An Improper Asteroid

The three soldiers sat around a little white box no bigger than a grapefruit. Two of them were afraid; one was fascinated.

“Either of you ever read that ancient story by Arouet? The one that survived?” Millard asked.

“Arouet? Who the hell is that?” Johns replied gruffly.

“I think he means Marie. Why didn’t you just say Marie? That’s what she’s called nowadays.” Shayne interjected.

“It was the first word that came to mind. Sorry. Anyway, Micromegas, you read that one Johns? He wrote Candadidd too, I think.”

“What the hell does that have to do with this?”

“Generally, Johns, that sort of thing is revealed after I know whether or not you have read the relevant text, so I can better present what I’m thinking.” Millard explained cordially.

“Don’t bother with it.”

Millard nodded. Half an hour before their impromptu powwow, Commander Millard Jones had been pacing over metal grating where a tumble of dead bodies, his former subordinates, lay before him. They had been alive recently initiating a lockdown, and insofar as he could tell, the little white box had nothing to do with it. When the other two arrived, they looked aghast: after he had shown them the relevant report, Johns scoffed and placed himself on a railing, while Shayne would only stand and agree to the fact that their oxygen supplies had been cut off. The obvious and conclusive evidence was not enough.

“We next, Millard?” said Johns. Private Johns was very often a confusion to people – his personality had always been stereotyped with that of a stolid, squat, and Napoleonic man, yet he was gangly and tall, the fleshy remonstrance to a wood puppet. The situation – an unbelievably high-yield asteroid which garnered more than a little political tension given opportunists and the lack of nearby government– did not help to mollify this.

“If by that you mean each and everyone one of us, possibly.” Millard shrugged.

“I meant me and Shayne.”

“Of course. Is it the idea of a conspiracy theory that gets you off, or is it good old antagonism? Or something else entirely? Tell me everything about your childhood, Private Johns. Here, let me get my signpad and you go have yourself a sitdown. We’ll get right to the bottom of this. ” The tone very much suggested that Millard, in his estimation, was already daintily wading there.

Before Millard could properly play with Johns, Leftenant Shayne coughed. It was nothing strange or serious, a clearing of soggy bits, and yet the both of them were instantly quieted. She was not a beautiful woman, too wide and masculine, and being business associates at best, the men were primarily concerned as to their own fate if the medical officer should be the next to join the void.

“We need to get a timetable going and a strategy.” Millard looked to Shayne. “No word yet on the channel?”

“Nothing.” she replied. “Just casual chatter. The closest ship is en route from a Midsec research vessel from Tsurna’s orbit – weirdly close. They said they’d be here in thirty minutes, though I don’t know how that’s possible.” Johns laughed as he spoke.

“Midsec? Cover that thing in sticky charges, link it to your neuro, and work on a ransom. They don’t play law-like, and they know they can get away with it unless they stand to lose something. I mean, I assume you broadcasted our current problem, yeah? Midsec Enterprises would be happy to burn you and take off with it. Or just take the whole station. Between their mercs and politicians, they’ve got no shortage of believable stories.”

Millard nodded, his repartee cut short by surprise. Well, he thought. He’s a rousing idiot, but apparently a little lucidity can leak through.

“And what about the box?” Shayne asked. Johns shivered, possibly. Millard stared at Shayne for a moment before saying something.

“That’s for later. We take the immediate priorities – I mean, this thing gave us a pretty big timeframe, didn’t it?”

“But what if –“

“Imagine this – if it comes first, we can’t do anything. If Midsec comes first, we can knock two birds with one stone. What did you tell them, anyway?”

“Medical emergency. Nothing else.”

“So they don’t know about the box?”

“No.”

Millard stared at her. Such boring woman, he thought.

“Millard.” Johns coughed.

“Yes?”

“I don’t buy it. You, out here, overseeing this. The head researcher. Fine coincidence. And your men -”

“Look, Private Johns.” Millard interrupted casually. “You’re new to my unit, though obviously experienced - I’m not a cut military man. I take note that you don’t address me properly, and I could care less, really – except when I have to listen to shit like this. Here we are, in the middle of what is in all likelihood a planets’ turd, and you want some sort of guarantee that I’m not involved. I couldn’t show you even if I wanted to. And as for being here, I’m a soldier with a pretty prefix. I was told to be here. I followed protocol on that man. If I want to keep those unbelievable benefits, I jump as high as I am asked. You should know all of this, Johns. You’ve been in the military.”

Johns stared at him, unmoving, glaring, his face a gummier shade of red, his lips eager to twitch but finding hold against the teeth.

“I just don’t get it. What was that ship you came out on, and I still don’t buy that he–“

“Look, there’s nothing. News from the ansible, even my inside sources, don’t know what this is. If they do, they’re very, very coy about it. Either way, the best we can do is be cautious without being overbearing. You understand, Johns?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“I don’t quite follow, though.” Shayne said. “Too many things for a simple coincidence.” Millard’s sigh seemed directed at Shayne.

“That’s probably because it is just a regular coincidence. Through government sectors and private alike, we have a variety of interests acting towards a variety of objectives. We’re like building blocks, clearly defined in our attributes, to be set up to best complete those objectives. And here we are. Looking at this and asking why we’re here is no different than getting starry-eye at your neighbor at the lounge and asking him, like a devout astrologer, ‘why are YOU here’. It’s nonsense. But if we have free time, by all means, look into it. I don’t expect anything but I like surprises, mostly.”

That should keep them, Millard thought. No reason for snot to clog the pipe.

“Still…” Shayne stuttered.

“What?” Johns asked testily. “What do you need to know? We’re not getting out alive.”

“You don’t know that.” said Millard.

“You think that little demonstration is just going to blow over? That box isn’t anything human. This is before you shot someone.” Millard raised an eyebrow.

“How do you know it’s not human, exactly?”

“What, like we could have made anything like that? Look –“ Johns hopped off the railing, “that title of engineer wasn’t there for a pretty little title buff. I was planning on doing research after this. Chomp the mandatory three years in and never look back.”

“And this isn’t anything we could have done?”

“I want to give you a timeframe estimate, but I can’t. It doesn’t use any parts I’m familiar with. It doesn’t click. It doesn’t whirr. It’s a little hallucination box.”

Millard mulled this over. No, he thought, it’s not quite just a little hallucination box. In fact –

“I know why Midsec is here. Probably.”

“How?” Shayne and Johns asked in near unison.

“Put the times and the orbits together. Whenever we opened –“

“It’s in the dead center of something that should have been a moon, at least. I doubt it.” said Johns.

“Assuming that your conspiracy is a nutty fable to pass the time, this one makes perfect sense. It projected something that Midsec picked up. As to who, or where, I don’t really know. Suffice it to say that Midsec had the drop, since they’re the transport for this planet.”

“I still don’t buy it.”

“Good. And you, Leftenant Shayne? In fact, you had better hope this is a conspiracy. Come our release, I won’t be the only one listening to this insubordination.”

“Nothing, sir.”

Millard sighed again.

A week before this, Millard and Shayne and Johns were casually acquainted. He had his orders, they had their rounds. The mine was more than capable of fitting the overlarge crew, researchers and miners and military alike. Gravity was so slight that it could often be ignored. Magnetized shoes and metal walkways were the preferred method of transport, though a passenger cart system had been made. Millard sat in his room, breathing heavily and finishing a simulated sex program when his comm lit up.

“Lambda complex. Immediate assistance requested. NL.” Non-lethal, he thought. A fight?

After suiting up and calming down, he walked briskly to the Lambda complex. The magnetic shoes chirped and thunked like birds being nailed to a tree. I like how it was in the one place I’d never bet on a fight, he thought. I can just imagine those guys slapping eachother with their fists. Rotten fighters, I’d bet.

He entered the Lambda complex, one of the many cores in the asteroid, and noticed a small pool of blood. Before him, in a little control room, a group of people gathered around a door. He walked up and confidently brushed them aside. A huddle of people, all of them clearly lost in the moment, gasped as he curtly moved them aside. Upon entering the claustrophobic room, he saw one of the researchers huddled in a corner. Johns stood opposite him, having just finished saying something.

“No. Go away.”

Johns turned and smiled. He slapped Millard good-naturedly on the back and walked off.

“You figure it out, you let me know.”

“What’s the status, Private Johns? What happened?”

“Oh. Guy says he found something. He dropped a few of his marbles, and now he’s pining to get them back. But, like, with blood. Another researcher – Barnes, I think it was, received the first and only blow. Then he, uh, Elliot? Right? -” Someone behind apparently nodded.”- sprinted in here, without locking the door, and, well…” Darn, Millard thought. No vampire jokes.

“Elliot. What’s the problem? Why’d you do that to Barnes?”

“No.”

“That’s a pretty poor answer. We’re not going to take anything or hurt you. Please, tell me what happened.”

“No.”

“Please, Eliot. It’s not like we’re threatening your mother or anything.” Not very smooth, Millard thought. Elliot turned his head and looked up in disgust.

“Congratulations Eliot, you just improved your vocabulary, sort of. Now, tell me, please what went on here.” He drew his hands to his hips as if anxiously waiting for an answer, though it was clear that he was preparing for the bolt-gun. The mine couldn’t have any chemical-burning ammunition (oxygen being flammable and all), so they had to rely on these weak metal-puking pieces with mediocre-sounding names. It fired metal from a magnet, and not very fast compared to standard ammunition. Still, it could do the job while keeping collateral damage to a minimum. As Millards’ hands moved, someone tapped him on the back. He turned and briefly shook his head, as if to say, like I’m going to need this.

The next few seconds blurred. The man sprinted at him, no words but heavy grunting, and held a little white box above his head. Millard reacted with trained grace, flipping the scientist neatly like an experienced chef flipping a pancake. The scientist was unphased and tried to redouble his efforts. The surprise rebound worked and Millard could only block the swing of the object. It bounced off the mesh of his suit with a little puck. Things took a decidedly worse turn in Millards estimation when, knocked back by this charge, the lithe man reached for his pistol. A struggle broke out while Johns ran up to assist him. The three men struggled, red hands from strained grip, and in two pulls, the scientist named Elliot relented. The bolt gun had gone discharged into Eliots’ thigh. Blood poured out of the hole and onto the metal grating.

“Oh, shit. Commander Millard, that’s an arter-.”

“Private Shayne, this is Commander Millard.” He radioed. “We need you immediately. Do you copy?”

Her assent bubbled into his headset and he sighed. The wound entrance was small and the exit was nonexistent. In the few minutes until Shaynes arrived, he tried to find the artery, prying into the writhing Elliot, holding his legs and try to find a little fleshy tube to clamp. The crowd watched anxiously, while a few of the absent-minded wandered off. The wrestling continued, but as his resistance weakened, so did Millards prying. He couldn’t find it. Eliot’s struggling gasps were now little whimpers and stuttered breaths, all culminating in one great sigh, done, relaxed and at peace. The squeak-thunk of boots came a few minutes later, and in them was a breathless Shayne. She pulled out a little dark object that fit neatly over her hand, and placed it on the wound.

“Femoral was partly cut.” Shayne said. Millard nodded.

“I see. You need to –“

The little white box that the dead man gripped slid out of his hands, and promptly floated to eye-level with Millard. A dull white light reflected off the amazed faces. The only sound was rustling suits and breathing. Millard backed up slowly and into the crowd – the box followed evenly. He moved slowly, almost lazily – in a few moments Millard slumped to the floor. Oh, he thought as he fell, what a funny little box.

A week later, Millard’s memories began to form as they had before. Clarity of mind returned to him in the mess hall as he poked at a drifting algae roll. He stared at his hands lazily, a crumbling film of blood upon them. Well, he thought. This is interesting. A quick peek on his neuro-interface displayed the various cameras that littered the mine, every nook and labyrinth passage under watch. Slaughter had taken place in the Lambda complex. A few had managed to escape and die elsewhere. Some looked half-eaten. Shayne and Johns were still alive, wandering aimlessly around the corridors like the residents of an art-nouveaux mental clinic, caked in blood as with Millard. The other part of the military dispatch had been in command when the incident happened. The camera showed them still there, mulling. He radioed.

“Can I get a report? What happened?” Silence resounded. “Anyone copy?”

“Sir,” the voice was high and feminine – Private Falton, he thought. “Uh, Commander Millard. We, um –“ Her voice was cut off by a masculine voice he didn’t recognize.

“You killed them. You and Shayne and Johns. I don’t understand. Why? What happened? And that box, that cube thing –“

“I don’t know what happened. Who am I speaking to?”

“Private Dramill, sir.” Weird name, he thought.

“Private Dramill. I don’t know what happened. I can’t guarantee that it won’t happen again. Stay in there, we’ll stay out here. I’ll go see if I can’t knock some sense into Shayne and Johns. Did you radio this, Private?”

“I did, sir. None of us can remember anything during the last week. I had to confirm it, but a Midsec ship is about two hours out.”

“Strange. Something to do with box, you think?”

“It’s possible sir. The timeframes match up.”

“Okay. I’ll give you the ansible code after I get to Shayne and Johns.” Like hell I will, Millard thought. “In the meantime, keep everything orderly. And don’t let us in, by any means. No reason for this to happen again,”

“I understand, sir.”

The neuro-interface set up in the asteroid was the newest integrated technology. Through it Millard could command a tactical map, order a drink if he was near a café, or listen to music with his mind alone. He went through a few menus which appeared like ghosts in his vision. At last the control room displayed before him, flesh within collapsing like broken dolls, the figures writhing at suits that would merely slap away the arms of the pitchy void. He locked the entrance to the Corina complex where Shayne and Johns shambled. The cameras were turned off. Their records were overwritten with a loop and the times were edited – a crack team might be able to get at them, but it wouldn’t be a worry by then. A voice began to radio in from the commander center, but he turned it off in favor of an airy Etude by Chopin. Oh, Millard wondered. Was I like this before? But his mind produced no rejoinder, and at the thought of their empty death, something near pleasure came to his face. No, he thought, this is all quite fine now.

At the powwow, Shayne and Johns had exhausted their search – only a freak mechanical error had occurred. They sat around the little white box quietly, scratching themselves and hoping that their next run through the videos would find something incriminating, something meaningful. A popping noise echoed off the rock and metal, and then the bright green avatar of a strange, overly tall person appeared above the box. It was genderless. Probably a man, Millard thought. So it’s a woman, Shayne figured.

“I see you have… enjoyed the device.”

“What do you mean? Who are you? And was that a joke?” Millard asked hastily.

“This was a device made to stimulate old human brains in interesting ways and evince certain latent qualities. An ancient, buried experiment. We believed we had removed the artifacts, but some are very tricky to, as your iteration calls it, work out of the dirt. Especially on a man-made cocoon posing as an asteroid. No worries: it cannot endure the fire.” Johns opened his mouth and stuttered, then stopped. He began speaking quickly.

“Millard, Midsec is here. They’re in null suits, hovering a kilometer away.” Millard closed his eyes.

“What-” Millard interrupted himself, sighing calmly. He had resigned.

“Humans made this,” the avatar said gaily, “and humans made us – we are not human, though we, or I, if you prefer, contain them. This is simplified for the sake of time, but a few had their minds uploaded to a computer, whereupon they entered a rapid period of intelligent evolution, becoming giants and gods, alone, making new life and – ah, but that is all. Farewell.”

Command almost instantly filled with a bright light. It endured for almost a minute, singing the innards of a now-lifeless lump of rock. The Midsec suits waved at one another. The asteroid had been gutted. Sterile. Pure, even.

“Sure had good timing. Everyone went nuts right as we were planning a move.” One of the suits mumbled over a closed channel.

“When do you think we’ll get to work on the asteroid?”

“A few minutes if they’re lazy.”

Wry laughter crackled through the radio.

Just so ya know...

I been busy wit multiple projects. I write for the examiner (http://www.examiner.com/x-17298-Kansas-City-MMORPG-Examiner) which is proving to be pretty entertaining. In addition, I've been writing a few short stories and am about 1/5th the way through a new book. Mmm, writing. Anyway, the second report will be up soon. PAYSHUNS, pleez.

An Incident of the Mind (First Report)

I first caught the rumor incidentally on Monday, overhearing the hushed and hurried words of a few colleagues in an otherwise vacant meeting room. At first I was tempted to saunter in, asking loudly how their roleplaying was, well, playing itself out, but they betrayed no excitement. Frowns and vacant stares and the very finicky, if expected movements of people who knew something and wished that it was not knowledge at all, and instead merely a jest or playful run of the imagination.

Hearing only singular words of the conversation which did not impress upon me any particular direction, “deep”, “behind” and “white”, I kept mental note of the exchange and decided that, once I was done licking my fingers clean of the very sumptuous donuts I had eaten, I would investigate. And by investigate, of course, I mean to say that I would do absolutely nothing and utterly ignore the talk. I was not particularly thrilled to be in this dumpy little section of a firm, and the thought that these people were worried about anything more immediate than gas prices was both amusing and sad. I made many renditions of the talk in my head.

“Yeah, I am so worried. He put it deep in her behind, and he’s white.”
“I don’t know how deep we are, but if we’re behind anything farther, we’ll be in the white.”

And so on and so on, extrapolations that explored and combined the humorous and macabre, the dense and the dolorous. I rarely find myself without expression, but the boredom at this place was phenomenal. My old high-school drool contests were put to shame by eight hours of plodding, menial work that I was spending most of the day not doing. I would finish seven hours early and spend the rest of my day a zombie, shuffling idly, knocking over unsecured baubles on desks and brushing tactically against attractive women. It was a running gag of sorts, one that I had kept amusing and charming through new venues of attack, but in truth I did not particularly like these people and wondered if continual effort and exposure was making me into something of a sociopath.

But that was merely the fear from a long and tiresome day. I would nap, wake for dinner, and suddenly feel wonderful. I take care to sleep lightly and nap heavily – in addition to exciting dreams which I do not seem to remember during regular slumber, I feel more refreshed after a nap. Later I learned this to be a pitiless and horrible habit, but that is later.
The next few days involved, as my bored and wandering mind conjured in rhyme, the “spread of dread”. Day by day more and more would come in, puce sickles holding eyes in place, jittery and nervous and fully convinced that whatever troubled them in thought would soon trouble them in manifest. I made jokes and tried to figure out this oddity myself, and to no avail. Perhaps they thought I was in on it – no! – perhaps I was the horrible thing stalking their pudgy and insecure fears. This wonderful thought occupied the rest of the day and provided for good Godzilla impressions.

On Friday I arrived to find that I was without a job. I yawned. Was this the cause? We’ll be laid off? I had been laid off, fired, and an almost seasonal quitter for ten years running. This was nothing more than a step on the stairway of life. I told myself these things because I was too lazy to actually think about them, or I wasn’t and I was repressing some very important feelings. Regardless, I had never been particularly unhappy and so continued by finding another area of employment the next day, on the down-low as an assistant mortician. Cash only, and a good amount at that.

This job left a very curious tinge that required almost twenty minutes of showering for every body I had to deal with. Though the women I procured never seemed to notice, I was continually smelling this stench as if I had left a particularly odorous pair of jeans on a bed-side stand. It did not bother me and instead left me in a state of contemplation regarding psychological facets of the human mind and what, exactly, the mind is doing by making me think that the smell is still somewhere around, somewhere intimately and unnervingly close.

Most of the bodies were, as my very genial boss-person pointed out, ones he had already seen before in some fashion. He claimed to have seen every death, supposedly, on the percentage chart, all the way down to lightning strikes and shark bites. I nodded and did not inquire further, assuming (and rightly I think) that whatever compelled this man to keep this job for such a length was surely fulfilling some sort of fantasy that I wanted absolutely nothing of. He still gave a wry and eerie smile when gave his frequent recollections, a mannerism that struck me so keenly as to force me to interrupt him and ask him about whatever else could come to mind. At one point I believe I interrupted a gruesome tale of dismemberment and rot to ask about the composition of joints in action figures. He took it well enough.

A week into this job and the first curiosity arose – one of the coworkers from that rough-grain soul-rub of a job was suddenly before me, naked and twisted in a way that I had not seen before. I made the usual shrugs and waited for the senior comment. There was none to be had. He stared at the body, clinically, detachedly, no doubt referencing every fetish and remembered fornication to think of what this death came from. He looked at me, my expectant face, and smiled warily.
“It’s probably an electrocution.” I shrugged again, preferring to feign ignorance rather than inquire about his curious mood and the heavily disfigured body.
The next day he did not come in. I was head mortician, which was a very dubious task for someone who has categorically ignored education on the subject and knew only how to move bodies (the best tip I recall was not to drop them, or otherwise “slip things into them”. Thankfully I did not hear the rest of the old man’s words). Bodies came in and I did what seemed best at the time – cover them in a plastic sheet and wait for my good buddy to come by. Only two had slunked in by the time a competent replacement arrived, a younger woman who made no comment on my improvised command and took care of almost everything for the rest of the day.

She was there the next day as well, during which two of the office folk, a man and a woman, arrived in the same mangled manner. I would be inclined to call their figures “ghastly”, but I am not one to make judgment calls on pretzeled people, so I will instead say that they were very curiously proportioned. The man was shrunk in spots and his arms tied up around his head – the bones seem to have melted in place, and we were forced to cut a good number of them in order to get the body into a more acceptable resting form. The woman was literally fused together at her hands, the skin utterly smooth between the wall of bone that I had seen apart before, opening doorknobs and emoting stupidly. The rest of her body can only be described as backwards fetal, with the interior ligaments fine and without any appearance of violent change. The new and nameless mortician made no comment and would not answer questions regarding the subject. She was perfectly receptive to my come-ons (categorically denying them), however, which made me question the situation further.

But only for the extended period in which I was near her and compelled by context to think of it. As soon as I returned home it was out of sight and out of mind, another curious complexity in a world I had resigned to as being terribly ornate and less humorous than I preferred. Midway through a session with one of the better women I’ve had, the phone rang and the very commanding, feminine voice of the new head mortician bellowed in my ear. There was something to attend to. She needed help. I ushered the woman out as kindly as a could, saying only that “Someone died. I gotta do clean up.” This was technically correct and proved worthwhile for her imagination, and within three minutes my apartment was vacated and I was in the subway awaiting the 3 line.

I arrived to find a good deal of the office there. Some of them were even fused together. I didn’t want to say much, as I found it very entertaining. Instead of seeing this as a horrible mesh of mutilated flesh, a physical manifestation of hellspawn, I was instead amused by the idea of these personalities combining and trying to navigate the streets of New York. I thought it would be a wonderful low-brow sketch. I made a mental note to write the ideas down, but this was interrupted when another under-the-table worker asked me a question.

“Did you know these people?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“I never said I liked them.” I smiled. He frowned. Did he think I kept a massive, magic arc-welder in the furnace room of my apartment complex? “I mean, they were good people, they were just kind of, I don’t know, not fun.”
“Hey man, don’t speak of the dead like that.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just not cool.” I imagined billboards with images of punkish fellows pissing on coffins, “It’s just not cool” pasted in bold above. Or maybe a supermarket ploy, free bites that look like coffins, but with needles inside, a curt and honest reminder of how this kind desecration was, well, “just not cool”. I calmly continued.
“If you say so. You know what happened to them?”
“Nah, man. I think the CSI is guna be here.”
“CSI?”
“Shit, how long have you been here? Crime scene investigation. You think some people just dove into eachother and came out like this?” He pointed at the curious corpses. I imagined this in my head and managed to repress a giggle. The nameless woman approached. She was wearing a badge. Suddenly I realized that this job just wasn’t for me anymore, that it was time to move to greener pastures or whatever the equivalent might be in an urban jungle. I must have revealed my immediate plans for egress.

“Hey, we need all the help we can get. We’ll take care of you later, but as you can see, there’s something happening. These aren’t the only cases, you know.” I nodded. With my usual verbosity I managed the only appropriate response, which I kept to myself. Fuck.

For the next hour I moved around bodies. The large multi-person mushed things were astonishingly heavy in addition to being cumbersome, sometimes taking three or four people to move. I never got to see inside or see a report or anything, though. The hour went by and a suited coterie, mostly men, ushered us out, the woman police officer included. I had no idea why she was there, no idea why I was still there, and promptly made for the nearest corner to escape whatever was going on. I’m a tall fellow but my haircut is not very unique and my slouch is very subtle: I was back in my apartment within half an hour, curious for once about what was happening at the morgue but more focused on what kind of job I would get the next day.
After a restless sleep in which I conceded to being at least somewhat concerned about the melded-body issue, I awoke to a phone call from the police woman. It was cellular so I wasn’t particularly concerned about her knowing my whereabouts, but she seemed unconcerned with that.

“You’re a… persistent fellow – want to know more about what’s going on?”
“First, if you’re going to say annoying, by all means, get it over with. Secondly, if it involves what I consider to be considerable risk, I’ll gladly ignore it. I’d rather just get away from this.”
“All you have to do is talk to a person.”
“… who’s in a security complex which I’ll sweet-talk my way through, while competing in a chessmatch over radio and spinning plates.” Always with the details.
“Oh come on, it’s not that bad.”
“Yes, it is. I can tell.” I tried to sound indignant. She replied in a much softer tone.
“Do you know what my favorite restaurant is?” I guess I was easy to read.
“… who do I need to talk to?”
“Just go out to the nearest corner from your apartment.” I cursed and hung up the phone.

She was waiting alongside a cab, her demeanor neither expectant nor rushed. She smiled when I got closer, and I blushed. I must admit, I am easily inclined toward such things. I took a seat with her in the cab and hoped for some details, but she merely applied makeup while I fidgeted. I was well aware that if she wasn’t going to tell me anything, I wasn’t going to have much luck on this farce of an expected date. In fact, I had made peace riding the elevator down, admitting that if I was going down there, it would be for the sake of resolving these peculiar incidents. A date with her was in all likelihood going to be a drain. Then I raised an eyebrow. Maybe she’ll pay for it. Suddenly I was back in business.

“So, wh-“ She lifted her hand and pressed her index finger firmly against my lips. In a rare form of better judgment, I opted against sucking on it.
“You’ll see.”

We pulled into a grungy little street, the litter ripe and the lights nodding off in broken intervals. It was very atmospheric. I was almost compelled to stop for a few moments but she dragged me along, her attire far outdoing mine and making me feel inadequate on several levels. I didn’t catch the name of the place, the inside was dull and almost foggy, and the menus betrayed nothing save overpriced sustenance. The only words uttered were in ordering the food. A man came by, seemingly from the restroom, and sat down at our table. I spoke first.

“Are you here to play some motherfucking Yahtzee? You had better damn well be.” Strangely, the police woman was not perturbed and the man merely went about his business unbuttoning his suit and pulling out a few scruffy pieces of paper. I looked down at the paper, disgusted.
“You’ve never played before, have you?” No response.
“Pathetic.” He looked up and raised an eyebrow as if to say, “I am very busy trying to take a shit in this chair, would you please, please take whatever else you have to say and kindly deliver it into a nozzle to which I am sure you can already guess. And not mine, preferably.” At least, that was my guess. Maybe he was just annoyed. That might’ve been it. She spoke without warning, and the man looked over at her.

“Thank you. I told you, he’s a bit off but absolutely brilliant.” He looked back at me.
“Kanga-fucking-roos.” He stood and promptly left. She giggled.
“You’re so easy. If you don’t have control, you get so annngrrryyy. I could tell when you were trying, poorly, to hit on me.”
“Excellent. What did you get?”
“Tickets to get out of here.”
“Out? Um, from what?”
“Look, I’m glad you could be of help, and maybe I’ll explain it later, but we need to leave. This is our ticket out.” I blinked a few times, then squinted for effect.
“Our ticket?”
“I thought you wanted to go on a date with me.”
“Look, I’m not denying the date, but seriously, what the hell?” She grinned. I was angry. I was tired of these grins and these little looks, like I was supposed to know about whatever the hell this was. Before I could ask, she got up from the table, and as soon as she took a step towards the door, I followed suit. She left nothing for the bill, probably knew that I wasn’t going to pay it, and acted as if it wasn’t going to matter anyway.

The off-service cab took us to a massive warehouse. We entered in on the side, immediately descending through a tunnel lined by chipped and twisted rock to what my mind kept calling a lair. In truth in was a massive underground storage space with a rail-line poking through it. We needed a ticket, apparently, for a super-secret rail-line that made no sense. None of this made sense. Did the woman actually like me, or what, exactly, was the reason for my being here? I’ll be honest – I’m not the most useful fellow on the planet, despite my attempts. I like making things sound overly dramatic, and I like to act as if continually detached. But this, this was finally thrumming in my head, each pulse of realization uttering my name like some siren in the deep of the earth.

She gently took my hand and we walked to the line. She then looked at her watch, breathed a sigh of relaxation, and said something that I did not hear. Almost immediately a train darted to us, sleek and looking a lot like a polished aluminum bullet or some retro-futuristic concept train. It had no marks. In we went, sitting down on lush leather recliners with ornate wooden desks and what appeared to be liquor at every one. When I finally mustered up the courage to speak to her in this empty passenger car, that would save us, that apparently needed tickets (and why wasn’t anyone else here?), she was asleep. I stood up instead and walked around the cars. Beautiful, and lush, and empty. Fresh magazines were lain upon the reclining chairs, their subtle stink rising above the false cherry scent about the place. Moving between cars was soundless and easy, the door mechanisms feeling light and smooth. There were no lights outside of the train, and only the very slightest sense that we were in transit. The interior lights were calm and colored like diluted puke.

I couldn’t reach any kind of conductor area, then made my way back only to find a similar doorless stretch of mahogany at the other end. I sat down, tossed the complimentary magazine aside, and tried to sleep or relax or just shut my eyes. I could not. My eyelids drooped but kept my eyes at half-moon, my state of trance for once being used in thought rather than utter boredom. I thought of useless things, of course, what sort of things might or might not be happening regarding this journey, and within an hour I was teetering on sleep, drifting in and out of ideas that would solidify in dreams then dissipate as I wiped the drool off my face and blinked.
This went on for a while, and I awoke as she was walking, halfway down the car, utterly placid. She looked at me without smiling, without doing anything really. I raised an eyebrow, still coming off the drowsiness and more than a little ambivalent about speaking. She walked up and sat down next to me, neatly placing her magazine on the desk in front of her. I leaned over, took the one I had tossed on the ground, and did the same. Looking at her and hoping for a response, I realized that something had changed. I spoke first.

“So?”
“So.”
“That’s not very helpful.”
“Nor are you.”
“It took you quite a while for that one, miss.”
“We thought you were someone else.”
“And who would I be mistaken for?”
“Don’t bother talking anymore.”

A dull blue glow appeared outside the windows. Outside was a fantastic and unbelievable sight, some sort of gimmick, I thought, made by someone with far too much time at the helm of this project. We were inside a glacier. An Antarctic glacier, I guessed. Skirting around one of the mountains that sit below the vast ice sheets. Where the hell had we gone? How fast were we moving? I cursed my nap and considered the three options: I slept for a long time, or, I was drugged, or, I still have a good sense of time and this train was exceeding the speed of sound by a very large margin. I was incredulous at my own suppositions.

“My explanation,” she said, “is not going to explain much. But you can still help, at least. Maybe you won’t turn.”
“Turn?”
“You seem a little to stubborn to have visited anything like that.”
“Anything like what? Seriously, give me something, anything. Where we’re going, when I get back, anything at all.”
“No. Do you think you’re worth it? I don’t.”

Her condescension got to me. I was frustrated to the point of anger, my admittedly useless life now in jeopardy by someone who refused to explain even the basics of the situation to me. I rotated my abdomen and punched her solidly in the throat, then pulled her to the ground and straddled her, my hands bound around her neck in a manner that was constricting but not immediately life-threatening.

“Look,” I said, my face appearing only calmly annoyed despite the sweat and blushed cheeks, “I think it’s within your best interest to tell me. I mean, the way it sounds, it wouldn’t matter if I killed you right here, you being a rather useless tease otherwise.” I felt terrible but I wanted some direction, so the façade stayed. She merely stared at me, tilting her head a little to the side as if a mosquito had landed somewhere on my face.
“How was your nap?”
“What?”
“The one that you probably thought only lasted a few hours. Oh, nevermind.”

I felt a little prick in my left calf and kicked away, but not before something went in. I was immediately disoriented. I tried to tighten my grip, and for a few seconds, who knows, maybe I succeeded. But her face began to slip and mesh, and every attempt at looking away from her made me so nauseated that I could barely move. I felt another prick, the sensation distant and telling, like the echo of a scream. I knew what was happening and sighed. I might’ve cursed. The world closed its doors and I was in a dark and dreamless sleep, one so heavy that by the time I awoke I felt as if only moments had passed.

It was my apartment, and nothing had changed. I grabbed at the sheets, and only after I realized that this was akin to grabbing grass in a tornado did I finally get myself and check. No sign of a prick anywhere along my left calf. I looked in the mirror. It was me, the same me, the same stubble and look of discontent and little puce sickles that cupped the eyes. The world outside clicked and whirred, hummed and bubbled, did all its paces in a terribly usual way. I paced and reviewed my memories, trying to find some sort of breach in reality where this could be passed off as an unusually vivid and coherent dream, and there were none. The kitchen table still had the cash I placed on it after working a solid day at the mortuary. I dressed, left the apartment with a dark and pensive look, and came to the first newsstand.

A year had gone by. I can’t tell you the thoughts that went through my head, the various pulses of anger and fear and confusion and intellectualization. My face did not change, however. I stared at it and read through the paper like I was going through my paces in a boring, unhappy fashion. Unlike the general insanity, the desperate filing through newspapers, I accepted this and found myself determined to continue existing, for it was all I could do.

Of course, not all things are a mystery, and my dazed and accepting state failed to recognize that this was a typo, that it was in truth the same year and the same day, in fact, that all of this seemed to have occurred. I realized this as I looked over another newspaper and asked to make sure it was the right date. He made a joke of some sort regarding the other newspaper, but I simply nodded and walked away.

There were certain facts that needed to be checked, and the first, really the only place was the mortuary. I walked in to find the old man having returned, expectant but calm. He spoke first.
“How you doing today?”
“Um, fine. Why were you gone that last week?” I took of my coat and grabbed at the rail on the side of one of the tables. It popped off rather easily. I held it kind of awkwardly and let him continue.
“Oh, that? I just felt a little strange is all.”
“Strange? What about the bodies?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to talk about it. You don’t either.” I rolled my eyes.
“Why the hell not? People I used to work with, fairly normal people for better or for worse, suddenly went paranoid and practically crazy. I switch jobs and they’re showing up looking like freshly-baked funnel cakes. Then you leave and this woman comes in, and shit just got stranger from there.”
He looked toward one of the tables. I heard the clack of instruments as soon as I turned, only to see the woman there. She walked up, very calm but much more lively than before.
“Hi.” Her tone was bright, every cheery. My reply was more than a little sour.
“Hi.”
“What’s wrong?”
“This is how you’re going to be like?”
“Be like what?” She smiled. I turned to the old man.
“What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?”
“Well-“ I whirled around, the length of circular metal alloy gripped like a baseball bat, and hit the woman in the head. A thudding crunch told me that I probably had no need to swing again, but I did anyway. When I was done, the anger clear on my face, there was little left to call a head. I turned to the old man. His face had the hue of the corpses we handled.
“I assume you want no part in figuring this out?” His head wobbled very slightly, the only outcome of what was surely some epic mental battle between his id and superego. That, or he was simply aghast. I then realized that he was looking at the very recent corpse rather than me. I looked down and realized that her remains were not normal, not normal by any stretch of the imagination. Various tendrils, which looked much like images of parasitic infection that I had seen in high-school biology slides, were writhing uselessly amidst the remains of the skull. I wanted to make sure that I wasn’t hallucinating.
“You see those, yeah?” He nodded. “And you’ve never seen them before, yeah?”
“Well, those other bodies, when I… yes, that was when I first saw them.”

I pointed the length of rail I had in my end, one end covered in blood and tiny bits of viscera. For a moment I wanted to joke about this being the most horrible tampon to have ever existed, but I decided that the old man would consider the situation a little inappropriate for the jest. I conjured up every image I could think of with the woman, an imaginary childhood, the tragedies that led to her infuriating personality and bad case of worms, but I didn’t feel much different. Coldness? Desensitized? The sense of justification? I had always considered myself a humanitarian up to this point.

“Here’s what I want you to do, with all your expertise on this. Prepare the most incredible report you’ve ever made. Put her body in the deep freeze, so we can keep those things fresh. This needs to be put to paper, released, understood. Something is at play, but I don’t know what.” I told him what had happened while he was gone. He blinked a few times. I shrugged.

“Actually, um, well, if the worm thingies aren’t much different in those other corpses, I say we just dispose of her.” He was a timid fellow but I wanted to be on his positive side. I was prepared to implicate him as an accessory to murder in case he thought about flaking, or just outright killing him, before I realized that I was already more than dabbling into sociopathic insanity and probably needed a break to think things over. I helped it cleaning up and promised to return; I had to think of a plan. I was, in the words of old hard-case detectives, going to blow this thing wide open.

I was once again pacing around the very elaborate 24’x36’ box I called home. I will send off all the documentations and various tests done by others to whoever I could, but first, and foremost, I will post anything I could make onto the internet. I am returning right now – look for anything you can, on these parasites, on the Kings County Medical Center, on a no-longer existent woman by the name of Myla Jdaiest (pronounced Juh-die-esst), a curious entrance to a warehouse, anything relevant. Take what you find, and tell whoever you can. I’ll continue this when I get the chance.

Some old satire...

In an astonishing news press today released by the Democratic Association, it was revealed that while it was originally thought that President Bush’s history in regards to his attendance of the RNWHA (Republican Ninjas With Hamsters Association) was immaculate, offhand records by a sister’s brother’s uncle’s former roommate reveals a far different story: he once arrived five minutes late.

One of the three members of the RNWHA, after deciding who was to be spokesman by way of rock-paper-scissors, came forth to comment on the attendance of President Bush.
“I really don’t have much to say. I remember the night like it was yesterday – he simply just showed up late. We speculate that he may have been doing drugs or earning his stipend as a prostitute: no one is ever late, especially ninjas, with hamsters.”

Before anything else could be asked, the self-professed ninja pulled a hamster out of his pocket and ran into oncoming traffic. The condition and whereabouts of the spokesman are currently unknown. The reaction however was not an isolated one as republicans abroad were amazed by Bush’s brash attendance.

“I just couldn’t believe it” comments Linda Versoconta, another Republican astonished by the news. “How could someone not want to attend the RNWHA? It seems to violate every thing I’ve ever held true and dear for Bush. I guess I’ll vote for Kerry, or Nader. I don’t really know. I’m in too much shock to really decide”

Jim Beam, another Republican, was even more upset over the Bush – RNWHA scandal.
“I don’t think I can go on living. I can’t take it anymore. He was the one, and now he is but a mere mortal! It cannot be!” Jim then decided that a one-way ticket to the great beyond was his only answer to this overwhelming dilemma and took a leap of faith that was abruptly ended about 20 stories below, where a small crowd congregated, slowly clapping as if some sort of perverted circus act had just been performed.

But what does this mean for Bush? Top analysts that happen to live next door say that this will severely hurt Bush’s approval rating, involving anywhere from a .05-95% change of faith in voters. It will be only a matter of time before this grave incident impacts upon the general public, and the truth is known – Bush was late to the weekly RNWHA meeting, and no one is ever late, especially ninjas, with hamsters.

A Sleepwalker

A Sleepwalker

It was in little jests that we would embarrass the man, asking him whether his Reich-heiling member would knock over lamps and smear across walls. Tit for tat, really – we at least gave him the benefit of the doubt regarding his vitality. And yet there was a singular tinge of despondence in his speech, a wistful longing from living every day with that thing he considered, in words more colloquial, as moribund. The early sun of summer bloated the walls in orange light, and he arrived at the delicatessen with news. I was the only one at the store.

“I think there might be a cure!”

“My friend, no medication will heal us of this job.” He was unaffected by the sentiment and apparently by the doldrums of this barely-keeps-one-alive job, blind as usual to the searing light of his obliviousness.

“No, no, the sleepwalking I always tell you about.” I was mildly surprised that he didn’t frame the sickness as the one we made fun of him for. “It’s apparently pretty simple, a pretty easy procedure. I’ll go in next week and I won’t have this rings under my eyes or this, what did he call it, listlessness!” His eagerness fascinated me. It was like the lunk who just discovered the greatness of a pyramid scheme.

“That’s great, man. Does it cost much?”

“Yeah, but who cares? I got enough in savings and my wife has a job too. And besides, with this, I won’t have to work here!”

“You have to work here? Did God come down and tell you that?”

“Well, no, but what else could I do?”

“Security. People would still think you were on the job, even if you were trying to balance the pepper spray on your dick.”

“Why is it always about my dick, man?”

“Why is it always about your sleepwalking, man?” The reflexive mocking was a bit much and I steered the conversation towards easier things.

“So, what’s the procedure supposed to be? I hope it doesn’t involve suction cups.”

“What? No, no suction cups.”

“Oh, good. Those piss me off. I can imagine it now – ‘Yes, by very careful suction cup application to your gentials, we can exorcise the demons and get you cash in the next thirty days! Cures sleepwalking too!’”

“No, uh, that’s just weird. All they do is a few CAT scans, some sort of wave technology thing, and apparently it works!”

“And you went to a doctor, yeah?”

“Of course!” Oh. Of course.

“Well, I hope it works out for you. Any idea what this thing was called?”

“Yeah, uh… hold on a sec. It was called ‘allotropic induction through resonance’, whatever that means.” I thought it was cleverly worded bullshit and resolved at the end of the day to look it up myself, curious and a little dubious about his density.

It turns out the process was peer-reviewed and about as well-tested as the theory of gravity. It could change a lot of mental aspects, but most of the applications stuck to easy and practical problems like somnambulism, rather than the more twitty and nebulous questions like, “If Bob calls me on Sunday and I know I’m free but, like, I say no anyway and I really want to, is there a way to make it so, like, I do say it that way? I mean, you know, the way I want to?” Personality changes were in the cards but not available at the moment. I was kind of worried that my sleepwalking friend expected some sort of complete life reversal, as if he would suddenly explode out of minimum-wage wankery and thud softly in the sugary sands of Cancun.

As was usual, the days seemed long and tiring. Shoulders weep, and by clock-out they seem to be at the same angle as the eyebrows, penitent and desperate for salvation. Our man of the legendary penis and second-act sleeping problem came in a few days after his revelation with a despair so palpable that some men who moved the goods into the store acted very loudly and visibly as if they had eaten fresh manure. We questioned him to no avail until the lunch break, where he finally broke the silence in a whisper.

“I… I don’t know if we’ll have the money after all.” One of my friends at the place spoke softly in reply.

“Aw, man, that stinks. Anything we can do?” I hadn’t yet explained to them that this was actually a real procedure, and put my bets on some sort of tragic and humanity-distrusting dupe among dopish friends. I often do this because I feel bad for cynics. Myopic wrongness has to take a toll.

“N-no… I just had to have somebody die now, of all times. Gotta get a casket and a service…” He looked down and never seemed to swallow, ruminating endlessly on one pulverized bite of pastrami on rye.

“Well, if there’s anything, let me know.” The faces were all serious, earnest. I wasn’t surprised, but I did lose my bet.

The next day he was ecstatic, in the greatest of moods. It was pretty obvious that Jack, the manager, had thrown in a helping hand. His smile had no interest when the man offered his explanation, only the complexion of altruistic contentment. It is not difficult to explain the face, but it is easier to say that it is not at all like the face apparent while one is defecating. Had it been like this, my sentimental-cynicism suspicion of Jack as a sociopath would have instantly been verified. I would also very much want to know why that face was his preferred one.

“Well, thanks to a certain someone, I’ll be getting the procedure.”

“That’s cool, man.”

“Good for you.”

We were all very pleased by this – we all cited practical reasons, getting him to shut up or finally having a chance at ridding ourselves of the bastard - but I believe most were simply glad to see a fellow man being helped, even if it made them squirm to admit it.

The following days proceeded with a little drama, expected but, as always, coming in a different way than expected. My girlfriend of three months decided on separation, citing in less robust terms that she was “not prepared for a long-term relationship”, which to me, besides being true, transmitted a fair deal of other information. I, however, merely nodded and wished her the best of luck, and offered to keep in contact, as we certainly made good friends (knowing full well that her statement implied a variety of things that suggested we would probably never talk to each other again). It was my turn for questioning that day at the delicatessen, mostly oblique comments about my spacey staring. In truth I was concocting lines of wit, already anticipating another attempt at a relationship. I looked over regret with intellectual distance, applied the bandaging of wisdom surgically, and hoped that a full emotional release could be done within the next few days. The clinical approach was handy, as I never had the urge or the ability, really, to change or replace emotions.

I was still in this fugue the day before his treatment. I walk up to a woman on the street. We are at a crosswalk, and she is beautiful. I’m not sure which is more important, the beauty or the crosswalk, for the crosswalk is where reality intersects wit. Next to her, I lean forward then turn, raise an eyebrow, and ask politely, “Could you tell me when it’s okay to walk? I don’t think I’ll be able to see it like this.” I rolled my eyes in my dazed state, and my coworker asked. I told him, with the appearance of utter honesty, that ocular calisthenics are necessary for a day-dreamer extraordinaire. My disinterest in his question was apparent as I said this verbatim, making no attempt to soften a tone that I always thought was funny in an ironic, overcompensating kind of way. He merely frowned and went back to sweeping the floor.

The day of was uneventful and honestly dull, hardly worth the excitement we had brought up for it. I coined new and horrifying phrases; my coworkers did their usual in unpredictable ways; my manager Jack smoked a terribly skunky joint and fell asleep in the back room while drawing circles all over his arms. We played connect the dots as well as we could, using permanent marker and, of course, making sure that every attempt yielded a penis in some sort of position.

The following sunrise greeted Jack, clad in seasonally inappropriate long-sleeves. He was immediately followed by our man, who we all wondered about with a little bit of excitement. Through our usual work chatter we had decided that he would return some sort of superhuman or even a cyborg, to be revered as the first of a daring and no-way-I-want-it-too enhancement. He came in placidly, and spoke to us with an odd, stumbling, and utterly mechanical way of speech.

“They-said-that-some-speech-center-side-effects-would-make-this-a-little-weird-so-if-we-could-keep-talking-to-a-minimum-that-would-be-very-nice-of-you-thanks-it’s-a-work-time.”

He walked normally and performed his duties, answering questions only when necessary. We were not compelled to attempt humor, the idea to much like trying to conquer a hill embedded with landmines. The next day was similar and by the end of the week no progress had been made. Our man, however, did not appear frustrated and might have even been a little more sprightly by the end of the week.

I met with the other single coworkers for a game of billiards and some movie watching over the weekend. We all threw around our half-assed ideas in a drunken fashion, shooting for humor and easy laughs while either avoiding or trivializing the man and his procedure. What would his wife do now? He had a wife? Well, he has to inflate her first. And on and on, the empty banter an analogue to stereotypical Chinese food, satiating only to feel, fifteen minutes later, as if one had never consumed a single bite. The drinks would drown the hunger for something close, something real, and then we would awake, fresh in headaches and haze, grumbling and forgetful. I would wake up in the morning, fully understanding the desperation, and committed nonetheless to doing it again the next weekend.

On Monday the man was not there. It was of particular concern only to the floor, whose previous squeaks from rubber soles were now softened by dirt and dust into bumping, scuffling noises. That was it and all the all that day.

I came home that night less curious about curing somnambulism and more concerned about going on a grand trip some day. Far away, across the greatest deserts and widest rivers, slinking down the Amazon and skirting up the Nile, through the sandstone catherdral of Strasbourg and into a seedy tavern in the Czech Republic. For some reason or another I was compelled the idea of going there, convincing myself that this was a grand new place, then working somewhere eerily similar to the delicatessen I was at now. I would find another going-nowhere coterie, slip through the social scene, and move on a year later just as I had done with this town.

Tuesday saw the same neglect, and I was assigned to clean up shop. It made me wonder in earnest whether the job really needed the man. Jack was stone faced, or just stoned, and emoted only at the announcement of a sports score or record number from the radio. Another coworker had been replaced in the afternoon shift, a high-school kid looking to appease her parents take some “personal responsibility”. She whined on and on about how they knew nothing about personal responsibility, that if she was just going to have college paid for anyway, maybe they’d assign her some real responsibility and stop treating her like a child. I sighed. She took this as a sign to keep speaking. I turned around and left half an hour early.

The evening corroded. Dinner swam into view and passed into fullness. Bars glided by nosily, distortedly, hideous faces brackish on the stools, little windy triumphs of laughs and the sweet-low hum of a broken air conditioner dancing in a corner. Dancing, breaking the pulses of light like a slowly dripping film. I hadn’t tripped for a long time. God, everything seemed to right, fit so well with this bullshit in my system. It reassured me, billowed in brilliant smells and cacophonies too bright for me to see, and seemed to proclaim with pulpish glory that everything would be alright.

Morning. Wednesday. Hand in front of face. Five fingers. Five curling fingers. Five fingers to grab a broom. Broom. Vroom. Vroom vroom. I love waking – I see the world before I am confused enough to try and make sense of it. Everything is in focus after that trip. I am here. In an apartment. I feel lonely, unspent. Not impotent, really, just apathetic. This routine, this blinking sun. Blinking sun? Outside a few helicopters had passed by. Completely unrelated. I wanted them like a story. I wanted them to be symbolic things, I wanted to look over this unusual week like I had encountered some epiphany. Thumps from the apartment above. Swells of wind chaffing my window. I stepped in my shoes and set out to quit my job.

I met Jack and the man was there. Cigar in his mouth, a fedora and Hawaiian shirt.

“Jesus, man, this isn’t Miami, nor are you a detective. What the shit is this getup?”

“I’m a new man, can’t you tell? Hell, the wife died, and I’m free.”

“Your wife died. Hey, what? Free? Free like what? From what?”

“Man, I am free.” He walked out. Apparently curing somnambulism gave one… whatever the hell this was.

“Do you really think curing sleepwalking did that?” I asked Jack.

“I dunno. I don’t event think his wife died.”

“What?”

“She called in yesterday and said that her husband was ‘out’. No details, just sounded a little concerned and wanted to let me know.”

“Huh.”

“Then, get this. She calls this mornings and just apologizes. Says he’s a little different but he’ll do the work, same as always.”

“I don’t think he’s going to be doing the work, uh, ever again.”

“I’d be inclined to agree.”

I quit shortly after and left for a new residence in the southeast, compelled by easy access to the Keys. Flings and friends and a few years later, I picked through a newspaper and saw a picture of the man in the obituary. I laughed a little, morbid as it was. He had the same fedora on, a huge and wicked grin over his face. The obit was terse so I looked up some details. There were a few small articles regarding him, one of which caught my eye.

“Tampa, FL – A man found in the Seaside park today near the dog walk, mauled and killed after what eyewitness report as attempting to have sex with a German Shepherd. Details are forthcoming, however, locals report that this man worked at a drycleaners off of Somerset and was regarded as a “very strange man”.”

That night I opened my paycheck and stared at it, eventually letting it slide between my fingers and waft to the floor. I let one breath out slowly, then another. The feel of my chest, my lungs compressed, salty air expelled. I looked outside, to the moon across the bay, to the twinkles of skyline farther north, and decided that I would quit my job. Was it fear that kept me here? Longing, maybe false hope? I went inside and ripped out his picture from the obituary. Took a broad swathe of clear masking tape and stuck the photo cleanly to the wall. It struck me like a lighthouse that had caught fire from the pilot light. I felt embarrassed and immediately ripped it down. Even if a taped it to my forehead, what was it going to do? I let it sit in my lap for the rest of the night, the wiry face somehow looking down at me still, and wondered idly if his face had always appeared like a lighthouse in my mind.