Mask of Flies (3 page)

“You’re a dick.”
Rick nudged him away with an elbow.

Marco laughed on his
way out the door.

“I’ll swing by
around lunchtime,” Rick said, as he sidestepped back into the room
and the cart rattled off down the hallway.

Tasked with providing
movement to the Jane, Rick was stuck in the room a little longer.
When he picked up her cold hand, with some contempt, he thought he
felt it tense up a bit. Again he felt a presence from behind, perhaps
Marco forgot something, but when Rick turned he saw no one. He
attributed his anxiety to being alone with her, but, still, he could
not shake the feeling that he was being watched.

When he finished, the
Jane’s head turned towards him. Her one livid-red looked into his.
A single tear streamed down her cheek.

Rick pulled into
Allie’s place around dusk. Her house was a two story antique
colonial built in the 1940’s. The exterior was painted Ivory—during
a bad snow storm the house became camouflaged from the roadside. The
interior was cozy and spacious, but during the winter a draft crept
in through the second story. Rick had plans to update the windows and
reinsulated parts of the attic.

From the fridge, he
pulled out a few cold Labatt’s from the side shelf. He twisted of
the top on one and placed a couple more in a small ice bucket. He had
a little while to catch his bearings before Allie came home.
Ruminating all day on the mystery of his new patient had worn Rick
down. And tomorrow would be an early morning.

The right side of his
head pulsed; it wasn’t the normal stress headache he occasionally
experienced after a hectic day in the Summer Hall. He turned up the
heater to 75 degrees and sprawled out in his recliner. On the
television, a reporter, with an overly contrived voice, announced
that an arsonist burned down a house on the lower east side.

These
guys really know how to lift your spirits after a long day.

The depressing news
continued, and the room felt heavy by the time Rick finished his
beer. He looked at the clock, and realized that he almost forgot that
Allie had some kind of big meeting at City Hospital in Rochester. She
was sealing the deal for the hospital’s exclusive use of her
company’s medication and wouldn’t be home for a few more hours.

Allie was on the fast
track. She worked in business development for Crane Pharmaceuticals,
who recently came out with a blockbuster anti-inflammatory drug that
treated auto immune diseases and was widely prescribed for Rheumatoid
Arthritis and Crohn’s disease. She was the lead for the drug in
regional Western New York. The new responsibility forced her to work
late most nights, but it afforded Rick some time to unwind, or grab a
drink with Marco and the boys after work.

Rick was defensive
about his current profession, a mere shadow next to Allie’s
success. He kept telling himself:
If the cards have me being taken care of by an older, more successful
woman, so be it
. He knew he was lying to himself, deep
down, but didn’t want to spoil a good thing. On that conclusion he
decided that the day warranted a trip up to Slow & Steady’s for
a few more beers.

* * *

On walk up to Slow’s,
Rick thought about the Jane: how she looked at him and cried through
that mask of suffering. He was unsure if she was upset, overhearing
the callous joking, or if she was in pain. Life had imposed burdens
on everyone he crossed paths with, but never in his years has he seen
anyone so broken.

Somebody
threw her away and didn’t look back.
Rick thought of the
judge that sentenced him to 7 years in prison.

Around the corner, he
saw the familiar, snowcapped pub, but something was different. Above
the doorway there was a strange sign, a much different sign: a court
jester was grinning grotesquely over the door. The backdrop that
surrounded the clown was a swirl of purple and golden, a psychedelic
swirl of nauseating color.

“Must be under new
management” Rick said to himself. The open sign flickered on as he
approached the chalet styled building.

Inside, Rick noticed
the extreme renovations made to the old neighborhood pub. Plush
red-leather booths hugged the walls, and the floor and tables were
adorned in dark mahogany. Partially melted red candles sat on high
shelving that slightly jutted from the wall; the candlelight cast
dancing shadows that filled the room to capacity despite the few
people in actual attendance. A long stacked-stone rectangle replaced
the old oak bar. The liquor shelving removed, behind the stones stood
a bare branched tree with red and black gourds hung from the ends of
sagging branches.

As Rick approached, he
saw large dragonflies encased inside the amber bar top. He ducked his
head underneath and saw that the enamel was one solid piece. Below,
he saw more exotic entomology encased in the amber: a banana yellow
spider, and fist sized, metallic beetle.

When Rick sat, the
strangest barkeep he ever laid eyes upon high stepped over to him in
an awkward, almost mechanical stride. The creature wore a skin-tight
latex suit, or some sort of body paint. His fingers were three times
the length of a normal human’s and came to a sharp point at the
tips. He leaned over to Rick with cheek in hand and rapped each
knife-like finger over the top of its head and peered at Rick with
black diamond’s set in deep sockets.

“Frankie, that isn’t
you under that getup, is it?” Rick asked.

The silver figure
leaned back with upraised hands, indicating he wasn’t Frankie, or,
perhaps, didn’t understand a word.

“So what kind of
special do you have going here?”

The creature walked
over to the strange tree in the middle of the bar and bowed, rolled
his hand, and pointed at a red gourd. Then he coughed, pulled a
greenish sheet from his toothless mouth, and unfolded it, producing a
five dollar bill. The figure held it up next to the red gourd bowing
slightly. The silver man then walked over to a black gourd performing
the roll- point- then bow routine and held the same bill in front of
it. But 3 gold gourds at the base of tree’s trunk grabbed Rick’s
attention.

Rick pointed, oddly
amused by the stranger’s antics. “How much for one of the gold
gourds?”

The silver man tilted
his head and patted non-existent pants pockets, then moving up to
invisible breast pockets. Rick thought he saw a mole with a wild
white hair growing out of the silver man’s arm. Maybe the presumed
suit was more than a cheap gimmick.

Tapping on his head,
the silver man brought his sharpened index finger in front of his
face. He reached to his black gem eye and twisted, lefty Lucy,
exposing a black socket. He reached into the opening and pulled out a
small money clip and removed a twenty dollar bill. Then the
perfunctory hand rolling- followed by the presentation of the bill by
the golden gourd.

“Quite a
presentation, now that I’ve seen the gold ones, how can I have
anything but?” Rick felt intoxicated just sitting in this strange
hideaway.

The silver man
shrugged.

“Based on the day I
had, I think I deserve something shiny,” Rick said, and he pulled a
twenty with a few stray ones from his wallet.

The strange barkeep
deftly plucked the gourd from the tree and ran its blade finger
across the top, creating an opening to the juices inside. He handed
Rick the gourd, took the money from the bar top, and bowed
courteously.

Across the room an
attractive woman in a men’s three piece suit approached. She tipped
her fedora in Rick’s direction then summoned the barkeep. Rick
responded by raising the gourd to her. He tasted the strange drink
with no apprehension. The ambrosia from the gourd tasted of lemon and
honey, mixed with an unfamiliar spirit. It released a soothing
coolness that spread throughout his body. The accumulated pressure of
the day subsided after the first few sips.

The women in the suit’s
words were soundless across the bar, and the silver man gesticulated
in response. After the brief interchange, she went to a booth in the
back and opened a leather case that was sitting on the seat. The
guitar she pulled up was exquisite; Rick admired it as she walked
past him, onto a small elevated stoop in the center of the room.

Her jet hair matched
the dark eye make-up, and crimson lipstick glistened off of full
lips. Her face held a mixture of elegant and strong features; a
combination impossible not to appreciate. Without saying a word, the
handsome woman began playing a beautiful flamenco tune.

Rick was mesmerized by
song and beauty on stage. The otherworldly concoction buffered this
feeling with its hypnotic glaze.
This
is fucking spiritual.

Midway through the
second song, Rick realized he had already finished the entire gourd.
It was going straight to his bladder, but he held on through the
remainder of the piece and clapped when it ended. Laying the empty
gourd on the bar, he made way for the sign marked: “Nature Room”.

The hallway to the
bathrooms was crimson red. The paint morphed to burnt orange when
intermingled with the flushed light from the wall’s candelabras. In
between the brass fixtures a painting hung, stylized like a
daguerreotype photograph, in all black and white. The woman depicted
in the artwork wore a tattered grey dress and reached out with her
right hand to the viewer. Her left side disintegrated into the
nebulous background. It drew Rick in, but the pressure on his bladder
broke the lock of the disquieting picture.

Both of the bathroom
doors displayed garden variety restroom signs. Rick’s first run in
with the status quo since entering the rabbit’s hole of a bar.

Inside the men’s room
he saw exposed insulation hanging from the unfinished walls.
Patchwork plumbing spurted from an improperly sealed connection. A
dangling florescent tube flickered an intermittent strobe from the
ceiling. A rancid odor filled the confines of the dilapidated
bathroom. Rick realized he wasn’t alone.

Through the
disorienting light, he made out an incongruous figure swaying by one
of the urinals. At first the figure appeared to be standing, but as
Rick looked closer the figure appeared to be legless, propped upright
with its hands and precariously balancing on the urinal’s bowl.

“Can’t a man take a
shit without being gawked at? Or does watching a cripple get you
off?” The legless man spat, and putrid sludge expelled from
underneath him. “These queers can put on quite a show, but can’t
keep a functioning toilet up and running.”

Disgusted and taken
completely off guard, Rick seized the instinct to turn around and
leave. He managed a few steps to the restroom door when he heard wet
scurrying across the floor. Reaching out for the doorknob, he felt
hands pulling at his leg from below. The legless man, completely
begrimed in a tarry substance, looked up at Rick, baring serrated
teeth. He went in to take a bite, but a burst of adrenaline propelled
Rick forward out of the imp’s grasp.

* * *

Rick lunged forward
in his favorite recliner in a cold sweat. Allie was leaned over him
with one hand on his upraised calf. “It’s okay hun, everything is
okay. You had a bad dream,” Allie said, caressing Rick’s
disheveled hair.

Rick sat forward,
locking the recliner upright and rubbed his brow. His hand shook so
bad he almost poked himself in the eye. “That’s the last time I
fall asleep watching the news. Too much negativity . . . You never
hear stories about the little girl winning the state spelling bee
anymore, just all doom and gloom, every day.”

“If humanity was
judged based on the evening news we would all be in a heap of
trouble. People like to feel like they made the right choice, locking
themselves up in their houses every night after work. The news
justifies their fear.” Allie pushed herself up out of Rick’s lap
and headed into the kitchen.

“Church,” Rick
said.

“What?”

“One of the guy’s
at work says that when he feels like he’s being preached to.”
Rick said. A banana flew out of the kitchen, thumping him on his
chest. “Whoa, you trying to kill me?”

“You look like dirt,
up your potassium.” Allie’s voice echoed from the kitchen. “I
picked up a rotisserie chicken from the store. I lost hope in having
a warm meal to come home to a long time ago.”

“So, how did the deal
go in Rochester?”

“The presentation
went well, considering the hospital’s director is an old bastard
set in his ways—I think I got him this time.” Allie stood in the
doorway with her hands upraised like a prizefighter declared winner.
She then kicked her leg out in a way that made her look like an
uncoordinated cheerleader, a sexy cheerleader nonetheless.

“That’s good to
hear, hun. I’ll be there in a sec, got to use the boy’s room.”
He made way for the drafty bathroom to relieve his bladder. Washing
up, he caught a glimpse in the mirror: the reflection haggard.

Returning to the
kitchen, Rick crept behind Allie and put his arms around her waist,
kissing her gently on the neck. “Welcome home babe.”

“Hey . . . looks like
both of us had a long day,” Allie said, placing her hand on his.

Rick set the table and
brought out some diet green tea and filled their glasses. Allie was
fixing a spinach salad with diced tomatoes and some microwavable rice
for sides. He cut up the rotisserie chicken, and the smell made his
mouth water. He was hungrier than he had thought; dealing with the
Jane all day had lessened his appetite, and the sandwich Allie packed
him for lunch went mostly uneaten.

“Marco and Tiff are
going up to the Albright–Knox this coming weekend to support one of
her sculpture students, making a splash with some creepy, life-sized
work. I figured it would be something you’d wanna see, you witchy
woman,” Rick said, pouring balsamic vinaigrette over his salad. “I
need a burger this weekend, momma; all this healthy eatin’ has got
my iron low.”