Lufic - part 1

Lufic - part 1

PROLOGUE

I’ve been on this plane for nine hours. I cannot sleep for the drone and vibrations of the engines. A fat guy sleeps next to me, snoring too loudly. My legs are sticking out into the aisle because there is no room otherwise. The drinks tray has bumped into them more times than I have the willpower to count. Someone’s head is blocking the movie screen, but I’m not enjoying the movie anyway. The Flight Attendant missed me when she was serving the drinks.

In width, depth, and height respectively, my personal space consists of the following: the space between my armrests; the space between the back of my chair and the back of the chair in front of me; and the floor to the bottom of the overhead baggage compartment.

I haven’t slept properly in four days. My throat is dry and sore because of a minor throat infection that has been plaguing me since last night. The airline-issued headphones press nastily into my ears, making them red and sore. I have a rash on my elbow because of the bad fabric of the plane seat. My legs are going to sleep and there’s no apparent way to restore the circulation without getting up. I feel little itches and twinges go away before I can scratch them: in my right knee; then my right ear; then my nose; my left temple; my left foot; my left elbow.

I am a living, breathing human being.




PART ONE - CONCEPTION



One

What bullshit.

The fat arse next to me was still snoring. The Flight Attendant’s “Can I get you a drink?” floated up from somewhere down the plane. The idiot was still blocking my view of the screen. I was sick of this – something had to be done.

Yeah, something had to be done.

I was going to get a drink. That would solve all my problems. An alcoholic drink was the answer. Whoever says that alcohol/nicotine/caffeine/violence/sex/whatever-other-enjoyable-part-of-life is not the answer is, quite frankly, lying. He doesn’t even know the question yet, and he’s telling you what the answer is! Stupid! What happens if I’m sitting in a Chemistry teacher asks for the collective name of molecules that are made up of carbon atoms in a string and a hydroxide molecule at the end? Of course alcohol’s the answer there.

This same idealistic fool might argue that he meant it in a metaphorical sense, but by this time I’ve dismissed him as an idiot, so whatever point he’s putting forward is, of course, invalid. He might then be horrified, however, to discover that I was intending to order an alcoholic beverage at the tender age of seventeen. I had a reply to this, and it was not a tirade about how he should mind his own fucking business. This was genuine.

I pressed the little Flight Attendant light. This button, of course, turns on a little light at the top of the row of seats and makes a polite little ding! that annoys anyone in hearing range without actually giving cause to offend. I think it must annoy the Flight Attendants too, because the one that answered my call (after I ding!ed a few more times) was plenty grouchy for reasons wholly unknown to me. Maybe she was still ticked off at me because I had attempted to use the vacant aisle for bonus legroom.

“Yes, sir, how can I help you?” The icicles in her voice made for a refreshingly cool breeze in the hot aeroplane. I looked up at her.

“Well, I was just hoping to have a drink, if it’s not too late.”

“Well yes, sir, I’m afraid it is a bit too late. You have to get a drink when I come down the first time.”

Yeah, if you’d put a drink on my tray instead of a cart in my foot then I would have done that, you horrid bitch. “Oh, that’s a shame. Would it be too much bother to ask you to fetch me one anyway?”

“Well, sir, I’m really not required to serve you in this situation.”

You’re a goddamned Flight Attendant! You’re required to wait on us hand and foot! “Oh, that’s really a
shame. But are you sure you can’t make an exception, just this once? I’ve got this dreadful sore throat and a cold drink would really help.”

The Flight Attendant sighed as though I’d asked her to scale Mount Everest to bring me back a snowball.

“Well, I’ll see, sir. What drink would you like?”

“Well, I felt like having a –“ my voice caught. I coughed to cover up the hesitation. “A beer,” I finished, wondering whether the Attendant would buy it.

She didn’t. “Sir, how old are you?”

“Well, I’m seventeen…”

“Sir, we’re not allowed to serve alcohol to anyone below the age of twenty-one.”

There! She fell into my trap! Now all I had to do was to use the argument! It was perfect! “Oh, really?” I paused. “That’s a shame. I guess I’ll just have a Ginger Ale then.”

She walked off, and I started thinking about how much less unpleasant it would be to jump out of the plane here and now. You’re a fucking pussy, I berated myself.

It really was a shame that I was a pussy, too. I considered the argument over again and realised how utterly perfect it was. I stared morosely ahead as the drink was placed in front of me. Sipping it, I went over it one more time. Yeah, it was bullet-proof. But it was too late now: I’d look like some stupid kid. Which, I reflected as I downed the rest of the cup, was no lie. I was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Sneering at myself as I finished off the can, I snuggled back against the seat and flipped the radio channels. I was a bit calmer now, having had the drink. I suppose any old liquid would have done the trick. My throat still hurt, but it wasn’t dry at least. My eyes wandered about the cabin, hoping to rekindle some self-righteous anger to amuse me for a few minutes until the next movie began.

My wandering eyes happened to catch the eyes of the girl on the window seat. I’d noticed her when I’d sat down, but Tubby next to me had blocked the view. It had been a pretty good view, too. She was probably about my age and very attractive. For some reason I couldn’t quite put my finger on, I could see her now. Tubby was still there, of course, yet the light emanating from her somehow managed to bend around him. Perhaps Tubby had gained enough weight to have the gravity required for such a phenomenon.

I blushed, of course, and turned my head away a bit. I pretended to be staring very intently at the window as though something interesting had caught my eye. She must have seen through that. “So, nice try at getting a drink…”

Jesus, she was trying to talk to me. OK, Roy, calm down, you’re looking like a geek. “Well, it wasn’t that good…”

“It wasn’t? Oh well, I guess it wasn’t.” She sat back.

Shit! She wasn’t supposed to do that! She was supposed to act all normal and say that it was really a good attempt! Instead she sounded like a Douglas Adams character. I had to talk to her somehow. “Well, I did have a good idea about it, but I wimped out.”

She sat up again and looked over at me. “So, what was this good idea?”

Uh oh. I hadn’t thought this far ahead. I hadn’t formed it into words. “Er, well…” I stammered. “I was basically going to say that we weren’t in Australia and we weren’t in America, so there was no law about it here.” The plane had taken off from Sydney and was going to touch down in San Francisco any day now. I’d been trying to point out that we were not subject to the laws of either country (since we weren’t in either of them) but it hadn’t come out right.

She gazed at me thoughtfully, and I squirmed a bit. There was a reason I was still a virgin, and this was it. I was no good at dealing with women. “That’s brilliant,” she smiled.

There was my in! But before I could say something, she ding!ed. The Flight Attendant appeared immediately, bright and cheerful. “Yes, ma’am, what can I do for you?”

“Hi, I’d like to have a beer, please.”

“Certainly, but I’m required to check your ID.”

The girl handed over her ID.

“Ma’am, as I told this gentleman here,” at this she gestured at me, “you must be at least twenty-one to order alcoholic beverages.”

“According to what law?” The girl sounded indignant.

“It’s US law,” replied the Flight Attendant calmly and vaguely. She glanced around at the other passengers – the girl’s voice had risen a bit. She obviously intended to cause a scene about this nonsense.

“And are we in America now?” Her voice was at the normal speaking level, which, in the quiet cabin, sounded like a shout.

“No, ma’am, but – “

“And are we in AUSTRALIA now?”

“No, ma’am, but – “

“So what’s the fucking problem?” This one she said at a moderate shout, which, I think, offended everyone who was listening. A few ears had certainly pricked up during this exchange.

“Ma’am, could I please ask you to lower your voice. I’m sure we can – “

“No, I will NOT lower my voice! This is an outrage! I demand – “

The Flight Attendant must have lost her will to argue. She looked exasperated. “OK, OK! I’ll get you your drink. Please just settle down.”

She settled down immediately, an innocent grin on her face. “Thanks a lot! Hold the ice, please.” The Flight Attendant stalked off.

“You just became my personal hero,” I said. I hadn’t even intended to say it aloud, but it just happened. I
regretted it instantly, but I was in awe of anyone who could actually stand up to something. That said a lot about me, of course, but I was too awestruck to be criticising myself.

“Thanks. You’re already my hero – that was great! And I needed a drink, too.”

A compliment! I was too stunned to speak until the drink arrived for the girl. The Flight Attendant had just turned to go when the girl piped up again. “Sorry to disturb again, but could I ask you to grab one for my handsome friend over there?” She pointed at me. I was busy processing this while the Flight Attendant tried to speak up. She was shushed by a warning glance from the girl. She stalked off again.

“Thanks,” was all I could think of to say to the girl. It was kind of fast – I was a typical hopeless geek and now I’ve gone from girls shunning me to girls complimenting me out of the blue and buying me drinks. But I managed to think of something else to say before an awkward pause could ensue.

“What’s your name?”

“Mandy, and yours?’

“Roy, Roy Morton.” God, that was stupid. I sounded like a very lame James Bond. But she seemed to like it. She stuck out her hand to me (somehow bypassing Tubby again) and went with the flow.

“My pleasure, Mr. Morton!”

A flash of inspiration hit me, and I was able to pretend to be normal. I took her hand and kissed it. “The pleasure is all mine, fair lady!”

She uttered a ladylike giggle. “Oh, Mr. Morton!”

I smiled at her and grabbed my drink as it arrived. I downed the whole damned thing in about three gulps.
She looked at me, bemused. “You needed that, didn’t you?”

I gasped for air. “Oh Christ, yes.”

She smiled a crooked smile at me. “Really.”

“Yeah, I haven’t had the greatest of New Year’s parties.”

She raised her eyebrows at me.

“I’m moving, you see. I lived in Australia for most of my life and now I’m moving to America.”

“And…?”

“And my New Year’s party was also my Farewell party.”

“Didn’t go well, huh.”

“Yeah, that’s one way of putting it.”

“What’s another?”

“It stunk.”

“I see.” She sipped her drink and I sipped mine. Remembering that it was empty, I put down the cup and promptly felt like an idiot. I realised that there was an awkward silence, but Mandy didn’t seem to be paying much attention. She was smiling wryly into her drink. She seemed to be repeating my words to herself bemusedly. I was about to say something but she got there first.

“Roy, do you know anything about lufic?”

“Lufic?”

“Never mind,” she said quickly. “So it was a bad party then?”

“Yeah, atrocious. And what about you? What are you doing on a plane drinking beer on New Year’s Day?”

I knew, or thought I knew, that girls liked to talk about themselves, but she seemed a bit distracted as she launched into an explanation of how her father was some high ranking bozo in Coca Cola and how she was visiting Australia for the hell of it and how her father had given her a fixed amount so she maximised her spending money by getting the cheapest tickets she could manage which ended up putting her in Economy Class on New Year’s Day with Fat Arse next to her and no view of the movie screen and how she’d really rather be drunk.

She had been looking out the window all the time she had been speaking and she eventually trailed off. I sort of grunted my sympathies and sat back into my seat. Silence ensued.

I turned over to face her again, trying to think of something clever to say, when she did it for me. “Mr. Morton, tell me, are you a member of the Mile High club?”

God, did I freeze then. I knew what she was talking about – I was a geek, maybe, but I wasn’t an idiot. Her expression was interested again, but not the mischievous or shy sort of expression I was expecting. She acted more as if she’d asked if I had ever taken a leak in the woods only to find that I was near a major walking trail and a tour group was headed my way. Me being the dork I was, I could only mutter “Well, no…”
She cut me off. She leaned across the empty seat between us and whispered huskily in my ear, “Want to join?” She licked my earlobe; not in a sultry manner but in a matter-of-fact one. Not normal.

“Yes.” At least that had come out normal.

We headed straight for the bathroom, cramming our selves in and locking the door. At this point I hesitated a little. I looked her up and down, not sure exactly how to begin. Things were moving fast and my mind was lingering around my seat, not quite sure what my body was up to. Mandy made the first move, though.
She reached around me, grabbing at the flesh on my shoulder blades. She kissed me on the neck as my hands reacted instinctively by grabbing her around the waist. I let my hands wander over her body for a few moments, kissing her neck as well. Her hands drifted, eventually arriving at my butt. She squeezed hard and pulled back a bit to look me in the eyes. “Kiss me,” she moaned. So I kissed her, hard, on the mouth. And she turned into a frog.

I blinked a few times. I looked down at the green frog. I blinked some more. Then I gibbered.

“What the hell? What the hell are you doing as frog? Stop it right now!”

The frog looked up at me. “Relax, Roy. Just flush me down the toilet.”

“What?”

She repeated calmly, “Flush me down the toilet. It’s my only way out of here!”

“But…” I argued. I added to the argument with “But…” Finally I closed with a “But…”

She looked at me. I repeated my arguments. She didn’t look convinced. I managed to say one more thing. “Why?”

“Look, I got you a beer, now you do me a favour.”

“But…” I tried one last time. She didn’t take any of that. She hopped into the toilet and narrowed her big frogeyes at me.

“Flush, damn you!”

I relented. I pulled the little lever and the huge whoosh! of the toilet’s flush mechanism drowned out my final argument which, I thought, was the best of the lot: “But…”

And she was gone. The low hum of the silence in the cabin invaded the tiny bathroom with shocking force and I looked around at my claustrophobic settings. I opened the door numbly and went back to my seat. The next movie was going to start in a second anyway. I sat down, relaxed a little and closed my eyes.

My eyes snapped open. I looked around. The next movie was starting – I must have dozed off for a second. I tuned my headphones to channel 1 and reflected on the frog incident. I must have nodded off or something and dreamt all that. It was the only explanation.

Still, as the opening credits began to roll, I was left with an uncomfortable feeling. I couldn’t quite grasp at it – it was like grabbing at the vestiges of a dream. I shrugged it off and looked back at the movie screen.




Two

There’s something kind of profound about sitting on a couch, with a beer in hand and a mixture of scorn and envy on your face, watching people dance. Perhaps the couch symbolises superficial comfort, the beer symbolises quick and easy solace, and people dancing a sign of happiness and enjoyment of oneself. I think that anyone who happened to be watching this scene in a movie or reading about it in a book would find many profound insights into the human condition, or at least my condition (for you see, I was sitting well apart from them and thus I was strongly removed from happiness and enjoyment and this was a sign of yada yada yada).

But reflecting on this kind of annoyed me. I hated dancing, that’s all there was to it. There was no deeper meaning here than the fact that I just didn’t dance. I didn’t like dance music or what passed for dancing. The whole activity had a feeling about it similar to the feeling I got if I saw those ads for starving kids in Africa. They both made phlegm accumulate in my mouth, making me want to spit. To the imaginary critic observing me on the couch, I would have extended an invitation to join me on it to witness the scene in front of me. I would have pointed out the lack of light, the influence of alcohol, and the rubbing of bodies as the activities of fundamentally unhappy youths looking to drugs, sex, and simplistic hooks in modern dance music for comfort in otherwise nihilistic times. I would have pointed out the main attraction of dancing was that it combined all three easy answers into one depraved activity, and then various teenagers were off to the side, focussing on one aspect of the whole mish-mash of it. I would have pointed out the various couples (and a triplet, three girls) making out to the side – against walls, on chairs, whatever was available. They were focussing on sex. I would have pointed out those lying against walls or on couches passed out or very nearly passed out (and sipping at drinks in the hopes of getting themselves to pass out), focussing on the drugs part. There wasn’t any pot at this party, but that also happened. I would have pointed out a couple of people flicking through the music supply hoping to find some other simple rhythmic music to which they could gyrate their bodies. That was the one I understood the least, but it was the least depraved.

The worst thing was that you tended to be a social outcast if you found such things unappealing. People who were either unable or unwilling to warm to such things quickly found themselves frowned upon as party poopers or simply dorks. In fact, I’ve read various things about introversion and how most people mistake this for being a party pooper or something. I must say, it tends to make me incensed. It’s nothing less than persecution of those who are different.

Warming to the feelings of righteous outrage, I sipped my drink. Finding it empty, I left the can on the couch and got up. I’d been intending to find another one, but as I walked towards it I started to lose interest. I didn’t know why I was having alcohol anyway – everyone else had grabbed drinks ASAP, and I’d just sort of followed the crowd. Probably what most people did, I reflected, and meandered past the drinks station. I decided that I’d tour the house a bit to see if I could find anything worth doing to pass the time.

The party itself was more or less confined to the basement, so I headed upstairs to see what the rest of the house was like. I wasn’t too surprised to note that people were making out on any available couch, chair, wall, and coffee table up here too – apparently focussing on their Drug Of Choice – and I moved past them. I grunted as I whacked my shin on the coffee table and brushed past a mass of tangled flesh, which emitted muffled curses at me. It didn’t escape my attention that everyone who was focussed on their Drug Of Choice let forth a huge burst of irritation every time someone disturbed them. If I suggested another piece of music I’d get loud cries of no, fuck you; if I told them they should lay off the booze they’d just drunkenly flip me off and finish the can; if I disturbed anyone who was making out they’d get really malicious. I’m sure the imaginary critic could have said something about that, but I really couldn’t be fucked. I headed upstairs.

Upstairs were the bedrooms and a bathroom, which was, surprisingly enough, unoccupied. One thing I always tended to notice at parties was that the bathroom was always occupied and there were at least a few people standing in line to use the damn thing. I guess it was the fact that alcohol increased urine production (coupled with the fact that it caused regurgitation) that caused people to use the latrine a lot. Why they’d be vacant now was anyone’s guess, and since that included me I hypothesised, that everyone was too absorbed in their Drug Of Choice to bother with trivial things like basic bodily functions.

In any case, I used the facilities and washed my face and felt a little more coherent. Which was the only reason I happened to notice the sounds of voices and music coming from one of the bedrooms. Cautiously (I didn’t want my head bitten off by an amorous couple or triplet or ten-some or something), I knocked on the door. I heard some muffled voices saying something like “Dude, did someone just knock on the door?” and then a girl’s voice hesitantly called out, “Come in?”

I pushed open the door and saw that there were about seven people lounging in the bedroom with a boom-box, including the friend that had invited me along in the first place. She was turning 18 today. I hadn’t seen her for most of the party – she’d greeted me at the door and then gone off with others without a second thought – but she now waved me in with a big grin. Now this bit’s kind of weird. I had this funny feeling as I walked into her room. For a second, I could have sworn that my friend was a male named Clarence, but that was silly. She’d always been Taylor, a reasonably nice but not particularly attractive girl whom I’d met when I was at the airport trying to catch a taxi (she’d been waiting for her sister before she found out that her sister had come on an earlier flight and was already home). We’d shared a cab. She was definitely a girl. Maybe moving continents just disorients you. Or maybe I was just drunk now and dreaming the whole thing.

Yeah, that was it. I was remembering more clearly as I was looking at her quizzical expression (which she was returning, much to the amusement of herself and the onlookers). Her LAST name was Clarence.

“Hey Taylor,”

“Hi Roy… you didn’t have to knock, you know.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t want to walk in on some sort of orgy or something.”

She laughed and waved for me to sit down. I nodded to everyone, feeling a bit out of place because this was probably the place for her good friends to hide out for a bit and properly wish her a happy birthday.

“Happy birthday, by the way.”

“Thanks, Roy.”

Their earlier conversation resumed, and I contented myself with listening to their discussion of sports, politics, and the mechanics of oral sex (and the inevitable accompanying one-upsmanship). An awkward pause was just setting in when I suddenly noticed that there was music playing. I couldn’t figure out how it escaped my attention before, but I must not have been paying attention. They were playing MP3s on her computer.

“Hey, what song’s that?”

The girl who was sitting at the computer (she was pretty good-looking) glanced at it. “It says ‘Unknown Artist – Track 4’.”

“Thanks, you’ve been a big help.”

A few sniggers came from the others in the room, but I couldn’t tell if they were laughing with me or at me. Taylor grinned, shoved the girl aside playfully, and opened up her MP3 folder. “Any requests?” The girl looked mock-hurt and went to sit down beside me (I was sitting on Taylor’s bed). I glanced at her before answering.

“Yeah. Metallica – Master of Puppets.”

“Sorry, don’t have any Metallica.”

I looked at her in mock-shock. “How is that possible? It’s IMPOSSIBLE to have illegal MP3s from the artist that shut down Napster. I think it’s a rule or something.”

“Hey, maybe YOUR MP3s are downloaded but MINE are copied off of CDs. And I don’t have any Metallica CDs.”

I slapped my forehead. “Good God, does Phil know about this?” She had a boyfriend named Phil. He didn’t drink, but he was downstairs playing poker with drunk people (and winning very easily, therefore, because alcohol is not known for improving your powers of deception). I’d considered sitting in on the game but I didn’t have a good deal of money at my disposal. Maybe next time, I’d told him. He’d shrugged and proceeded to bluff a guy who had a pair of fours into calling and raising him (he had three kings). He was a big Metallica fan, but he’d only been going out with Taylor since New Years’ (which was a couple of weeks ago – she’d gotten drunk, he’d taken advantage of her, it was love at first sight). He could be forgiven for this oversight.

Taylor grinned again (a drunken grin – she had a habit of getting soused). “No, and you’re not gonna tell him… OR ELSE!!!” She gave me a big, totally unsubtle wink that was supposed to be only slightly exaggerated. I think.

I threw up my hands in mock-anguish. “I never get to do ANYTHING!” I mock-snuffled.

At some point between the time she sat down next to me and now, the girl sitting beside me had taken my hand in hers. I hadn’t noticed. My fingers were even twined with hers. Weird, I would have thought I’d notice that. She’d been silent during this exchange, although she had laughed appreciatively along the way at the proper points. Now she removed her hand and put it around my shoulders, pretending to mother me. “Aw, poor baby.”

Going with it (I wouldn’t usually have the courage for this sort of thing, but I had one or two drinks in me, which helped) I hugged her back, mock-snuffling again. “Yeah, it really sucks being me. Everyone’s horrid except me. I’m just too perfect for this world.”

She laughed and playfully batted my head, which I laid in her lap. I squirmed a bit, got comfortable, and turned so I could see what else was going on in the room. The girl started playing with my hair with one hand and held my hand again with the other.

And I didn’t blow it by getting really nervous or excited. I knew precisely what was going on (she might have thought I was drunker than I was, but I was pretty sober) but for some reason it didn’t concern me or excite me. I was blasé and almost resigned to it. It wasn’t a question of whether I wanted it or not, it was whether it was going to happen or not. And I knew it was; there were no two ways about it. It was a strange experience, but I shrugged it off as best I could. The others had been talking through our little exchange, and I caught up quickly. They’d put on some Linkin Park and then resumed conversation.

“Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. But what is power? Power is the ability to change the world as you see fit. This stems from one human ability: imagination. A human can imagine the world as it might be, and that is power. To implement these changes is to simply exert power. Power is not the actual implementation, but the conception of how things might be.”

I started. That voice had not come from anyone in the room. It was not my voice. I had definitely heard it, but I wasn’t sure where. The voice had been a deep male one, speaking very softly but right near my ear. I knew immediately what was going on – I had started to dose off a little and that was the beginning of a dream. I always heard voices while I was falling asleep, always very realistic, always saying something ominous (although being ominous might just be the impression one gets in a dark room when you hear a disembodied voice speaking to you).

The real voices were talking about Limp Bizkit.

“I dunno, man, I kinda like the new CD.”

“C’mon, that CD sucks.”

“It’s more… adult, more mature.”

“It’s fucking bullshit.”

“Damn right. Fred Durst is such a lame-ass.”

“He’s such a goddamned fourteen-year-old, running after Britney Spears and whoever else.”

“Megalomaniac.”

“What the fuck’s a megalomaniac?”

“Buy a dictionary, Einstein.”

“Bite me, bitch.”

“Suck my cock, shit-eater.”

“I still say the CD rules.”

“Go fuck yourself you pathetic pussy.”

“Why the hell not? It’s the only pussy he’s gonna get!”

Laughter.

“Seriously, you want some of that emotional shit you should listen to someone who does it better.”

“Like who?”

“Nirvana does some.”

“God, Kurt Cobain, there was a fucking lame-ass.”

“Screw you, cock-sucker, he was a genius.”

“He was fucking manic-depressive.”

“Aren’t all artists a little bit insane.”

“Wow, that almost sounded philosophical.”

“Dude, that was a fucking masterful piece of philosophising.”

“Is that was your mum said in bed last night with you?”

Laughter.

“Philosophising sounds so much like a euphemism for sex.”

“’Euphemism’? What the fuck? Go hump the couch, dork.”

“Go to school once in a while, dumbass.”

“School’s for losers.”

“School’s for people with double-digit IQs, unlike yourself.”

“Yeah, I guess my triple-digit IQ is just too great for the puny high school system.”

“You need a math class as well as an English class. Two minus one is ONE, not THREE.”

“Fuck you, geek.”

“Fuck you, retard.”

“Fuck both of you. Quit fighting, you guys are acting like such Melvins.”

“Does ANYONE say ‘Melvin’ anymore?”

“Apparently she does.”

“How old is she anyway.”

“That’s Taylor, you drunk shit. She’s eighteen.”

“Oh yeah. Happy birthday, dude.”

“She’s a dudette.”

“She looks like a dude.”

“You’re going down, bitch!”

Laughter, and some mock fighting.

I piped up. “You’re all lunatics.”

More laughter. I think that someone said something about the men in white getting here soon, but it was overshadowed by the fact that the girl bend down and kissed me. And, for some reason, it surprised me. I had been expecting things to progress, of course, but I’d always imagined the lead up and then suddenly I’d mentally jump to feeling each other up and all. For some reason I’d forgotten that one of the things that happened while making out was that the two people would kiss. At a party, you know, it’s more of a physical thing. It’s not an act of love or caring, it’s more along the lines of assisted masturbation. I just completely forgot that people kissed when they made out. It was boneheaded, but there it was.

I went with it and kissed back.

It must have been about here when the full weight of the situation hit me. I don’t just mean the fact that this was my First Kiss (as embarrassing as that fact was!) and soon to be my First Time, but the fact that I was in a completely new situation with completely new people experiencing completely new things that were piling one after the other like a throng of angry people trying to force a door open when all of a sudden it is opened by a genial host and Newton’s gravitational laws glance sharply in their direction and order them to land painfully on their faces on the doormat, one on top of the other. The total ludicrousness of my life and, I suppose, of life in general. The fact that having someone else’s tongue in my mouth was considered somehow enjoyable, the fact that my hands were drifting around over her shirt and jeans despite the fact that nothing could be felt through the thick fabric, the fact that she was rubbing and massaging the zipper of my jeans despite the fact that she was missing (she had my balls, she thought she had my cock), they were all melding into a feeling I didn’t quite know the word for. It was something along the lines of what the fuck? but that wasn’t entirely accurate either. I knew exactly what the fuck, but I didn’t know why the fuck. But I also knew that the question of why was fairly obvious too – fucking was a basic human instinct and we’d all die out if we didn’t enjoy it so much that we wanted to do it all the time despite the fact that there were plenty of other ways to occupy our time. I guess it was what the fuck? mixed with why the fuck? and a dash of who gives a fuck?. But even then, the more I thought about it, the more I realised that the who gives a fuck? was growing more and more, until it was blotting out the what and the why.

I think that in another situation I might have analysed how this was a microcosm for life in general: it’s all random anyway and there are just certain random things that happen that are familiar and others that are not. But I was starting to understand that if you had a who gives a fuck? attitude, you just didn’t ask or answer those questions. Which just made the whole feeling paradoxical.

Then the girl got up. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she explained, and she abruptly walked out of the room. I sat up and looked around the room. Everyone else had fallen to making out with one another as well, so I guess I was now another one of those guys who spent parties sitting in the dark and making out (someone had turned off the lights at some point). I wondered how long I’d been making out with that girl – I didn’t even know her name! – but then, who gives a fuck? I glanced over to my right to see a guy who was sitting on the edge of the bed watching the roomful of people with a bemused expression. He looked over at me and gave me a goofy grin and a thumbs-up sign.

Not really knowing what to say, I pointed to the door. “She went to the bathroom.”

He shrugged his shoulders. Whatever.

“Does that mean I sucked?”

“Probably.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Is she coming back?”

He shrugged again. “Probably.”

“Why would she come back if I stink?”

“Because she wants to get off.”

“Wouldn’t she be better off masturbating or something?”

“That’s probably what she’s doing.”

This would ordinarily have pissed me off, but in my present mood I was almost amused. It was weird, I was feeling strangely detached, like I was watching a black, heavily ironic comedy instead of living my life. I thought, strangely enough, that it was a thing of beauty.

I decided to keep making conversation. “So how come you aren’t fucking?”

He pointed to one of the corners of the room. “My girlfriend’s over there.”

“She’s making out with someone?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t care?”

“No.”

“Why aren’t you making out with someone?”

“Because she’d kill me.”

Again, I simply found this amusing. “Isn’t that being hypocritical.”

“Nah. She’d be cool if I was making out with a guy. And I’m OK if she’s making out with a girl.”

I finally got it. I squinted into the darkness. “That’s a girl she’s making out with?”

The guy nodded and smiled.

“That’s so hot.”

“It is.”

I glanced back into the darkness. “Your name’s Marvin, right?” I’d figured out who he was – he was Taylor’s boyfriend, sporting long hair and a Metallica t-shirt.

“That’s right. Taylor told me your name, but I forgot.”

“Roy.”

“Hi, Roy.”

“Hi, Marvin.” I paused for a few seconds, wondering how I should phrase this. “I didn’t know that Taylor swung both ways.”

“She doesn’t. She just likes making out with girls.”

I frowned a bit. “Doesn’t that mean she swings both ways?”

Marvin laughed. “You ARE naïve!”

I smiled, although I was kind of wondering if Taylor and he had discussed me and decided that I was naïve. I didn’t care much in my present mood, but I noted it for later. In retrospect, I realise that I was coming off the high I was feeling from the who gives a fuck? feeling. The what and why were starting to come back in style. “Hell no! If someone enjoys making out with members of the same sex, they’re gay-slash-bisexual!”

“No way, dude, this is how it happens – “

Marvin was cut off by the girl – she had come back, which surprised me a bit. She looked amorous, which surprised me more. I figured she’d been taking care of that in the bathroom. She cut him off by bending down and kissing me hard. I kissed back as a reflex, noticing another thumbs-up from Marvin in the corner. He turned back to watch his girlfriend make out with her girlfriend.

Meanwhile, my girl pulled back for a moment. “By the way, what’s your name?”

I had to make a strong effort to control myself from that one. Usually I’d be put off or be otherwise idealistic about that sort of thing, but now I felt like it was the funniest fucking thing that ever happened. “My name’s Roy. What’s yours?”

“Elsie.”

“How do you spell that?”

“Well, not LC. It’s spelled E-L-S-I-E.”

“Oh.”

She pushed me back down on the bed so that I was lying down with my legs hanging over the bed, feet planted firmly on the floor. She took off her shirt and threw it into the darkness, put her legs on either side of my torso, pulled off my shirt, and began kissing me again while straddling me. I undid her bra and we kissed and gasped for air. As I massaged her breasts, she managed to get out some words between the kisses and gasps.

“Nice to meet you.”

I couldn’t completely suppress the laughter this time. “Likewise.”




Three

One of the strangest thoughts I ever had in my life was when I sat down to breakfast with Marvin and Taylor. The thought I had was, and I quote, “Isn’t Marvin’s name Phil?”

I kid you not. It’s the most random, fucked up thing that had entered my head to that point, and it’s still way up there. But, and again I shit you not, that’s what I thought.

I remember thinking the previous night that his name was Phil as well, but then you can never really trust your perceptions at a party. Even then, I must have remedied that little piece of stupidity later on. When I’d met him properly, I’d called him Marvin. I shook my head as I pointed to bacon and eggs on the menu such that the waitress could see. She’d misunderstood what I was saying three times, which was fairly understandable if English wasn’t her first language. But it seemed like it was… she was a typically (stereotypical) middle-aged coffee shop waitress with bad hair and a southern drawl (despite the fact that this was a long way from Texas or wherever she came from). I considered asking her if it was difficult to leave her family behind so that she could come to California and make her fortune working at Denny’s, but I was pretty sure that would get me in trouble. Instead, I said in my best Texas accent that I wanted a cap a’ tee with mah eggs. I figured she’s find it patronising, but instead she just nodded and walked off to do whatever it is waitresses do when they get the orders from the customers. I hoped she was strategically mixing up the order with some good-looking girl elsewhere in the diner, but that didn’t seem particularly likely; all the more so because there was no one else below the age of 65.

Sitting in silence and mild disgust while Taylor and Marvin exchanged “couple’s talk”, which is, I believe, a dialect of baby talk (or vice versa), replete with kisses and pats and awwwwwwwww!!!s as punctuation marks, sprinkled as liberally throughout the conversation as full stops are in dialogue for an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie.

I lost track of where I was going with that sentence.

Oh yeah, I was sitting there trying to stop my brain from turning to mush due to the influence of the happy couple when I happened to realise the possible origin of why I’d had such a bullshit thought like “Isn’t Marvin’s name Phil?” His last name was Phillips, which accounted for the possible mix up. Much like the mix-up I’d made yesterday between the names Taylor and Clarence.

It seemed kind of strange that I’d make such a strange mistake twice in the same day, but maybe it was influence of the alcohol. If so, I must have been drunk on the bus on the way to Taylor’s place.
It didn’t make a fucking bit of sense.

Not that it needed to. It was a harmless bit of stupidity and while I hated being stupid I was prepared to drop it for the moment. Besides, I was hungry.

Just then the waitress returned with our food – “That was quick,” said Taylor, while I privately thanked god and started shovelling away – and made some sort of vague gesture towards the front of the room. I paused, mid-shovel, and turned to look where she was gesturing. It was just a fish tank by the door. I frowned, swallowed, and shoved another forkful in. Swallowing that and taking a swig of tea to help it down, I took another shovel.

I was hungry, remember?

Anyway, I shovelled away, battling with myself between eating the cardboard eggs and sweating bacon and trying to turn over my shoulder to see the fish tank, the door, the desk by the door, or whatever the waitress had been trying to bring to my attention.

The decision was made for me, because I accidentally finished all the food. Relieved at the break in momentum, I peered back to the door area. Nothing was amiss… the fish were alive, the cash register was sitting in front of a rather pretty waitress (I noted that the tip jar was right beside it as well, which was a pretty good trick on the part of the manager because then the pretty waitress would see how big a tip you left and, in the male mind, make inferences between the size of your wallet and the size of your… but I digress) and the door was in one piece and closed.

Draining the cup and pouring more tea (she’d given me a pot), I mused on this strange. I decided that the waitress had been playing a practical joke and therefore deserved no tip.

But it didn’t make sense!

Speaking of not making sense, I should back up a little. I was in a Denny’s near Taylor’s house. I’d woken up this morning in Taylor’s bed with Elsie gone. I’d slept in a bit more than the others, and had found only Taylor and Marvin left. They’d cheered and laughed and I cheered and laughed along. Then Marvin had mentioned that he was hungry, and Elsie and I had agreed.

So now we were here.

“So, Roy, how WAS she, anyway?”

“How was who?”

“Don’t be an idiot! How was Elsie?”

“You mean…” I made a circle with my left thumb and forefinger, and shoved my right index finger through to represent fornication.

“Yeah.”

“Good, I guess. I don’t have a point of reference.”

“You don’t have a what of what?”

“I haven’t slept with anyone else. I can’t compare to anyone.”

“No shit!”

“Uh, no, no shit…”

“No fucking way!”

“Way.”

Elsie turned to Marvin and said, rather loudly, “Would you have ever guessed that he was a virgin?”

“No he isn’t.”

“Well, not now, fucktard, but he was yesterday.”

“Yeah, I would have guessed.”

“Man, I didn’t know!”

I frowned. “I thought I told you.”

“Nope. Man, so how was it?”

“I thought I told you that too.”

“You said you had no point of comparison or something.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“But did you enjoy it?”

I sipped tea and started to eat from my full, steaming plate of eggs and bacon. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“You guess so?”

“Yeah. It was more or less what I expected. What do you want me to say?”

“Well, that it wasn’t good or it was fantastic or something. Not fucking ‘I guess so’!”

“OK, it was awesome, it was fan-fucking-tastic, it was the bomb, it owned. Satisfied?”

She grinned. “Yeah.”

“Well OK then.” I resumed eating my eggs. Waitaminnit.

I frowned into my plate, then frowned up at my breakfast companions. “Uh, guys…”

“Yeah?”

“Didn’t I finish my eggs?”

Marvin looked down at my plate and looked up at me with a frown on his face. “No.”

“I could have sworn I’d eaten my entire plate of eggs.”

“Well, they’re still in front of you.”

“I know! That’s what’s freaking me out!”

“Jesus, Roy, calm down. Sounds like you spaced out or something, that’s all.”

“But I didn’t! I swear that I had eaten all of my eggs and my bacon! I did it just before I looked over at the fish tank.”

“Oh yeah, I saw you do that. Why’d you do that?”

“Because the waitress… that’s not the point! Before I did that, I finished my eggs!”

“No you didn’t.”

“But I did!”

Taylor looked annoyed. “Look, Roy, if you’re going to throw a fit, I’m out of here.” Marvin shrugged and nodded his assent under her glare.

“But I tell you…” Taylor, obviously not in a good mood, got up and walked out. Marvin shrugged and went after her. I caught them talking as they left.

“My god, what a fucking weirdo.”

“Leave him alone, Taylor, he’s your friend.”

“Doesn’t give him the right to be a freak.”

“Hey, c’mon – “ I couldn’t catch any more because they went out the door.

I just sat, looking at my plate. I could have sworn that I’d finished my meal. I didn’t fucking get it.
But there wasn’t much I could do about it. I finished my food and paid the bill (Taylor and Marvin had conveniently forgotten to chip in for their share), and I just left.




Four

I was pondering over the whole breakfast thing as I was sitting at the bus stop outside the restaurant and could only draw the conclusion that I had just imagined that I’d finished my food. It was very weird, but nothing else made any sense. The more I thought about it the more I figured that this was right. But it was pretty strange, I must say. I guessed that I just hadn’t had much sleep, and that was doing funny things to my head.

To be honest, though, I’d kind of stopped caring as soon as I’d left the Denny’s. I was sitting at the bus stop and wondering when the next bus would come, and that was occupying more of my attention. I don’t like taking the bus on weekends because you can’t ever be sure when, and if, it’s coming. You’re usually the only one at the stop and you’re just hanging around, looking like an idiot, wondering if the bus is going to come before some mugger gets the idea of jumping you and taking your wallet. The types of people that took the bus didn’t help much. For some reason it was the general rule that only defective people took the bus. The people were either disabled (differently abled, I beg your pardon), mentally retarded (I dunno the politically correct term), or just generally fucked up. There was this one guy that I’d seen on the bus a few days ago who had to be in his forties, but he had a baby face and spoke like a six year old. And he spoke to everyone. Another woman, in her fifties or sixties, spent the entire trip staring at me. I’d avoided looking at her and stared out the window in the hopes of getting her to go away, but she didn’t relent. For some reason, after about twenty minutes of this, she started kicking me in the foot. I stood up and moved away, not really sure what to do, but she just got up and kept kicking me. I mean, WHAT THE FUCK? I was close to my stop and just got off and, thank god, she didn’t follow me, but I was completely at a loss. I couldn’t figure out what the fuck her problem was.

For some reason, as I was sitting here at this bus stop, I laughed at it. For a little while, I couldn’t figure out why, because I kept thinking “what the fuck?” and “why the fuck?” but I finally got it. The mindset of the previous night was creeping in again, and I was thinking more along the lines of “who gives a fuck?” It was a surreal but pleasant feeling, actually, but I didn’t really understand why I was getting it. But then, who gives a fuck?

“What the fuck?”

My thoughts were interrupted when I looked up and saw a woman, in her late thirties or maybe her forties, looking at me in surprise and, strangely enough, horror. The horror started taking over.

“Why the fuck are you here?”

My “who gives a fuck?” feeling was still strong enough for me to answer. “I’m waiting for the bus.”

“I know that! Don’t be fucking retarded! Who the fuck are you? No, don’t tell me! I don’t want to know! Fuck off! Stay away from me! Don’t touch me! Get the fuck out of here!”

All the time she was speaking, she was backing away from me. The only thing I could think of to do was to stand up and move towards her awkwardly. She kept backing away.

“Look, I – “

“No! Fuck off! Don’t touch me! I don’t give a fuck! I’m safe!”

“But – “

“NO!” She screamed and ran directly away from me which, unfortunately, sent her right onto the road. And yes, she got creamed by a truck. I bent over her as she mouthed her last “fuck you” at me and died.
As I looked at her I felt someone looking over my shoulder. You know that feeling? It’s weird: you have a sixth sense about it. You just KNOW that they’re there, looking over your shoulder, even though you can’t see them. It’s really trippy. But I had finally realised how you know, and it’s because you can hear them breathing. It’s low, but it’s there. You notice it subconsciously, and even then only if the breathing’s loud and only if you’re not preoccupied with something else. It’s really trippy.

“Would you mind not breathing over my shoulder?”

“Hey man, I’m a living breathing human being.”

I started. That phrase sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place where I’d heard it. I turned around to look at the guy. It was the truckie. “Oh, hi. Should we call an ambulance or something?”

The truckie shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so. Do you have a cell phone?”

“Nope.”

“Shit.”

Pause.

“Any payphones around here?”

I looked around. “Yeah, there’s one on the corner over there.” I pointed. The truckie squinted in the noontime sun and spotted it.

“OK, I’ll go call the ambulance, you wait here with her.”

“OK.”

He walked off, but it seemed like only a second before the sirens started up and a police car skidded around the corner. The car’s tires squealed as the driver accelerated too fast, and then they finally caught. The car headed straight for me, but screeched on the brakes and stopped within a hair of smashing its bender into my skull. The sirens cut themselves off abruptly and I was left to stare at the police car’s bender and smell the fumes of hot car engine.

A blue uniformed cop stepped out of the car, cutting off the glare of the sun. He shadowed over me, tall and erect, and cleared his throat. He spoke with a country drawl, and I wondered if he was related to the woman in the coffee shop.

“OK, let’s all keep calm. What’s going on here?”

I stood up but was dismayed to find that my head only came up to the cop’s shoulders. I’m not that tall, but this guy was a fucking beast. Fortunately the truckie (who was a good head taller than me, but still a touch shorter than the cop) came up to bat.

“Short version: stupid bitch runs onto the road, I brake, can’t brake in time because of stupid bitch being stupid bitch and running onto road, bitch gets fucking axed.”

The cop turned to me. “That what happened?”

I shrugged. “Pretty much.”

The truckie added, “And she was a stupid bitch.”

I think the cop said something, but I suddenly noticed that I had been kneeling in a pool of the lady’s blood. “Aw fuck,” I said, and walked off to the side of the road to wipe off my jeans. I noticed then that a couple of other police cars had arrived and were putting that police tape around the scene and taking pictures of the body and all the shit that policemen do when something like this happens.

There wasn’t that much traffic on the road, but a couple of cars slowed down as they passed to get a better view. I didn’t have any problems crossing the road to get back to the truckie and the cop. As I came back up, the cop turned to me. “Right. You two will have to come down to the station with me. We’ll need your statements.” We both mumbled “OK”.

The station turned out to be pretty much right around the corner. I was hustled into a bare room of stained walls that might have once been white. I was told to sit down in one of the ugly chairs by the bare, slightly rotted table. There was a mirror covering most of one of the walls, and I figured that it was the two-way glass you see in movies.

I kept myself amused as best I could for the twenty minutes they let me sit there. Then this suit comes in. he’s wearing a morosely funereal outfit with black trousers, a black coat, a narrow black tie, and dark glasses. There were only two white things on him: his skin and his shirt. His shirt was very white and starchy, and judging from the expression on his face it was itchy too. Of course, the guy could just be one of those really unfriendly types. His face was contorted in a permanent ugly scowl.

He sat down opposite me and calmly opened a manila folder. I covertly peered over at the contents. They were the preliminary reports and photos and stuff from the accident. I couldn’t help but marvel at the fact that they’d managed all that in only a half-hour or so. The suit flicked through the contents, seemed to get bored, and closed the folder again. He pushed it aside and leant forward to look at me.

“So, Mr. Morton, I’ve been told that you’ve been involved in a little mishap.”

“Er, yes, yes I have.”

“Less than an hour ago.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, Mr. Morton, what happened.”

I explained briefly about the encounter. I told the complete and utter truth, figuring that things would just be simpler if I did. The suit just looked at me as though I was a fly in his soup.

“Is that the truth, Mr. Morton?”

“Well yeah. She just goes nuts. She must have been psychotic or something. She was delusional.”

“Indeed. We searched her purse and her other personal effects and I can tell you that she was not on any medication for any psychiatric problems.”

“I see.”

“We also checked all psychiatric wards in the area and we can find no evidence that she was ever in one of them.”

“You did that all in half an hour?”

The suit cocked his head and grimaced as though someone had forced him to swallow a bitter pill. “The point, Mr. Morton, is that your story simply does not make sense. Why would she run screaming at the very sight of you? You do not make for a very intimidating figure.”

“I know. Like I said, I think she was crazy.”

“But how is that possible? I just told you, she does not seem to be a patient anywhere near here.”

“So maybe she was a patient far from here.”

“Oh, yes, or maybe she wasn’t a patient at all.”

“Maybe. She might never have gotten help. But the point is that she was crazy.”

The suit sighed. “Mr. Morton, why must you lie to us? Why must you stonewall our investigation?”

“I’m not,” I objected. “I told you precisely what happened. I think she was crazy, and I think that you cannot falsify that claim in a half hour.”

“Are you questioning my integrity?”

“No, I’m just saying that she might have gone to a hospital on the other end of the city.”

“Then why was she at this end?”

“Visiting someone, perhaps?”

“How is it that you have an answer for everything? It seems entirely too convenient, Mr. Morton, for a self-proclaimed bystander.”

I frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. You’re asking me questions, I’m answering them, and you’re saying that by answering them I’m incriminating myself?”

“You have an answer for everything. It’s too perfect.”

“Would you rather that I couldn’t answer something?”

“It’s just too perfect.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

That set me off. “I’m not being an idiot, YOU’RE being the fucking idiot.”

“Shut up! I’m not going to listen to this slander anymore. I want to keep this discussion at a high level and you’re trying to turn it into a shoutfest.”

“You started it.”

“Watch it! Let’s keep this civil. Who cares who started it?”

I exploded again. “You said two seconds ago that I did it! I was making sure you weren’t slandering me!”

The suit was getting really annoyed too. “I did no such thing!”

“Yes, you did! You said –“

“I said nothing of the sort. You’re a liar! Shut up! Shut up! We have more important things to discuss.”

I was still incensed, but I figured it wouldn’t do any good to fight this one more. I took a deep breath and swallowed my pride. “OK, ask your next question.”

“Mr. Morton, why did you kill that woman?”

I tried to remain calm, honestly I did. “I didn’t kill that woman. It’s just not true.”

“Mr. Morton, why can’t you be civil for two seconds? I asked you a simple question and you call me a liar.”

Fuck’s sake! “I did NOT call you a liar! I answered your question as calmly as I could!”

“Yes you did! Yes you – “

“No, I didn’t!”

“You did! The people in the next room can hear. They’ll agree with me! You called me a liar!”

“I said that it wasn’t true that I killed the woman!”

“Then you’re a liar!”

I got REALLY pissed off. “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

The suit stood up and two blue-suited policemen rushed into the room. They held me down and the suit took a case from a pocket inside his coat. He opened it up to withdraw a needle and a vial. He carefully sucked some green liquid into the needle and tapped out the air bubbles. He put down the vial and I saw the label: Truth Serum.

“You’re going to help us, Mr. Morton, whether you want to or not.”

I had been struggling up to this point – I hate needles – but all of a sudden I went limp. What the fuck did he just say? I recognised the line.

All of a sudden this all made sense.

“Am I in the Matrix?”

The suit gave a maniacal grin and I screamed and cursed and yelled and wrenched and kicked. I was in the fucking Matrix! None of this was real! Something was going on and I didn’t know what it was! Have to get the fuck out!

And all of a sudden I managed to wrench free of the police. I took advantage and ran for the door of the little room, slamming it behind me. I leant against the door, keeping it closed, while I caught my breath for a moment. I was getting the idea that something weird was going on here – how could I be in the Matrix? – but I would be damned if I had the time to sort it out now. I had to move, but I had no idea what to do or how to do it.

I wished that someone would appear to help me out. And someone did.

The truckie stumbled across me as he was moving down the corridor. “Hey man, what’s the problem?”

I glanced around me fearfully. “I don’t know. I think I’m – “ and all of a sudden I couldn’t say it. I was scared again, scared like of nothing else except a nightmare I had when I was four when a fish meowed at me. I was in a similarly ludicrous situation, and I was similarly scared for a reason I couldn’t quite place.

“You think you’re what?”

“I’m in the Matrix.”

The truckie looked at me knowingly. “I see. You have to get out of here and you have to get to Maddajonson. I’ll stall them.”

“Maddajonson? Where’s that?”

The truckie was already looking over at a whole bunch of suits who were swarming towards us. He ripped one of those metal light poles out of the ground and started waving it at them. “Go! Get out! Go find Maddajonson! I can’t hold them off for long!”

He turned, his dark glasses flashing me with sunlight. I looked on helplessly for a moment as his dark coat twirled around him, his clean-shaven face sporting a determined look, the pole looking like nothing more than a toy in his hands.

“GO!”

What else could I do? I ran for my fucking life.




Five

I was on the third floor of the Police Station, which meant that I had to either take the elevator or the stairs to get down to the bottom floor. The weird part about that was that I couldn’t recall having actually gone UP the stairs or the elevator. But that wasn’t really on my mind just then. I still had the baddies after me.

I saw an elevator’s doors just closing, so I made a leap for them and managed to punch the button just in time. The elevator glared at me, almost. It was paranoia, perhaps, but I got this incredible feeling of malice from the elevator. The elevator’s lights were menacing in their faded orange glow and their worn dings and bleeps and other noises it had been forced to make during its time. This elevator had done the same thing over and over again, day in and day out, for all of the years since its construction. It moved up, it moved down, it stopped, and it made little noises to communicate its actions to the passengers. That was it.

The poor bastard was bored stiff. It didn’t like its job, it didn’t like its life, and it sure as hell didn’t like me. I was a passenger, and passengers were the bane of its existence. Its existence was a neverending torment because people would keep pressing the fucking buttons. They would never stop! It was a machine, it was created for one purpose, and that purpose was to transport people between floors.

I think that’s why it did what it did next. I got in the elevator and the doors started closing just fine. But then they stopped. They just stopped dead in their tracks. Then they opened again. I didn’t know what to make of that, but I pressed the button again and the doors started closing again. Fat chance of that shit, the doors stopped and opened again. I pressed the button one more time.

This time the doors got almost closed, but they opened again. They opened, however, because someone shoved his hand between the doors before they could close and send me happily on my way. The doors dinged unhappily and let the intruder in. It was a guy in his mid-twenties with an unkempt but bright-eyed look: like he hadn’t slept in three days and was too absorbed in whatever he was doing to sleep any time soon. He had the look of a guy who was doing precisely what he loved and doing a hell of a lot of it. I figured he was a grad student. He smiled at me in a friendly manner.

He was the perfect antithesis of the elevator I was in.

I figured the elevator would really hate this guy, but it turned out the doors began to close happily. Either the elevator liked him for some weird reason or was just sick of this shit and wanted to get rid of us. Fat chance.

The guy stuck his hand out and stopped the elevator from closing. “I’m waiting for someone,” he explained. I shrugged, and turned to look at myself in the mirror.

Now ostensibly I was checking my hair and overall appearance, and the ruse was kept up by messing around with my hair, straightening my shirt and jacket, and all that crap. But I just like to look at myself in the mirror. I’m not narcissistic, it’s more because I find it fascinating that all that I am is encapsulated in that chunk of meat reflected in the mirror. It’s very freaky. Probably more fun if I was high on weed.
This mirror was kind of interesting. The elevator was old, so the mirror had started to warp. Glass is interesting, because it’s actually a liquid. A very slow moving liquid, but a liquid. So while it might be nice and flat when first made, in about fifty years the glass pane will start to show bulges. After a few thousand or hundred thousand or whatever years, it’ll just be a brittle puddle on the floor.

The way I was standing coincided with the way the mirror was warped in just the right way to as to make my nose seem huge while the rest of my face looked pretty normal. It was kinda cool. I moved my head up and down to get a better idea, and I watched my face warp in different ways. When my head was lower, my forehead would bulge. When my head was higher, I would open my mouth and it would look huge. It was like a funhouse mirror, but the warping was just so, so that the effects looked very realistic.

Yep, very cool.

I have, of course, been rambling. The reason I was rambling was because this is what was going through my head while I was waiting for the guy’s friend to arrive, so the elevator could get going. But Christ, he or she was taking his or her sweet time. “How long’s your friend going to be?”

“Oh, not long. She was just using the bathroom, she asked me to grab the elevator.”

“Well, I’m in a bit of a rush.”

“OK, OK.”

We stood awkwardly for a few moments longer. Finally, a girl in her mid-twenties rounded the corner and ambled to the elevator. “Hi, Tom.”

“Hi, Angie. Let’s go.”

“No no, not yet.”

“What? Why not?”

“Oh, Dorothy’s going to finish in another ten or fifteen minutes, then we’ll all go for coffee.”

“C’mon, Angie. I don’t like police stations much. Can’t we just meet them there?”

“Well, I don’t know where it is.”

“You could run over and find out.”

“By the time I do that, they’ll be leaving too. So let’s just go back.”

“The elevators in this place take forever. C’mon, let’s just wait outside the building at least.”

“Are you kidding? It’s freezing out there.”

“It’s not that bad. We’ll be alright.”

“But for Chrissakes, Mike, you KNOW I get cold easily.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Well fuck, Mike, that’s your opinion. I get cold, and I don’t want to get cold, and that’s that.”

Keep in mind that this whole time the guy, Mike, had his hand stuck in the door of the elevator so it wouldn’t close. I’m starting to get ticked off: I have to get out of here and now a delay. I cleared my throat. Mike noticed and gestured his apologies.

“Look, Angie, this guy’s waiting. Make up your mind.”

“My mind IS made up.”

“OK, we’ll wait here.” He turned to me. “I’m sorry about that.”

I nodded and waved dismissively, although I was a lot more annoyed than I let on. Mike and Angie left, and the doors closed.

The elevator reached the bottom fairly quickly – it was only a couple of floors – and as soon as the doors opened I remembered that I was running for my life. There were several policemen waiting for me, tapping their nightsticks against their open hands menacingly.

Fuck.

I paused for a moment, trying to decide how to get past them. They grinned and cackled and, well, looked menacing. They then advanced as one, closing ranks around me. I looked for a way out and saw none. I just stayed still as they approached me.

Then I saw my opening. One of them got eager and started striding forward a little faster than the others. A couple of others did the same, subconsciously from his cue, I guess. That was my chance. I rushed at them and yelled in what I hoped was a fearsome manner. The ploy worked (sort of) because they all hesitated and drew back slightly, getting ready to hit me as I came near. I ducked and dodged my way through one of the gaps in the line that had formed because of the eagerness of the idiot cops. They managed to land a whack or two on me, but they were all glancing blows and did not hurt me. I made it outside with the cops hot on my tail.

Evening had come and fog with it. Snow moved through the air, descending in lazy arcs and thrusts. I looked out onto the street, wondering where to go from here and how quickly. I had people chasing me, which meant I should be moving quickly in some manner that would increase my displacement from the origin – in this case, the origin was the police station. But I didn’t really know where I was. I needed directions.
Just then I saw someone walking by on the other side of the street. I did a shoulder check and crossed quickly. It turned out to be a young woman, not older than twenty, and she was singing that doo-wah-diddy song.

Okey dokey.

I walked up to her and tapped her on the shoulder. “Excuse me, do you know the area well? I need directions.”

She turned and stopped singing, in that order. “Oh, hello. I think I can help, where do you need to go?”

I paused a moment. I forgot that I didn’t know where I should go. “I’m taking suggestions on that one as well. I just need to get out of here and fast.”

She peered at me, as if she couldn’t make out something. “Why?”

I sighed. I didn’t have a good lie, so I decided to tell the truth, or at least a part of it. “There are men chasing me and I need to hide out.”

She arched her eyebrows, intrigued but not necessarily impressed. “I see,” was all she said.
Just then the cops appeared from the mist. They had their revolvers drawn, and one of them yelled freeze. The woman looked about at them, then she stared straight ahead blankly. She appeared to be meditating.
Suddenly she leapt into action. She grabbed me about the waist and pushed me towards a nearby car. The police opened fire, but we were behind the car before the bullets started flying. She opened the door – it was her car, I guessed – and clambered in. I clambered in after her, keeping down and avoiding the shots that were flying about. She revved the engine and squealed the tires and swerved about the road a bit and then we were on our way. The shots stopped flying into and around the car, so I risked a peek behind us. The police seemed to have given up pursuit, but I didn’t like the silence. The woman seemed unperturbed, and was driving her now-beat-up car about. I sat back and took a breath, figuring that I was safe for now. I glanced over at my saviour and realised that I didn’t know where we were going.

“Where are we going?”

She glanced over at me and then back to the road. “I’m taking you to see Jesus.”