Apocalypstick (2 page)

“I don’t know where my manners are today,” the realtor said. My
name is Kristi. Kristi Halladay.” She held out her hand.

I hesitated half a second before taking it. I was always worried
about touching people, but my other voice was quiet, so I reached out. People
like a firm grip, so when she let out a little gasp, I knew I got it right.

“That’s a strong grip you have there, Mister… Mister…”

I smiled and nodded. “Thank you,” I said. I meant it to sound
bold and strong, but my voice cracked, and it came out as a hoarse croak. I
squeezed her hand, still smiling, because people like a good smile. Then my
imagination ran wild.

It wasn’t early in the morning anymore; it was the end of the
day. With her soft, warm little hand engulfed in mine, I imagined that she was
my wife, greeting me with that glass of wine as I came home from work.

She blinked a few times, and gave me an odd look, like she had just
remembered something she shouldn’t have forgotten.

“I don’t know where my head is, Hon. I’ll be right back.” She
kissed my cheek and lightly touched my chest as she walked by. Her fingers felt
electric through my t-shirt, and I gasped.

“What are you doing?”

It was my other voice. “Do I have to take care of this one, too?
Stop smiling so much!”

I stopped smiling. “But what if this is it? What if this is our
new home?” I whispered.

Kristi came back with a tall glass of wine. “Is white ok? It’s
all I could find.”

I turned back to the closet and ran my hands over the sinfully
soft cashmere jacket. I could practically see the handsome man of the house putting
it on to go to a meeting, or maybe just the grocery store. He was tall, with
thick wavy hair, like the people on TV.

Fido’s sweaters were soft, too. I touched the pink umbrella’s
handle and pictured the pretty lady of the house. She had short, stylish hair
that smelled like coconuts. I saw her walking the little curly brown dog in a
light summer rain. ‘Come on, Shirley,’ she says to the dog.

So that’s its name. Shirley.

Kristi looked at the glass of wine like it had been put in her
hand by a ghost. Her smile faltered, but her voice knew what to do.

“Shall we look at the rest of the house? I’m so embarrassed, but
I didn’t catch your name.” She held out her hand again. “Kristi.”

Not wanting a repeat of my first words to her, I cleared my
throat and spoke with a loud, firm voice.

“Thank you, Kristin.” I might have yelled it at her, but at
least I didn’t croak like a sick frog.

She smiled again, and I knew she understood. I walked out to the
front patio and back to the van. I didn’t need to see any more. It was perfect.

But my other voice was angry. As soon as I closed the van door,
it started yelling.

“What were you doing in there, you moron? How can we ever find a
new home with you going around scaring people?”

“I didn’t scare her! She understood! She knew.”

“She didn’t know anything! You messed up again, and now I have
to clean up after you… agian.”

“No, you’re not! Leave me alone! I’m finding home.”

The next thing I knew, I was in a hotel room with a big, comfy
bed, a chair, and a small couch. There was a little table with an office chair,
too, and a couple of nice pictures on the wall. The digital clock-radio said
9:45 PM. The whole day was gone.

I saw myself in the tall mirror by the door. I looked shabby
after an entire day of driving, and whatever else I might have done. I needed a
shower, but I was nervous about taking my clothes off with nothing but a thin
wall between me and whatever weird strangers lurked on the other side.

It wasn’t a place I could be comfortable bathing in, but I could
smell my odor. I knew that when you could smell your own stink, it had to be
pretty bad. I compromised by taking off my shirt and pants, but leaving my
boxers and my unmentionables on to hide my shameful areas.

I showered quickly, but I didn’t wash my hair. I let two full
minutes of hot water do the work, and then I stood in front of the air
conditioner, letting it blow directly on my wet boxers to dry them. The cold
was invigorating.

It turns out the walls were pretty thin, because I heard people
talking on the other side. Room service had delivered food to them, and my
stomach growled loudly. It wanted room service, too, but I couldn’t order it
until my clothes were dry.

Twenty minutes later, the thumping started. It sounded like they
were knocking on the wall, but then I heard the other sounds, and I knew. I was
shivering, and couldn’t tell if my boxers were still wet, or just very cold. I
covered my ears, and hummed Camp Town Races over and over to block it out, but it
didn’t work. I had to get away.

I dressed quickly, and found out that my undergarments were both
cold and damp. It would be an uncomfortable day, but I deserved it for
listening to the horrible noise next door.

 My neighbors had put their food tray out in the hall. I made
sure no one was around, and hurried over to it. I could still hear their sex
noises as I picked through their discarded meal.

I found half of a perfectly fine BLT, completely untouched,
beneath a metal lid. Absentmindedly, I picked up a fork with a few grains of
rice stuck between the tines, and stroked the smooth handle with my thumb.

Holding it, I pictured what my neighbors might have looked like
while they ate. They were young; probably no older than twenty. The
athletically built boy had short blond hair and a chipped tooth that marred his
otherwise perfect smile.

I picked up the other fork, holding it daintily with three
fingers, just like the girl did as she took tiny bites of her rice.

“Eat,” the boy says, shoving half of a sandwich at her.

“I don’t want it. Who knows where the bacon has been,” she replies.

He pushes it back towards her. “It’s been in a frying pan, dummy.
Eat it!” He’s laughing.

“Cut it out, Dillon!” she says, pulling away from him. He shrugs,
and takes a bite.

So, that’s his name. Dillon.

I took the half sandwich back to my room along with Dillon’s
fork. I knew it was wrong, but I lay down on the bed and took a bite, caressing
the fork. I could still hear them, but instead of tuning them out, I pictured
what they must have been doing.

My other voice railed against me as I became a silent witness,
even participant to their vile deed. I imagined the wretched girl’s look of
surprise as her stupid jock boyfriend grabbed her by the throat, still working
on her as he crushed her airway. I pictured her kicking and scratching at him futilely,
weaker and weaker until she couldn’t struggle any more.

The sex noises stopped.

I imagined that the big dumb ball player stumbled into the
bathroom, cried out loud with grief, and knelt in front of the bowl. It was hard
to picture, because it was so contrary to what a reasonable man would do, but
with an effort, I forced myself to see the young man plunge his face deep into
the filthy water, and inhale. His body wracked itself with convulsions as fell
back on the bathroom floor and drowned.

My daydream ended, and I felt a throbbing pain in my leg, where
I had stabbed myself several times with Dillon’s fork. It was so painful, and I
was so disgusted with myself, I vomited right in my bed.

Later, when the pain dulled, I cleaned myself as best as I
could, and went down to the concierge. The young woman behind the counter
didn’t look up, even when I was right in front of her. I stared at the floor
and waited, trying to ignore the pulsing pain in my thigh, while she tapped the
tiny keypad on her phone.

“Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there. Are you checking in?”
she asked.

She looked me up and down, and I wanted to straighten my hair,
and dry the sweat-stains in my pits. She jumped up when she saw my bloody
khaki’s.

“Oh my God! Stay calm, I’ll call the nurse.” She picked up the
desk phone and pressed a speed dial button.

“No nurse,” I said. I tried to smile and nod reassuringly, but
the pain was distracting. I reached across the desk and pressed the hang-up
lever. “Band-Aids?”

She looked unsure, but she put the phone down. “I’ll get a first
aid kit.”

“I need a new key, too. Mine’s locked in the room. It’s number
828.”

I took the elevator back to the eighth floor. Walking past my
room, I swiped my new key card in the lock next door. The light turned green with
a click and a quiet beep, and I went inside.

The girl’s dead eyes were wide with surprise and terror, just
like I had imagined. I threw the comforter over her naked body, trying not to
look. Trying. I found Dillon on the bathroom floor by the toilet with his wet
hair plastered to his head. It was funny how things always happened exactly the
way I pictured them. People always got what they deserved.

#

It was a tough night. I was exhausted from the long drive, and
whatever I did with the rest of the day, but my sleep was fitful and restless. My
dreams were invaded by the couple selling their home in Greenwood Gardens.

I had to watch them living their perfect lives, in their perfect
home, with their perfect dog, knowing that just by being happy together, watching
ridiculously banal sitcoms, and eating their baked chicken and vegetables; just
by living their perfect, boring lives, they mocked me. How could I ever have
what they had? I would never be worthy of another person’s love. Not like that.

I dreamed about my mother, too, and the all-night sleepover parties.
Sometimes, a different man would come over every night, and she would lock me
in my room. One night, three men stayed, and when they left, my mother didn’t
come open my door. I was eight years old. Aunt Sandy found me two days later,
still trapped in my room. She said my mother was in heaven. Not likely.

As tired as I was, I forced myself to get up. I wanted to leave before
the room next door turned into a crime scene. I drove around town for a while,
letting the van go where it wanted. This town was like every other. I found a
mall, an elementary school, and a few churches. But not far from Greenwood
Gardens, I found and old quarry. It was abandoned and very peaceful.

The pit was deep; a hundred feet, maybe two. I wasn’t very good
at guessing that sort of thing. I stood a while, just staring down at the
glassy water and the jagged rocks, but the peace was stolen by screaming gulls.
They swarmed like insects, diving and fighting for a position on a blue
crumpled SUV sticking out of the shallow water. Something about it nagged me,
but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

I wondered if the driver went in on purpose. To be honest, I
thought about jumping in, too. I even stood with my toes right on the edge and
my arms stretched out like wings for balance, but I fell backwards instead of
into the pit.

“Coward,” my other voice said. “You can’t even kill yourself
right.” I laid there and cried for a while, but my growling stomach made me
move again. I drove to the mall, ate some Chinese food on a Styrofoam plate,
and then went upstairs to watch the new Star Trek movie.

I was disappointed that Shatner wasn’t in this one, but
Greenwood Gardens kept intruding into my thoughts, and I couldn’t enjoy it,
anyway. I drove to Maple Drive, and stopped in front of number 108. It wasn’t
dark yet, but the lights were all on. Even though I knew it was bad for my poor
planet, the light was pretty to look at.

I let my thoughts wander into the house.

The handsome man puts a bowl of dog food on a floor mat, while
the lady cooks in three different pots. Something smells delicious in the oven,
too. He starts to clear the table of a bunch of paper bags with rope handles,
but she says to leave them.

“We’ll eat in the living room,” she says.

He sets up little folding tray tables by the couch, and they eat
together, while Shirley waits patiently at their feet for something to drop.
They watch the same boring show on their TiVo, laughing in time with the fake studio
audience.

They trade stories about their day while they clean up. She did
some shopping, and he met with an architect who had never heard of physics.

“Are you going to show me what’s in the bags?” he asks.

“I thought you might like to see them on. Play your cards right,
and I’ll model for you later,” she says with a slutty smile. They kiss, and he heads
towards the stairs, stopping at the front window to look at the strange van
parked outside.

“I think someone’s checking out the house, Babe.”

“Well, don’t be rude, David, invite them in,” she says, but she’s
just kidding.

So that’s his name. David.

I snapped out of my daydream and looked up to see David staring
at me through the tall, narrow window by his front door, just like I imagined.
I must have lost track of time, because it was suddenly dark. I watched him for
a second, and then drove away.

#

The Holiday Inn Express near the highway wasn’t as nice as the
Marriott, but it had a bed and a clean bathroom. I cleaned my leg wounds with water
and bandaged them again. They were small, but they were puffy, and hurt a lot. I
accepted the pain as a fitting reward for my weakness and perversion.