Disintegration (8 page)

The next morning, as she sleeps on my bed, I break my own rules and go out into the sunlight. It's entirely too bright and it makes my head spin, but I owe her one, Luscious, and I mean to deliver.

It's early for me, but late in the morning for the rest of the world, almost noon. Cars roll back and forth, the mighty buses lurching and stopping, the street rumbling beneath my feet as the el train heads into the city.

Walgreens is closer, and while I don't need a Chia Pet, Christmas lights, or a refill on my penicillin, the cat could use more fancy cat food, and the convenience store won't do. In and out, a basketful of chicken, beef, pork, and fish, neatly compressed into tiny little squares, the gelatin it swims in no doubt ground down from leather-faced, bow-legged old horses. Five minutes, I give it, ten tops. In and out.

The door slides open and in I go, immediately unsure of my direction. Cash register to the left, cameras and film developing farther down, cosmetics to the right. None of them scream cat food to me, so I veer to the right.

No eye contact, I don't need to speak, or get spritzed, no nail files or eyelash curlers today.

“Oh, sir, excuse me….”

Fuck, what now? Keep walking.

“Please, excuse me, sir, I think your order…”

I turn to her and stop for a second, the blue buttoned-up shirt wrinkled under a white vest. Her name is Marissa. Forty and overweight, her makeup certainly applied ten times a day, she is somebody's mother, but not mine.

“Yes?”

“I have that order for you, I'm sorry, I tried calling that number, but it was disconnected….”

“Lady, I think you have the wrong guy. I've never been in here before.”

Rummaging around behind the cosmetics counter, half hidden by the glass, she looks up for a second.

“No, I never forget a face, yours or your girlfriend. She was so nice. And you're kind of hard to miss.”

“You've got me confused with somebody else.”

I walk away before she can protest, canned foods up ahead, so it can't be far. Around the display, no doubt, a strange look on my face, I spy the cat food, and head straight for it. A quick scan of the cheap stuff, and there it is, the holy grail of cat food. I take them all, filling the red basket, the metal handles of the basket digging into my hand from the weight of all of that cat food. Shredded Yellowfin Tuna, Sirloin Surprise, Free Range Chicken Splendid, and Mixed Grill. I take them all, clearing their entire stock in one fell swoop.

I head for the counter up front, my cash already in hand. She catches me from behind, and places three items in with the rest of the cat food.

“I know how it is, sir. No need to be embarrassed. I'm sorry we were out of those last time. The last one I had to special order.”

She walks away and I stare at the products. Two I don't know. K-Y Intense Arousal Gel (For Her). Intimate Organics Aromatherapy Massage Balm: Energizing Orange and Gingerroot.

And the third item is nestled between them. A shade of plum lipstick called Bruise.

A rush of cold air hits me in the face, but it's nothing compared to the violent reaction I'm having to the strange products in the plastic bags dangling from my trembling fists. The dull clank of the cat food shudders up my right arm, and I give furtive glances to the other white plastic in my left hand. I didn't order these things. I've never been in this store before. I don't know that woman. But that lipstick, Bruise, that's Holly's shade. Something is burning, on fire. Smoke fills my nostrils, sweet and thick.

Brick and mortar flows past me in a blur as I head south on Milwaukee Avenue, floating down the concrete as if underwater, muffled sounds unable to penetrate my haze. No matter how many times I blink, nothing comes into focus. I cross the street, and car horns blare at me, voices screeching out of open mouths, gaping jaws overflowing with rage. Heads turn to look at me, to get a better view of the lumbering idiot, the empty-headed drone that trudges past them, unaware. I am bumped and jostled by smaller bodies, a chorus of displeasure, like a malformed line of black crows, sitting on a wire, cawing and swaying in the breeze.

HEY…hey.

HEY.

Hey, man.

HEY.

Honey, is that you?

HEY

My shoulders are hit, left then right, the soft bump of flesh and bone, wool and cotton, and I turn, back and forth, like a battered saloon door. I brush a metal post, a tiny voice deep inside me drowning in angry sinew.

“Ow, that hurt.”

A wire-mesh trash can floats past and I bang it with my knee. It tumbles over, spilling out greasy fast-food wrappers, a crack and tinkle of bottles hitting the sidewalk, breaking into the street, bent coat hangers and the clang of crushed aluminum.

When was the last time I saw Holly? Days? Weeks?

I don't know. I've forgotten her face now, and a rush of heat slides over my skin. My stomach curdles and there is a twitching at my eyes, eager to overflow with loss and question marks. My vision is telescoping and I fear that I may never get
home—everything
in the periphery is fading to slate gray, quickly descending into a blackness that I know will hold me down with glee. I rush forward, picking up the pace, just trying to get home. I simply want to feed my damn cat and lie down. I can picture my bed, the French doors open, light easing under the window shades, a dull glow of yellow filling the room, a sanctuary away from these eyes, the tremors in my head.

A tightness fills my lower back and I can see the side of my building, it's so close now. Just across the street, one more time, dodging the skin-jobs that flow out of the Division Street subway, the kids in Catholic school uniforms, plaid skirts and white shirts, books slung over their shoulders, not a care in the world. A beaten-down olive-green pickup truck rattles by, filled with short, dark-skinned workers,
JIMENEZ
in flowing script over the side of the door. Dead brown eyes drift over to me, a wide smile, and a one-armed man gives me a thumbs-up. Vomit pushes at the back of my throat. One hard swallow and I will myself forward.

The front door to my building looms and I shift the bags to my left hand and reach inside my jeans pocket for the key. A downpour of black rain descends on me, and the high-pitched whine at my ears turns into a low hum, an emergency broadcast, my head and neck beaten by rubbery wings, their sharp teeth nipping at my neck as they fall about my head, pulling me under.

Holly bends over me, her long hair drifting across my face, her lips touching mine, gently. A soft kiss, and then another, and slowly her mouth moves to my ear. Her whispers, they flit about my ears with the gentle grace of fat snowflakes in a silent blanketing of the city.

“Baby, it's okay.”

I can't open my eyes, I'm in too deep. There's no air, her hands are on my chest, my mouth, and there is a great sucking in my chest, but nothing moves. Her hands move, and still the pressure remains. I gasp, trying to fill my lungs, and my throat fills with water, sucking it down in great gulps. My teeth bite down, trying to find purchase on anything, and there is a sharp crack of glass, razor blade triangles filling my mouth.

“Damnit,” she says.

Her hands are on me again, and I'm wet, drowning.

“It's okay, baby, I've got you.”

A rustle of blankets, feet beyond her, boots shuffling around on the hardwood floor. There's only darkness, but fractured light spills across my eyelids, traces of neon beyond my vision as vague silhouettes scuttle about, bumping into each other. Something heavy tips over and lands with a dull thud, a cloud of dust filled with microscopic mites, flecks of starlight creeping toward me, buzzing at my head, sliding down my throat, choking me.

“Get the fuck out of here,” she hisses.

There is frantic movement around me, the sensation of fast-moving objects, dangerous slices of metal and hands, just beyond my body, a great pendulum swooshing by, just beyond my neck, and if I were to sit up, it would decapitate me without pause.

Her hands are on my ears, mumbling voices, deep gurgling, and a high-pitched scream, none of it louder than the distant sounds you might hear outside a bathroom when the door is closed, the shower running, as you pull back the thin plastic curtain, certain that you heard something, a question uttered into the steam-filled room.

“Hello?”

A faded fingerprint on the mirror, something written there a long time ago, the faint impression of a message, a shape, now vague and shifting into nothing more than layers of clouds, lines that no longer represent any alphabet I've ever known.

When I try to sit up, the fabric across my eyes stretches tight, and a pinpoint of light fills the center of my head.

So this is it. This is how it all goes down.

Choking, gasping for air, still blind and deaf, a flush fills my face, spreading down my neck, her fist pummeling my back, once…twice. Such a tiny fist. I am being beaten to death by a five-year-old little girl with her hair pulled back into a ponytail. I am being saved by a small, thin little princess with cavernous brown eyes, sparks of amber dancing in the fog. They are filled up with all of her fears finally coming true. She is resigned to bite her lip, to do more than she ever has, digging deep to save her father, her own protector, suddenly not as godlike as she had thought for eternity. Eager to finally be called, and yet, a bit of her dying inside, this knowing that Daddy is not made of stone, that he is indeed as fragile as the rest of us, as human and finite as she is.

A low feline howl is quickly followed by a high-pitched screech riddled with pain, a hot hiss, and the sound of a window shutting hard, a door slamming shut.

“Ebanatyi pidaraz,” she says. “Now. Ret oyt.”

What she is saying doesn't make any sense to me. I can barely make out one word.

Now.

It's jumbled and lost on me, since I'm busy dying, my heart ready to burst inside my rib cage, my head filled with trembling stars, the pressure building, eyes bulging, my skull pushing apart, light spilling out to fill the room.

The palm of her hand fills the middle of my back, hits me so hard, that for a moment I see her face very clear, her wide eyes but with short dark hair this time, staring at me from the other end of the bar, ruby lips moist and full.

Holly.

A memory has been triggered, knocked from my consciousness, like slowly oozing ketchup from a stubborn bottle. It's a nondescript bar, a long room filled with people, harsh daylight filling the rancid space, stale beer and the sharp tinge of urine. In the other room, the cash register rings, package liquors, the attached storefront like a damaged appendage, still functioning, but barely. It's Nik's. I'm looking down at my hands, which are dirty and shaking, a pint glass half full, and sitting next to it is a small greasy shot glass filled with a tawny liquid, gently moving from side to side, as if we are on a boat, out to sea, drifting.

Beaten-down men, stubble on their faces, torn flannel and red eyes. No eye contact, each of us alone, adrift in this puddle of our own making, wallowing in self-pity and remorse. We're eager to finish the job, to drown once again in our own fluids.

Standing next to her, his back to me, he slowly turns, a long, hawkish nose, short hair buzzed as if off to the army, or recently released from an asylum. His face turns to me, I know him. It's Vlad.

There is a flash of light, and a high-pitched note, and I'm back in my apartment.

My throat is clear, a vast rush of air filling me back up, hacking and coughing in the darkness, no other sounds around me but her fast, short breathing, a tiny whimper, and from far away, down the hallway and over the stairs, the faint sound of boots running away from me, a creak at the front door of the building, the dull pressure of the heavy metal slamming shut, and the whole building shakes.

Up and down, my chest heaves, my shoulders rise and fall. A pinch at my forearm, a tiny nip at my flesh, and the pain in my ribs, the tightness fades away. My splitting head slowly dulls and she pushes me back down.

“Relax, it's fine, I'm sorry.”

Again she drifts away from me, and a solitary sob escapes my lips. Her hand lightly presses on my chest, her lips at my cheek, nuzzling me, her breath vodka and strawberries, a bitter undertone, her lips on mine.

It goes away again, all of it, and I don't care. The words that pinball around the inside of my empty skull are the same, the same words I often mutter when I'm passing out on the floor, about to piss myself, when I'm pulling the trigger, sliding the knife in, taking another life, deserved or not.

I don't care.

I don't care.

I just don't fucking care.

But I do.

There is a faint breeze on my naked skin as she moves away from me, as I descend down the well again, clinging to the tattered rope, the light getting smaller and smaller, until it becomes a pinhole. The cold, damp stone surrounds me, my hand reaching out, caressing the cool wetness, eager to feel anything real, anything real at all.

The last sound I hear is Holly, ever so faintly, walking away from me, crying.

Outside my window birds chirp as if nothing has happened, just another day, another glorious day. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling as the city comes to life around me. Footsteps stutter above my apartment, heels clacking across the hardwood floor. There is music next door, a gentle bass emitting a slight buzz, my skin and bones CinemaScope. Car horns in the distance, the great whoosh and creak of buses pushing by, and I feel elastic, a Ken doll, nothing made of skin and bone, but joints and metal screws, void of genitalia, empty inside.

I sit up, and search my body for marks, the spot where Holly injected me. It's sore, a tiny dot that could be anything, a bug bite. And I'm sore everywhere, so that doesn't mean a thing. I reach over to her drawer, eager to match up the lipstick from yesterday with the old one she left there months ago. I bend over the edge and peer inside it.

Empty.

So she's gone now. I stand up, clad in black cotton boxers, and look around the apartment for a clue to her existence. I bend over and sniff the open drawer and there is a faint whiff of sandalwood, orange peel, and musk. I head to the kitchen, looking for the box of tissues with the floral print on it. Nowhere. I open the trash can and look inside, but it's clean as well. A totally empty, fresh white plastic trash bag lines the can. It's very unlike me.

I flick the deadbolt on the back door to the left, unlock the doorknob and pull it open. A pane of white slaps me in the face. Sunshine. Fuck. The screen door gives with an easy push and I'm out onto the wooden deck, and down the flaking stairs before I can stop myself from heading to the dumpsters in the freezing cold in nothing but my underwear. Down and around, the wood splintering at my feet, onto the concrete and to the back alley. My breath frosts the air and I rub my arms. Stupid idea. Make it fast.

I fling open the faded red dumpster and the lid flips over and clangs against the metal frame like an ancient Chinese gong. Discreet. It's half full of black trash bags. Rotten eggs, sour beer, and something dead drifts to me. I push the bags aside looking for a white trash bag. There isn't one. They wouldn't be that stupid, would they?

They. Who am I talking about? Not ready to go there yet.

I start tearing the bags open. It's all so familiar, and yet, not mine. Beer cans and frozen TV dinners. Same brands, but when did I eat last? Generic white tissues and Q-tips, could be from anywhere. Empty potato chip bags, orange peels, empty Windex bottle, and crumpled-up cigarette packs. And there, at the bottom, there's something floral. I bend over, the rancid, rusting metal scraping across my belly, my feet lifting off the ground. I pull out a soggy, torn-in-half box of tissues. Is it mine? Could be. Maybe. Empty cat food tins line the bottom, three different brands, including the new ones I just bought. Mine? I didn't feed her last night. Did I?

“Goddamnit motherfucking shit.”

I stand in the alley, holding what can only be described as garbage. I'm holding it like it's my child, the soggy, crumpled box of tissues.

Up at the north end of the alley, a woman in a long tan coat drifts by, short black hair in a bob. I start to wander that way. A bloop from the other end of the alley, and I see a cop car drift by, lights cranking on, one man in blue facing forward, pointing, the other turning his head to me, his eyes squinting, lips pursed.

“I'm not the man you're looking for,” I mumble under my breath. They keep moving. It's an old Jedi mind trick.

A tug at my boxer shorts and I spin around almost flattening some little kid. His eyes go wide, but what does he expect groping a half-naked man in an alley? He's got something in his arms.

“Hey, mister, she yours?”

He's holding my cat, Luscious. She looks sleepy. Hell, she looks dead.

“What the hell,” I gasp, reaching out for her. The garbage I was holding falls to the ground.

“I found her under our back porch, we live right over there,” he says, pointing back over his shoulder.

I stare at him, his short brown hair, tall for his age, blue striped shirt and jeans, Velcroed-on shoes, chocolate or something at the edge of his mouth. He looks like my son, if he'd lived to be ten.

“She kept making these noises, not like a meow, like she was angry or sick.”

“Thank you,” I mutter. “Yes, she's mine. Thank you.”

“It's cool. You okay? You're in your underwear, you know.”

“I know. I'm fine. Thought I lost something, was in the dumpster, you know….”

“Sure, I know. Lost a Spider-Man once. My sister threw it out, stupid monkeyhead.”

“You should get back inside kid, it's cold out here. Shouldn't you be in school?”

“Um…it's Saturday?”

He squints his eyes and stares up at me, wrinkling his nose.

“Oh. Right. Well, thanks. I'd give you something but…no pockets and all that.”

“It's cool.”

He wanders back across the alley, and I turn to go inside. My cat's still warm, but she's also limp in my arms. Sick, tired, drugged, or dying—I don't know. I turn back to the kid, open my mouth to tell him that I may have some old comics in a trunk somewhere, maybe a couple bucks for baseball cards or candy, feeling like I'm maybe eighty years old, but he's around the corner of the garage, and out of sight.

I head back in, cold and stiff as alabaster.

Around the corner a tall thin man with a hawkish nose and not-so-short haircut reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a twenty-dollar bill.

“Here you go kid,” he says. “You did great. Perfect. Tell your mom we're square.”

“Dosvedanya,”
the kid mutters, running off.

“Right.
Dosvedanya,
buddy.”