster up the balls to ask the girl over, get some fucking confidence. Complaining about some perceived problem while you're explaining the solution doesn't do anything but piss me off. Kris thought all this while he finished his sandwich.

"That must be some tasty turkey," said Trey, who was onto him.

"Mmhm," said Kris, who felt the suspicion.

Trey went into his room and found the phone number. He looked at each digit and thought about what they meant, all of them put together, in that order like that. It was possible that all he needed was one more date. And he did enjoy talking to her. She was interesting, and liked the books he liked, and didn't know what an O-Bomb was either. And the more he thought about it, the more the numbers made sense.

Through Your Blood

Don't go in the basement, don't split up, don't go outside or by a window. Trust no one, not even your family, not even your love beside you. Think about money, think about power, think about what's to gain, even if it's by that person beside you. Even if it's through someone they love, their blood, even if it's you. Especially if it's you. Sadly. I'm sorry, but it's true. If the gain is through your blood, watch out.

Boards and nails, knives, cleavers, hammer and screwdriver, mallet, glass, wire and rope, tables and chairs and sheets, a chair, a broken chair, scarves, ties, plastic, plastic bags, light bulbs, baseball bat, golf club, tennis racket, bow and arrow, rifle pistol sticks and stones.

They start getting picked off, one by one. How many lists do you cross them off of? Put them on? We can't know much about the living. How can we know more about the dead? Look for the ones asking questions. And the ones answering them. Pay attention for too much detail, too much minutiae. Anything that seems a little too in place. There will be someone with their wits about them. If there is another, be wary. Therein lies the danger.

You can't let on. You can't seem too nervous. Do not look at them too long. Do not avoid their gaze either. Don't talk too much or talk too little. Don't do exactly what they say but don't be contrary. Never be alone. Always have someone with you. There are a lot of rules. Stay below windows, lock and brace doors, find your anger, find your hatred, find the animal. Never be alone.

It's going to be one of them. It has to be. And, if you're lucky, it will be only one of them. And when you find them out, make them pay. In the ways they've made you pay. And now, lucky you, you know how.

Scene

Image: Four slivers of light, slicing out your bedroom door, separating it from the surrounding darkness. It is morning.

Image: A lemon, halved, in a plastic baggie. A seed rests in a corner.

Image: A clean, broken coffee mug.

Image: Shards of broken glass, embedded in my running shoes.

Image: A dusty old stereo, long and thin, silver. A tape is in the deck, one side of it old jazz tunes, the other side filled with blues. Played and worn and loved, made with love, from love to love with love.

Image: My friend slips on a small pool of blood in the bathroom. It must be menstrual blood, she thinks.

Image: A long grey limousine with six doors, matching grey leather interior. The overhead cloth is becoming detached in some small patches.

Image: Some sort of chopped salad, an attempt at health. Something with chunks of cold ham and disgusting egg, something with too much dressing on the side, covered in cheddar clippings.

Image: You sneak into bed, your back to your lover. Perhaps you don't even lift up the covers. You will sleep on top of them tonight. You will be cold.

Image: Grandfather's fedora. You've stepped on it.

Image: The pelt on that chair is tearing, and tears more every time someone sits down.

Image: Against the front room window, an open and empty fish tank. It is filled with books, periodicals, newspapers from the previous week.

Image: A cream-colored phone attached to the wall. Its long spiral cord stretches across the floor of the kitchen. Nothing at its end.

Image: Light switches flicked up. Darkness.

Sick Features

He looks dirty. His teeth are tinted yellow. He has terrible red stubble patching his greasy skin. He has an old baseball cap, probably because he hasn't combed it in days. His T-shirt doesn't fit. It doesn't fit his body and it doesn't fit her. She has on a nice blouse, sharp slacks. Her hair is done. She has just enough makeup to accentuate her natural beauty. She has a smile that won't quit. Her laugh has a laugh. Does he hear it? He doesn't look at her. Not as he should, not as much. She doesn't care. It doesn't matter.

He double-dips his pita bread into their plate of hummus. He licks his fingers. She kisses his cheek, his greasy cheek, his stubbled reddened scratchy cheek. Her nose brushes against his. It is a slightly crooked nose. Her lips are rather thin. Her nail polish is chipped. She laughs at almost everything. No one is that funny, certainly not him. He grunts with hummus breath, I'm sure. I'm sure there's something I'm missing. Underneath the hat, beyond the teeth, none of this matters.