The Graveyard Shift (14 page)

“In case you’re wondering, this was among a box of goodies removed by the bank before good old Theodore and June sold this place fifty years ago. The thing is, despite the bank’s attempts to contact them, neither of them ever responded. So the box just sat there in a safety deposit box for the last fifty years. And since you’re such a curmudgeonly old prick, nobody ever lived here long enough to lay claim to it. Which is too bad. There’s some seriously cool antique junk in there that’s going to look great in my new office.”

I watched that book gripped in his hand, longing for it to be open upon my floor, pages turning to reveal long forgotten flipbook scenes of happiness past. And there was some part of me in there, I knew. I could feel it. In fact, the album tugged slightly forward and almost fell out of Jack’s fingertips.

“That’s exactly what I thought,” Jack said. And he dropped the photo album to the floor. For a moment I could have kissed him, could have thanked him endlessly for his gesture of peace. But what happened next was done before I had a chance to contemplate stopping it.

Jack buried the tip of his shotgun into the leather face of the photo album. And the book exploded.

“Starting first thing tomorrow morning, I’m scheduling demolition of this shit-heap. And I’ll take it by your utter lack of a response that there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop me.”

It started as
a numbness. As I watched the six inch hole in the album, still smoldering at the edges, I could not believe what he had done. I would have acquiesced to his every request, would have done any manner of vile, degrading haunt he had asked of me for the rest of eternity, had he only allowed me to keep that album. I would have done anything. And to see him so callously obliterate the only physical remains of my memory, without even letting me see them once, that was pure evil. This man, this so called successful artist, had just played executioner to my family. And his axe was pointed at me next.

Jack turned on his heel, began whistling, and did the best he could to strut out of the den. My family lay dead behind him in a heap and he did nothing more to acknowledge them than whistle Dixie.

I shuddered. I literally shuddered. The admixture of emotions within me was too much to contain, let alone describe accurately. The anger, the resentment, the fear of loneliness, and the pent up grief of familial loss: it all coalesced, boiling inside of me until it bubbled up and burst out of my veins like volcanic lava.

My walls shuddered, without my conscious will. I was beyond thinking, beyond even the petty need for vengeance. My body had become an outlet of pure, unchecked damnation. In the front foyer, the weakened floor was the first to go. It fell like a sinkhole into the belly of hell, swallowing most of the room with it.

Jack stumbled onto his backside, groped for an ottoman to regain his footing. He was screaming something unintelligible. He rammed his gun into my floor a half dozen times, but I no longer felt the sting of his blows.

My very bones snapped inside of me, as if under the weight of a mountainous wood press. The upstairs hall was the next to go. The raft
ers and roof joists snapped dirtward into toothpicks, bringing a blanket of shingles down across the whole eastern half of the collapsing house. Windows shattered. Chandeliers and rail spindles were crushed like tinfoil.

Plaster dust hung in the air, thick as a forest fire. Above it all I could hear Jack coughing, even felt him try to harm me once again with his
little stick. He was a dead man. He just didn’t know it yet. And even though I knew it, there was no stopping the inevitable. I had gone too far to turn back, and I would not have wanted to even if I could. Porches and peaks tumbled, my very foundation crumbled like concrete sandwich crackers in the way of the earthquake. And through it all, for the first time ever, I felt nothing. As my body turned to rubble, shaken to death by my own hand, the pain left me. I no longer felt the sting of my torn body, of my maladies both physical and mental.

That was how I knew the end was near. When I saw Jack lying dead, his skull dashed in by a chunk of my decrepit mantle, I felt nothing. Nei
ther remorse nor regret, and not a hint of fulfillment either. But still I was untroubled, because the darkness had come for me. Hazy pitch surrounded my every sense, and I welcomed it openly. My family was waiting for me on the other side. Of this I was certain.

Interlude: They Call Me Mr. Lucky

There’s no great secret to living the good life.

You always hear about how hard it is to find happiness, how much trouble it is to
make it
in the world. I’m talking about that upward struggle to break free of all your shortcomings, make the most of opportunities, and achieve all the dreams you’ve ever dreamed. People make it sound so hard, so damn difficult. But it just isn’t so. At least it doesn’t have to be. That capitalist struggle, that daily grind, it’s all a hoax. The greater the amount of fight a man exerts does not equate to a greater amount of happiness in the long run.

You see, happiness comes from inside you. It’s a fact that I learned almost a decade ago, shortly after high school graduation. While all of my buddies were busy planning flights and moving trucks for college, I realized that not only did I not fit into the mold of the upward struggle, but that I had no real interest in joining it in the first place.

And here I sit, nearly a decade later, happy as a clam in my living room. Today is not unlike yesterday and tomorrow will hold no great surprises. But contrary to what a struggler might think, that is a good thing. Because, you see, there is no stress in my world. Especially at this moment. I am at want of nothing. There is only bliss.

For example, I am currently watching the beauty of nature as it sits on my windowsill. There is a chocolate colored sparrow hunched into the corner on the opposite side of the glass, huddled against the wind. I admire his
resilience, study the beautiful structure of his little bird body. He and his evolutionary brothers and sisters have been braving the winter winds for what, millions of years? And they too live simple lives. Never has a sparrow struggled to meet a mortgage. Nor has one ever gone to court to settle the custody dispute of its babies. The sparrow squats low in the corner, so low that its legs are no longer visible beneath its feathers, which seem to be molting. Its head is tucked into its shivering body. The wind gusts so hard I can hear it against the apartment building.

“It’s beautiful,” I say. “Isn’t it?”

“I saw on TV that they do that when they’re dying,” replies Lindy.

Lindy sits across the room facing me from her perch on a flattened bean bag, in a moth-bitten tank top and pajama bottoms. Lindy isn’t a struggler, either. Not anymore.

“We don’t have a TV,” I counter.

At this she giggles and pulls herself up. “TV’s overrated, anyway.” She’s heading toward the kitchen, but before she does, she makes a beeline toward me. “I’m
gonna go cook us another snack.” She leans in, gives me a quick kiss, and turns toward the door. It brings a smile to my face.

As I said, I am not a man of envy. I have all that I want, all the things that make me happy. Sometimes I wish my parents could see how happy I am, but they’re unwilling to see it. They worry about me because I don’t have a college education or a steady job. They think I’m unhappy. They’re strugglers.

Beside me, on a foldup TV tray, sits the only photograph I have of my parents. In truth, it’s the only material possession I care about. My folks smile out at me from their brass frame, a reminder of their own youthful happiness. Dad still has some of his hair and it’s combed sideways over his scalp. His mustache is still thick as it was the last time I saw it, if slightly darker. His shirt is pressed and clean, just like it always was when he left for the office every morning, patting me on the head as I crunched a mouthful of cereal at the kitchen table. His pats were heavy. Always heavy. He has a hand on each of our shoulders in the picture. I briefly wonder if Mom remembers his hand being as heavy on hers as it was on mine.

Mom looks so pretty. Her face is thinner in the picture than it ever would be again. And her smile is thin and hopeful. Her hair is long and thick, a sleek cascade of auburn falling down over her shoulders. She has a thin neck, even longer and thinner than mine, and the kind of cheekbones that one would expect to find on the face of a Disney princess. Her eyes look beautiful, wide and dark. I’ve always thought that when I look at the picture, because I remember how much trouble she took to make them look right. She took almost an hour to put her makeup on that morning. She fussed and fussed. And when you look at
the sun-faded photo, now over twenty years old, you can’t see a trace of any bruise.

I’m in the photo too, at about age eight, but I don’t notice much exceptional about myself. I see gapped front teeth and a Mickey Mouse tee shirt on a kid that doesn’t really look anything like me now. But that’s okay, because I don’t keep the photo around to look at myself. I keep it to remind me of the happy couple that watch over me now as I sit in my armchair. The people in the picture look happy. That’s how I like to remember them. The glass that holds this snapshot memory in place has a crack spider-webbing its way across one corner, but none of us inside seem to mind.

My stomach gives a rumble. It’s upset. My side itches. I reach around with my left hand for a quick scratch. In the process, I knock a crusty spoon off the arm of the chair, but I think nothing of it because the itch has been taken care of. My stomach, on the other hand, is still a little queasy, so I make my way to the bathroom.

As I get up, I navigate past a small forest of empty bottles, each standing tall and proud, each a glass monument dedicated to a specific moment of happiness enjoyed the night prior, or the week prior. I can’t recall who exactly had been here the night before, but no doubt they would be back again. Lindy and I gather friends like we gather bottles and sometimes it gets hard to keep track of things. But one thing is certain, we have true friends, people who see the world as we do, who know that happiness is not something that has to come at the cost of a pummeled soul. They join us, sometimes just for a night, sometimes for week stretches at a time. Happiness
is knowing that you are not alone. And here, we are never alone.

Stepping into the bathroom, I see that the tub’s been sprayed with vomit. Some might be disgusted by that, but I crack a smile, because I find that a party isn’t a real party until someone empties their guts. I wonder if it was Lindy. She can’t handle herself the way she used to. I love to tease her about that.

My skin’s feeling irritated. I need to splash some water over my face, but turning the sink’s handle yields nothing but a sputtering cough from the faucet. I guess I forgot to pay the water bill again, which is fine. This isn’t our first dance without water. You’d be surprised how long you can go without a shower, and as the fluorescent bulb above me gives a flickering wink, it’s a reminder that at least I’ve got power. I’d rather miss a shower or two than be alone in the dark.

The itch again.
And my stomach. I glance up in the mirror above the sink and flash myself a smile. My teeth are the color of butter, but that might just be the light. One is missing. I have the remnants of a black eye. When did I get that? Was it from Marcos? He overreacted. I didn’t rip him off. Was it from the pawn shop owner? He never did catch me, that fat old man. I had the last laugh.

The itch.
I tear into my arm with jagged nails and feel release, if only for a moment. Is Lindy still cooking? She’s taking forever. My stomach is killing me, and she’s taking forever.

I topple over some of my bottle forest as I step back into the living room. I stagger. My hand plants itself on an end table full of dusty crop circles, the ghosts of items long since pawned off. But I don’t need lamps or vases or television sets. Those won’t bring me happiness. Those won’t bring me bliss. Those are all just part of the struggle.

I float into the kitchen, where the cabinets are wide open and empty, cereal boxes litter the floor, and the table is a sea of crusty spoons. Lindy’s huddled over the stove, cooking, slouched shoulders pointed away from me. She’s like a bony gargoyle with matted hair and pockmarks, a statuette protecting the only burner on the stove that still works. She’s hiding from me. She’s taking more than her fair share. I know she is. She always does. She always says that I didn’t have to suck any cocks to get what we have, that she earned it fair and square. But it’s not fair. It’s not square. The itching. My stomach.

That bitch. I see it—a fresh track mark in her
arm, that glazed look in her eyes that I wish could be mine. But the spoon in her hand is not for her, it’s for me. She’s got the rubber band. The rust-kissed needle. It’s warm going in. Everything’s okay.

I don’t remember sitting back in my chair, but here I am. My stomach pain is gone. Lindy’s spread out on the couch. I feel like I’ve been kissed on the forehead by God and lain down for a nap. This is happiness. This is the good life. There is no struggle here. There is only
warmth, and safety, and beauty. Outside the weather is cold, and biting, and the chocolate colored sparrow on my windowsill has lain down as well.

I close my eyes. I lean back my head. There is no struggle here. There is only bliss.

Life and Limb

1

George Sandoval lived in a world of dust.

From the moment he pok
ed his timecard into the punching machine until the second he peeled off his clothes and climbed into bed, George’s entire existence was one of filth and drifting particles. His clothes were perpetually covered in a microscopic layer of finely sanded dust. Even after spraying himself with an air hose before leaving work, his pants still created a small cloud every time he dropped them to the floor of his bedroom.

But
while his work may have been dirty—which, indeed it was—George was a happy man. In fact, he was a company man, through and through. He arrived early to work every evening, eager to begin his dusty shift at the plant. And he was especially early tonight, because tonight was special. Dangerous, yes, but special.

As George stepped into the factory, his nose was assailed by the familiar, pervasive odor of acrylic pain
t and industrial adhesive. The smell didn’t bother him much anymore. The building had been cleared by the Health Department, but even with the government’s stamp of approval George didn’t mind the scent of chemicals. It reminded him of the beautiful things he created.

With the sounds of giant fans whirring thirty fee
t overhead, venting dust particulates into the outside world, George walked along the steel-aisle-lined corridor approaching his work station. He passed a few familiar faces, some wearing particle respirators, and waved. He did not stop to say hello.

George loved his job, which was reflected in the state of his workspace. His personal station was always tidy, a cutaway concrete cubby in the rear of the warehouse that housed two ten-foot worktables, a jigsaw puzzle of fiberglass body parts splayed across the top of them, and an old Craftsman toolbox in the corner that stood nearly as tall as he.

Overhead, halogen lights droned their never ending static song, illuminating George’s little corner of the windowless warehouse in bleached light. It did not matter that it was dark outside; the interior of the factory remained the same, night or day. The evening shift lived in the same, buzzing white world that the day shift did. They breathed the same epoxy perfumed air and listened to the same sounds of buzzing grinders, spinning belt sanders, and hissing paint booths. The only difference between the day shift and George’s shift at the mannequin factory was that the ratio of humans to plastic humanoid models was greatly diminished. Where the day shift was constantly bustling with over a hundred moving employee bodies, the night crew was much quieter. During the evening hours only a dozen workers manned the bare-bones crew of the factory. The mechanical music of constant production still played on, but at a much lower volume. And that suited George just fine.

George wasn’t much of a people-person, which was probably why he felt so at ease spending his nights tucked away in the rear of the building. On the very best nights he wouldn’t interact with a single other person. But that didn’t happen often since the night manager, Eddie, made his rounds at midnight. Most nights Eddie was there like clockwork, but on rare occasion he would simply never show. On those nights, George surmised the man was likely snoozing in his office. But, Eddie or no Eddie, George was alone almost the entirety of his every shift. He didn’t even bother joining the other workers outside for cigarettes when the break time bell sounded.

Due to his position as Development Designer, George was afforded the most privacy of anyone in the factory who did not come to work in a suit and tie. And at night, Eddie was the only man present who wasn’t wearing dirty jeans. While much of the other labor was divided among dozens of paint-booth operators, mold-slatherers, and production sanders out on the open floor, Development was a singly manned department. George had been with Fulcrum Industries for fourteen years, after spending almost a decade as an auto body mechanic. Here, he spent his time designing custom mannequin alteration prototypes, for those corporate customers who needed more than the standard designs. For example, he had just designed a specially shaped hand to display a new line of cellphones.

The transition from auto body repairman to mannequin sculptor had been seamless given his experience in fiberglass and plastic fabrication, and if he played his cards right, he would be looking forward to a nice retirement package in another seven years. Not that he would
want
to leave Fulcrum. As was noted before, George loved his work. But even more so, he loved his special projects. He was the only designer, and he chose to work at night with good reason.

George slid the tool chest key from the pocket of his jeans and pushed it into the lock of the steel toolbox. There was a click and the drawers all rattled as the latches slipped free. George removed a sanding sponge and a handful of tiny chisels from the top drawer before approaching the larger of his two worktables. He ran a hand across the top of the familiar table and instantly felt himself relax. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. A smile tugged one corner of his mustache upward and George closed his eyes. This was one of his favorite times of the night: that peaceful minute of anticipation before he set out to creating, sculpting one of his lovelies. It was something special.

When George opened his eyes he was still smiling. He eyed the miscellaneous body parts spread across his table. Nearly a dozen bone-white, plastic forearms sat in a line, each shaped slightly different, with a hole drilled in the palm, to allow for the security wire of a cellphone display. There were elbows and knees, disembodied calves stacked on one side of the space, and there were even a few smooth, white heads, gracile and featureless, perched on the far edge, watching him.

George picked up the nearest forearm, inspected it to find that yesterday’s glaze coat had dried, and set it back down satisfactorily. He had successfully produced ten unique prototypes in the last four days, one of which his manager would select for mass production. And of that he was proud. He’d completed a five-day project in just four, which meant tha
t tonight there would finally be time to finish his
other
project. It was time to work on Rosa.

George raised the stained sheet that hung over the face of the largest table and gingerly lifted out the torso that had been hidden beneath. There were arms and legs down there in the darkness too.

The mannequin torso did not reflect the light, but seemed to absorb it with its matte alabaster finish. George laid the torso gently on the tabletop and reached down to retrieve the rest of his lovely Rosa’s fiberglass body parts. He spent the next ten minutes carefully tapping her hinged limbs together, moving from the trunk outward. Her arms were articulated by three joints, one each in wrist, elbow, and shoulder. Her legs, however, were one solid piece each, joined by a swivel joint at the hip. When George stepped back, he put a hand to his mouth and felt the corners of his eyes become wet.

She was beautiful, his Rosa. Her arms and legs were unlike the limbs of any other mannequin in his station. Hell, they were unlike any other mannequin’s in the history of the factory. Because he had custom shaped the molds himself. Instead of the sleek, futuristic, robot shape that every dummy in the factory possessed, George’s Rosa had the musculature and tone of an actual human woman, and a beautiful one at that. She was a work of art. And George was an artist, a sculptor of highest caliber.

“Oh how beautiful you are, my lovely girl,” George said with tears in his eyes.

In all honesty, the mannequin was an impressively designed sight, the result of many hours of craftsmanship and care, but she would have been even more beautiful if she’d had a head.

“Soon enough, my lovely,” George promised. “Soon enough.”

George produced an azure skull from beneath the table and set it down. At least, at first glance, it appeared to be a skull. It was a navy blue fiberglass mold and possessed sharp, jutting edges in its cheeks and the hollows of its eyes. George turned the thing over, so that he could examine the interior—the part where resin would eventually be poured—and he gave a happy sigh.

George reached for his favorite steel chisel, paused to scratch a horrible itch through the arm of his shirt, and closed his eyes. He referred to his memory, and when he opened them again he stuck a chisel inside the mold of Rosa’s head and began to work.

Almost four hours passed with
George hunched over his station. He tapped and chiseled, scraped and smoothed, stopping every thirty minutes or so to stretch his back. Instinct called his attention to the analog clock hanging on the pale wall behind him. It was thirty minutes until midnight, the time when Eddie would be making his rounds. A fiery stab shot through his forearm. George cursed and raked at it with a wince. When the pain finally subsided, he laid the chisel down and stood back to admire his work.

The mold was done. All that was left was to pour the resin. So he did. And he’d barely gotten his latex gloves off when he heard approaching footsteps. Eddie was early.

George looked quickly from his station entrance to Rosa, standing in all her headless glory beside him. The breath caught in his chest and his eyes widened. She could not be discovered. Not now. Not when he was so close to being done. Not when she would be joining the others tonight.

George knew that Rosa would not fit in her normal space beneath the table, not fully assembled. In the hall, fo
otfalls hit concrete with swelling percussion, nearing the corner. George scanned the space frantically, panic gripping him. Finally, his eyes settled on the draped sheet covering the front of his table. He ripped the ragged drape free of its staples and hurled it over Rosa’s unabashed form.

“
Georgie boy, what’s crackin’?” Eddie cocked both of his index fingers at him, looking like a middle-aged, middle-management version of The Fonz with a combover.

“You—you’re early tonight,” George stammered.

“Gotta keep you on your toes, my man,” Eddie said, crossing the space between them. “Gotta make sure you’re not taking a siesta back here, you know what I mean?” His smile was friendly. “How’s it going with those UT&T hands?”

“Hands?”

“Yeah, hands. You know, that little thing you’re supposed to be working on this week? You do remember what you’re getting paid for don’tcha, buddy?”

George blushed, gesturing down to the table, where the dozen prototypes sat next to the freshly cast mold of Rosa’s head.

“Oh, buddy. These are beautiful. Seriously, man. Nicely done.” Eddie picked up two of them, inspecting them closely in the light. “You’ve outdone yourself. Are they ready to crate? I’d love to ship them off for selection and approval first thing in the morning. Walter’s crawling up my ass to get this project wrapped up because we’ve got two more cell vendors waiting in line.”

“Thank you.” George nodded sheepishly. “Yes. Yes, sir. They’ll be ready for packing tonight.”

Eddie beamed, patted George on the shoulder. “Good man. Just drop it on my desk before you leave, huh?”

“Sure, sure,” George said.

“And hey,” Eddie said, “since you did a bang up job on these and don’t really have anything else to work on, feel free to leave early.”

“Oh. Okay, thanks.” George scratched softly at his arm. A deep ruby stain the size of a qu
arter had blossomed on the baby blue cotton.

Eddie sat the limbs back on the table, winked at George and turned to leave. His eyes lingered a moment too long on George, or rather the space behind him. “You got it, buddy.”

George had almost allowed himself a moment of relief before Eddie paused and spun back around. “Say, George…what the hell’s with the Halloween costume in the corner?”

“What? Oh, that? That’s nothing.”

“Nothing? Dude, we don’t have any full-body prototypes slated for you. What you got under there? And what is that, a head?”

Now George began having wild thoughts. He could not be found out. Not so close to the end.

“Okay, you got me,” George said. “It’s a surprise.”

“A surprise?
You mean you’ve been working on a side-project?”

“Uh, yes?”

Eddie narrowed his eyes. He tilted his head to one side, maybe trying to catch a glimpse through one of the sheet’s threadbare spots.

“You know what I see here, George?”

George winced, preparing for the worst. He swallowed hard.

“A self-starter,” Eddie continued, with a smile returning to his face. “
Y’know, I’ll be honest with you. Some of the night crew guys think you’re weird as shit. But me, I know a motivated worker when I see one. Keep up the good work, man. Looking forward to seeing whatever that is you’ve got brewing there.”

Eddie clapped the table, gave another wink for good measure, and stepped back into the hall. As Eddie’s f
ootsteps echoed softly away, dust settled on the table top.

George wiped a hand across his brow, which was now coated with a layer of nervous sweat. His palms were clammy and all at once he felt too hot. The air in his lungs was too heavy. He took a series of deep breaths and had to steady himself on the edge of the table.

George unbuttoned the top button of his work shirt and rolled up the sleeves. The vents on the floor pushed a cool draft upward and when this caught George’s skin he sighed appreciatively. Already he felt better. He looked over to Rosa and could not help it when a chuckle escaped his lips. He hadn’t been caught. That was by far the closest call he’d had in the last six years—since he’d started work on his lovelies. It was sloppy of him to come so close, especially tonight. Obviously, his mind was preoccupied.