South Village (Ash McKenna) (2 page)

—from KMFDM’s “Dogma”

I
killed a guy.

The woman behind the glass partition is glaring at me like something scraped off a boot and left to rot in the sun. This makes me afraid I actually did just confess to killing someone, out loud. I pause for a moment as if the words are hanging in the air. I wonder if anyone around me is staring.

Because it’s true. I did kill a guy. And some days, it buzzes in the back of my throat like I might blurt it out at any moment.

Standing in line at the store:
Debit please, and also I am a murderer
.

Waiting for the bus:
This is taking forever. Just like my eventual damnation
.

Making small talk:
Portland was lovely, except for the homicide, and then fleeing in order to protect the woman I was falling in love with.

No one is staring. The temperature of the room hasn’t changed. Maybe it’s my brain messing with me. Something about being here, needling my guilt center.

“Sir.”

It was an accident, and a good lawyer could probably argue it was self-defense. Though I’m sure I ruined that by burying the body off a hiking trail in the woods. And justifiable or not, I turned off a light that can’t go back on.

Sometimes I wonder if people can see it, just by looking at me. Like those stereogram images—the psychedelic prints where if you stare at them long enough you see a bird or a peace sign floating in 3D. But when you look at me, instead of a bird or a peace sign, you see a dark gash across my soul. Something that oozes hatred and regret.

“Sir!”

I snap back to the gray walls, the worn green carpet. The blue-white hum of the fluorescent lights. The woman behind the glass partition is still peering at me through Coke-bottle glasses mounted to her boxy face, slate hair twisted into small ringlets. The black nametag with white lettering affixed to her lime-green blouse says: Rhonda.

“Sorry,” I tell her.

“Forms,” Rhonda says, gesturing toward the opening between the bottom of the glass partition and the counter. I slide the bundle of paperwork through. She flips through it, eyes scanning the boxes. “Hmm. Ashley.” Rolling the name around her mouth, the way most people do when they first hear it.

“That’s me,” I tell her. “Modern-day boy named Sue.”

“Love that song.”

Rhonda smiles at me, her face suddenly smoother around the edges.

We’re friends now, it seems.

“Identification, including primary and secondary,” she says.

I hand over my driver’s license, photocopies of my Social Security card and birth certificate, a credit card, and the Georgia library card I picked up yesterday.

The library card was the clincher. When I left New York nine months ago, I didn’t change my legal address. So now that I’m applying for a passport in the state that is not my legal state of residence, I need to provide extra identification. Seems like an easy enough hoop to jump through that I wonder about the point of it.

Rhonda looks up. “Do you have proof of your upcoming trip?”

Next through the opening goes a copy of my plane ticket to Prague for two weeks from now. She looks it over and says, “Make sure you go to the bone church.”

“Bone church?”

“Sedlec Ossuary in Kutná Hora. It’s beautiful.”

“Sure.”

I repeat that in my head, try to commit it to memory. Truth is, I have zero plans on sightseeing and only a weak promise of a job, working for a company owned by the family of an old friend. The real reason I’m looking to leave the country is because of the dead guy.

It’s not like the cops are hunting for me. I’m not a fugitive. But I’m living on the edge of something sharp and I’ve always wanted to see more of the world. If there was ever a time to do it, this is it.

I wonder if the Czech Republic extradites to the United States. That’s worth looking into, probably.

Rhonda alternates between clicking on her keyboard and slamming a stamp onto my form, seemingly at random, and with a level of force that makes it seem like she is very angry at the paper.

“I almost forgot,” she says. “Photos?”

I forgot about them too, but there they are, resting under my palm. I slide them across without looking at them. I looked, briefly, after they were taken at the drug store down the block. I barely recognize my face, heavy with a bushy beard I grew out after leaving Portland. Because I thought looking different would be a good thing. Like a beard would be a cheap disguise. It certainly makes me less uncomfortable whenever I pass a cop.

Though the real truth of it is, I don’t like looking at myself.

At least, it seems, I grow a pretty good beard, even though the fucking thing gets damp and itchy in the humidity.

“You should receive your passport within a few days of your trip,” Rhonda says. “They usually show up in seven to eight days. Sometimes six, depends on how busy things are at processing. As for the fee, for the expediting processing and overnight delivery…”

I slide a money order for the exact amount through the opening.

She takes it, nods, and adds it to the stack. After that she gives me back my license, library card, and credit card. She forces out a tired smile. “Have a safe trip, sir. And don’t forget about the bone church. Sedlec Ossuary.”

“Got it. I won’t.”

I turn to leave. The room is mostly empty. There are a few benches and only two other people waiting. Standing by the door, arms folded, is a security guard. He wasn’t there when I walked in. Big guy, bald head gleaming in the harsh light, face like he wakes up looking for things to be angry about. We make accidental eye contact, which turns into prolonged eye contact.

At first I think it’s just one of those awkward things that happens with strangers, and after a moment we’ll look away and the moment will dissipate like smoke. But then I think: Does he recognize me?

Did my name come up in some computer system and the woman rang a silent alarm? Did she give him a hand signal? Is this the moment my life comes crashing down around my shoulders?

The wave hits.

Roaring in my ears, pulling me down into the dark. Filling my eyes and nose and throat, choking me. Panic prods me with a pointed finger. Oxygen stops flowing to my lungs. I will them to start back up, but they’re like a dead engine. I’m tumbling in the dark, can’t tell up from down.

The guard comes rushing at me.

Sorry, Dad. Sorry, Chell.

I’m dizzy, about to fold to the ground, when the guard grabs me under the arm. He pulls me up and asks, “You okay, kiddo?”

The tumbling stops. The ground stabilizes under me. I look around. At him, and Rhonda, and the people in the waiting room. Everyone staring at me. Everything is suddenly very quiet.

I nod. “Yeah. Just… tired. Sorry.”

“You need a hand? Need me to call a cab for you or something?”

I shake my head at him, push away. I stumble outside, pass the elevator bank and crash through the door to the staircase, nearly fall down the three flights. When I get outside I fall to my knees and vomit. I’m not sure what I vomit up since I haven’t eaten today. It’s mostly liquid.

My system sufficiently cleared out, I lean back against the brick wall. The morning heat drapes over me like a down blanket. It feels nice, and will for another minute or two, the way it does when you leave a building with robust air conditioning.

I open up my messenger bag and pull out the water bottle wrapped in duct tape. Unscrew the top, wash my mouth out with a little whiskey and spit, take a big gulp. I get a quarter of the bottle down. It’s sharp and a little metallic.

After a few seconds I take another sip, feel it wrapping my synapses in gauze.

Well. That went much better than I expected.

A
fter a half hour of walking, it’s hot like I didn’t know hot could be. It gets hot in New York but not like this. Not like you’re slowly being roasted alive by something that really wants to see you dead.

There’s not a single cloud in the sky, the industrial edge of Atlanta washed in a brilliant blue. It’s nice to look at, at least. I try to focus on that, and not on the t-shirt sodden with sweat and clinging like another layer of skin.

The gas station is packed with cars, people getting off or getting on the expressway. I keep an eye out for employees. A few people told me this is a great place to catch rides, as long as the manager doesn’t see you and toss you out. I look for the cars pointed toward the southbound entrance ramp and scan faces, look for someone kindly.

My mouth still tastes like vomit so I consider going in for a pack of gum or a bottle of water, but it’s going to be a long journey back and I want to get started. I sneak another swig from my hillbilly flask. The duct tape is fraying, showing peeks of the brown liquid sloshing around inside.

I survey the area and settle on an older guy, t-shirt and tan cargo shorts, tattoos sleeved down both arms. Buddy Holly glasses and a cowboy hat. He’s gassing up a metallic blue car that looks like an electric razor.

His cowboy hat looks a little like my old cowboy hat and I feel a pang of loss. I really liked that hat.

I come around the side of his car and ask, “Headed south?”

He smiles like we’re old friends. “Yes sir.” His voice a big, booming Southern drawl.

“Looking for company?”

He frowns, probably because that sounds like a pick-up line, so I tell him, “Just looking to get a lift in the general direction of Sterling. Far south as I can get. I can spot for some gas.”

The guy shrugs. “Hop on in, son. I can get you at least part of the way.”

I climb into the passenger seat as he jams the handle into the pump. The gas cap makes a hard clicking sound as he tightens it. The gray interior of the car is immaculate. The car isn’t new but it smells that way. The guy climbs inside and starts it up and I’m blasted by cool air. Frigid and lovely.

He extends his hand. “Bill.”

I take it. His handshake is like a vice. “Johnny.”

He starts the car, pulls out, and points us at I-85.

“Well Johnny, how does an able-bodied young man like yourself end up shaking down strangers for rides at a gas station?”

Ah fuck. I was hoping he was the strong, silent type. Who the fuck is chatty
and
wears a cowboy hat? I tell him, “Had to run an errand and couldn’t get a ride back. Sometimes you got to get creative.”

Bill hits the on-ramp and guns the engine, sliding into traffic, weaving between cars until he’s in the left lane, where his foot turns to lead. The odometer pushes up past 80 to keep up with the flow of traffic. Speed limits down here often seem like suggestions. I’ve got three hundred miles to cover, so this is encouraging.

“I’m headed to Savannah,” he says. “I can get you as far down as I-95. How’s that for you, son?”

“That’s most of the trip,” I tell him. “More than I could have hoped for.”

He taps at the radio in the dash, flipping through until AC/DC comes on. He puts it on low enough so we can sustain a conversation.

“New Yorker, huh?” he asks.

“Originally, yes,” I tell him.

“I can tell from the accent. It’s not heavy like in those mobster movies, but it’s there. Always wanted to get up to New York. Never got the chance. If I do, what’s the first thing I should do?”

Turn right back around. That city is fucking poison. It took my dad. It took Chell. It damn near tried to kill me. Though truthfully, I was contributing to the effort.

“Go to Mamoun’s on MacDougal. Get a shawarma. Best thing you’ll ever eat.”

“I have no idea what that even is, but I’ll remember it.”

We drive in silence for a bit. It’s a comfortable silence. Brian Johnson sings to us about the dirt-cheap rate of dirty deeds. I’m chilly, nearly shivering, like the sweat on my shirt is cooling into ice. I savor it because eventually it’s going to end and I’ll be back out in the heat.

“So what do you do, son?” he asks.

People call me an amateur private investigator, though I like to think of myself as a blunt instrument. Point me at a job and I get it done. Or at least, I used to. Right now, learning how to be a chef, because I’d like to have a skill that doesn’t involve beating the shit out of people.