Purgatorium (18 page)

“That’s it. The trebuchet trick. That’s my boy!” I feel a surge of pride and smile guardedly. “Now do it again.”

I look at Michael, then back at the knife. I put it down, reluctant to try again. He is joking, right?

“You got lucky, but that’s not what this is about. Luck is only an illusion. Now you are afraid—afraid to try again. Afraid that it was just luck and that something so perfect can’t be redone. You’re a man who doesn’t believe in second chances when that’s all you need to learn.”

Michael
reaches for the waitress’ hand. She pulls back slightly.

“It’s all right. I won’t bite,” he says, smiling reassuringly at her.

She puts her hand out for him to take.
Michael
places her hand flat on the table between himself and me. He spreads her fingers apart, and then puts his hand on top of hers. He reaches into his jacket with his other hand and pulls out another butterfly knife. Realizing what is about to happen, the waitress tries to pull her hand back and protests, “Wait! No!”

“Now start again, boy,” says Michael. He picks up his dinner knife and starts stabbing it into the table between his and the waitress’ fingers, slowly at first but then speeding up. “There will come a point where your heart will race, your mind will not be clear, and your back will be up against the wall. This trick was never about deceiving an enemy; it was about keeping you aware under pressure. When everything in you wants to shut down, I want you to remember this trick. Let it calm your heart, ease your mind, and guide you in to something impossible. Now keep going, the waitress is counting on you to achieve the impossible.”

Slightly horrified by Michael’s abuse of the waitress, I try to repeat my earlier success, hoping this will stop Michael. I flip my knife around, but can’t seem to do the next part.

Michael
says, “Your faith in luck will not be your downfall. Not having faith in anything will. I will stop when you can do it.”
Michael
keeps stabbing the table, much faster now, in the spaces between the waitress’ and his fingers.

“Do you see how her fear overcomes her? The faster I go, the more she feels helpless. This is you at this moment unless you can prove me otherwise.”

Michael
increases his speed even more. The waitress looks on in horror and panic. “You see how she chooses to panic, to fear the outcome? It’s a choice. You have the same choice. You can either sit in fear, waiting for things to happen, or you can choose to act, knowing you cannot control the outcome, only accept it. You find your reason; you choose. End of story.”

Michael
slows down slightly. I, still struggling with the trick, drop my knife. I look at it as it hits the ground, just staring at it, not wanting to pick it up. I think back to me falling and looking at the scoreboard, watching the time tick from one second to the next.

The waitress quickly pulls her hand away. But as she does, her fingers slide between Michael’s. His knife comes down on her exposed middle finger, slicing it cleanly off just above the first knuckle. She screams and yanks her bleeding hand back to her chest, quickly squeezing her other hand around the stump to stop the rapid flow of dark blood.

Michael
laughs and claps his hands. The waitress, terrified and sobbing uncontrollably, backs away from the table where her severed finger sits in a small pool of blood.

Michael shouts, “Now that is being fearless!” She looked death in the eye and gave him her middle finger. “That is truth. That is finding purpose. Thank you for participating. Let the Lord rebuke thee!”

“You’re a monster!” the waitress yells between sobs with fury in her eyes.

I sit there and watch as if nothing really matters. My mind feels so numb.
Why am I just sitting here and not helping her? Why don’t I care enough?
I think, as I come upon an answer. What does it mean to care?

Michael
jumps up, takes a step towards her, and grabs her by her hair. Pulling her head back, he looks at me and slits her throat.

I stand up not knowing what else I can do for her, other than just stand there and watch. In only a few seconds, she stops struggling and slumps to the floor. Michael picks up his Polaroid from the table and takes a photo of her lifeless body, blood still flowing from her neck.

“No. Not a monster. I am a believer of reason and purpose.”
Michael
lines up his camera from another angle, as if he were a fashion photographer, and takes another photo.

He looks to me. “I believe she deserved to die so that you could find some purpose to live. Do you understand? The moment you stop trying is the moment you stop caring. But you have to care so that you can try. You let her die because you don’t care enough to do anything about it. Hopefully, by her death you will finally start caring about something other than yourself. Spoiler alert! God don’t like selfish quitters.”

I look at her dead body and feel a fire igniting inside me. That same feeling I felt before is slowly building up again. I glance back up to Michael. I can see her blood on his poncho which doesn’t help me at the least in calming myself.

“It’s called a serape, not a poncho,” he says. I look back up to his face, then down at his rectangular blanket, aka a Mexican poncho that he likes to call a serape, and notice that he too is now looking at the waitress’ blood stains. A smile wraps over him like a warm blanket. “Three reasons to have a serape. One, to fight off against hazardous weather. Two, its Cotton fabrics keep the body warm under lower degrees. Three, to protect against mishaps that could ruin $1,200 suits. It truly is a life savor if I do say so myself.”

Michael wipes his bloody hands on her face and hair. He looks into her eyes and says, “Alexandre Dumas once wrote, ‘I don’t think man was meant to attain happiness so easily. Happiness is like those palaces in fairy tales whose gates are guarded by dragons: we must fight in order to conquer it.’ Are you willing to fight for it?” He looks back up to me as I grip my knife in my hand. He gets up and puts his hand on the table as if daring me to do it.

I soon feel something burning inside of me that is somewhat hard for me to control. I lift up my knife, flip it open and over, and bring it down towards Michael’s hand on the table. He is too fast and slips his hand out of the way before the knife hits it. My watch beeps.

40 Minutes

I quickly calm down while looking at the knife, then to my hands, not understanding that sudden outburst of energy that I just felt.

“Boo-ya! There it is! How did it feel?! Great...didn’t it?!”

I pull my knife out of where I have stabbed it into the table, flip it closed and, glaring at Michael, stand up and stomp towards the exit.

“Ha! There you go! Storming out is just another sign of anger! Proud of ya!”
Michael
shouts after me as I rush down the stairs and out the front door of the restaurant.

Out on the street, I run towards the subway entrance when all of a sudden my leg catches on something in the middle of the road. I immediately trip and fall. I look behind me to find a manhole cover oddly half open. I crawl over wanting to know what’s down there.

Peeking through, I see a really narrow dark abyss leading all the way down. I wonder where it leads to? I take a deep breath, then releasing it back out from my mouth, I see the cold air dancing in front of my face. Without a chance to think anymore about it, I stand back up and return running to the entrance.

I quickly descend the stairs, go through the turnstile, and head down the last set of steps to the platform. The train is about to finish boarding. I jump on and sit in a booth by the window. I look out the subway window flipping the knife, unable to repeat the trebuchet. I hear a camera shutter to my left.

“So why sixty?” Michael sits a few feet down the subway chair, a photo coming out of his Polaroid.

Eyeing
Michael
antagonistically, I try to ignore him and stare straight ahead.

“That waitress was very upset with you for not helping her in her time of need.”

I look at Michael in disbelief.
How can this murdering angel blame me for the waitress’ death?
I think. I keep at it with my knife trying to contain my anger.

“Do you want to hit me right now? I want you to. I really want you to. I won’t even tell God. Cross my wings. Come on. Hit me! Hit me! Let me see that burning fire inside you again!”

Angry but still trying to maintain composure, I look quickly at Michael and then back out the window.

“Where’s that gung-ho spirit I saw back at the tree? I mean, you really surprised me on that one. I saw a lion in you for the first time in a long time.”

Michael leans in closer to my face.

“Do you want me to give you the rest of the pieces to your puzzle? You want to know why you are here? You want to? Then hit me! Hit me! Come on!! If Madi was here right now she would be shocked by your weakness alone. Actually never mind. She really wouldn’t be. It’s probably why she left you in that coffee shop. Saw nothing but a scared boy who wasn’t brave enough to tell her to stay. Sad really.”

I stand up, shaking with mixed feelings. I feel it again. The rage. My head begins to hurt as if my brain is fighting off this aggressive emotion. I need a moment to relax. I take a breath and feel my numbness taking back over once again.

Michael
stands, furious. He takes off his jacket, exposing his strong, tight torso and his tattoos. Michael then stretches and gets in my face. “Hit me!”
Michael
shouts. “Hit me! HIT ME!”

I hesitate, thinking of how fast I have seen
Michael
move, how strong he is. Michael waits a second, then winds up and slams his fist across my face, knocking me to the ground. He then jumps on top of me and starts hitting from both sides. I try to protect myself by putting my hands up, but Michael strikes with such force that my arms are useless.

“Why are you fighting it? Let it go!” yells Michael. “Well it’s that time again,” he says with disarray.

Time for what?

I suddenly hear a sharp noise slowly making its way down into my eardrums. I look at my watch which reads: 42 minutes and 2 seconds.

Why does that time seem very familiar to me now?

The faint sound of a high-pitch squeal grows louder, coming from above.
Michael
stops, listens, and looks up, then back down at me.

“Someone on the outside must really love you,” Michael says, looking up.

What do you mean someone?! Where is it coming from?!

“No time! Remember, just like I taught you before. Find the melody!”

The music drowns out Michael’s voice as the loud noises ring out in my ears. I can’t hear anything but the deafening cacophony. I cover my ears as the noise, now painful, gets louder and louder.

Mich
ael takes his camera and presses the shutter button. It flashes.

The light blinds me. I close my eyes and begin to focus like I did before. I think of Madi. I remember her strawberry lips. I remember her amazing smile. I remember her soft voice. Her beautiful singing.

The high-pitched sound soon turns into another familiar melody. This song is different than the others I have heard.

Maybe it will lead me to another memory. Maybe one with Madi.

I let the soft music play through my ears and into my head, hoping beyond belief that I would see her again.

When I open my eyes again, I see everything breaking into puzzle pieces around me like the last time. Everything breaks off into black.

THE SUBWAY TRAIN

The subway grinds to an abrupt halt. The airbrakes screech loudly, noise filling the cars. The train emerges out of the subterranean darkness into the busy station.

I look around and see I am back in the same exact subway station. I seem to be waiting to board back on the train again. I look over to see people waiting with me. I am surrounded by people. I must be in one of my memories again, I think to myself.

I glance over at a man reading the newspaper and check the date: 1992. So it’s been a year since I saw Madi at the coffee shop.
Did I ever find her?
I wonder. I feel something warm in my right hand. Looking down, I see I am holding a piece of pizza. In my left hand, I bring Madi’s book up where I can read it.

I feel myself losing control of my body again. This time I do not try to fight it. I forget everything once again and start reverting back to who I was in this memory.

I take a bite of my pizza slice. The grease from it smears around my mouth. As the nearby doors slide open, I pause and lower my left hand, still holding Madi’s book. I hear a band on the subway platform playing sloppy but spirited music. I look down the platform and see a single guitarist and a drummer with one drum.

I know the song but cannot place it. After a few pensive moments, I remember the tune: “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire.” A small audience of commuters stand around the two musicians smiling happily.

I walk into the subway car and take a seat facing the band on the platform.

The singer taps his foot as he croons and looks into the subway car. It’s as though he’s looking at me. I lean back in my seat and listen longingly. “So I’m offering this simple phrase… To kids from one to ninety-two…”

The announcement plays, “Stand clear of the closing doors, please.” I look down the car, out the window. Something familiar catches my eye. I see Madi laying some money in the hat of the playing musicians.

“You have got to be kidding me!” I exclaim, drawing a surprised look from a young boy, clinging to his
mother
’s hand, sitting across from me.

I smile at the boy to reassure him, and lean forward so I can see her again. She hurries in through the closing doors. The train inches forward, slowly accelerating into the next section of tunnel. Madi finds an open seat and sits down, placing her bag on her lap.

Now this is something!
What is she doing here?
I think, rising from my seat as though in a trance. The boy smiles back at me,
watch
ing me get up, his
mother
’s eyes locked on a crumpled newspaper in her lap.

I walk slowly toward Madi,
watch
ing her every movement. Suddenly, I hear a voice from behind me.

“Madi!” a man’s voice shouts. “I was back here, silly!”

I see a middle-aged man in a neatly pressed suit walking in Madi’s direction. The man looks like
Sealtiel,
but I soon forget about him and think only that the man is uncannily familiar. I get closer to them, finding a spot between two old ladies.

I only want to observe, and turn away, making sure Madi cannot see my face. As the man sits down next to her, they share the warm, intimate embrace of two lovers.

“How was your day?” he asks her.

“Over, finally,” she says. He places his hands on hers. She looks at him with unkind eyes. “And how was your day?”

That must be her boyfriend, I surmise as I catch a glimpse of them gently kissing. I take out a pack of gum, remove a stick, unwrap it, and push it into my mouth. Madi pulls her hands away from his. The man leans in closer to her, seemingly desperate for more affection.

Turning to walk back to my previous seat, I notice a young girl on my left. She is giggling loudly, pointing at me, and pulling on her mother’s sleeve. “Look, Mommy, look!” Curious passengers nearby are looking at them.

“Shh,” I whisper to the girl with my index finger on my lips. The girl keeps pointing and giggling. I make a funny face at her trying to stop the girl’s impish amusement. Seeing that it is not working, I turn my look into a stern stare. This also fails to deter the girl.

Thinking quickly, I reach into my pocket, pulling out the pack of gum, and offer her a piece. Her eyes widen and she excitedly looks at the gum. She reaches out and grabs it. Frantically, the young girl unwraps it and starts chewing, kicking her legs back and forth, smiling.

Well it looks like she found her knight
, I think as I sit down in my previous seat. I lean back, mostly concealing myself, but watch Madi and the man talking to each other. The man whispers something in her ear.

The subway begins to slow again. People walk past one another, boarding and disembarking from the train as I desperately look to locate Madi in the crowd of people.

At the 96th Street station, most of the people in the car get up to leave. I crane to see whether Madi is still sitting or getting out. I finally see the back of her head as she walks into the next car.

I look to where she was sitting with the man who is now alone. I glance down at the worn and tattered black leather book that once belonged to her. I have been waiting for this moment for so long. To finally give her back the book she accidentally left that night. I went back to that coffee shop numerous times for a couple of months and she never was there. Now I know why. Maybe it’s finally time to let her go.

“Stand clear of the closing doors, please,” the announcement sounds again.

I walk over to the man. “Excuse me,” I say. The man, surprised to be addressed by a stranger, looks annoyed.

“What?” the man asks, indignantly.

“Your girlfriend,” I reply. “I think she dropped this book on her way out to the bathroom.”

The man takes the book from me and looks at its gold leaf edged pages. He reads the front of the book and snickers. “You should have just left this on the ground. I’ll tell her someone rescued her treasured book,” the man says sarcastically.

“Not a religious guy, I see. I was once like you,” I say to him.

“Oh, you’re still here?” he looks at me, confused.

The man shoots me another dirty look as I remove a stick of gum from inside my coat pocket, unwrap it, and pop it in my mouth. The man looks at the wrapper, suddenly interested.

“Tredstones?” he says to me.

“You know it?”

“Of course. I haven’t seen that brand in ages,” the man says, amused. “What rock did you find that under?”

“There is only one store that carries that brand anymore.”

“What store is that?” the man asks. “I travel all over this city and never see that brand.”

“Harrisons. They’re over on 5th.”

The man looks down at the floor, pensively. “You mean, that Pakistani joint further up in Harlem?” I nod. “Why would you ever go there?”

“I don’t know,” I say defiantly. “Maybe because I live in an apartment right across the street from it?”

The man frowns. “I stay away from that part of town,” he says, seemingly disappointed at where I lived. He looks down at me and I could tell he was judging my appearance. He turns away as if I was some kind of lower class nobody.

“Here,” I say while placing the packet in the man’s hands. The man looks surprised by my sudden generosity. “Merry Christmas,” I say to him as the train begins to slow.

The man says nothing back as the subway emerges into the station, rushing alongside the crowded platform as it slows to a stop.

I step through the doors as soon as they open. But once outside I linger, hoping for another glimpse of Madi before the train pulls away.

“Stand clear of the closing doors, please,” the announcement repeats.

The man is still alone, holding the book. The doors close and the train slowly starts off into the dark tunnel ahead. She is gone and it feels like I lost her all over again. I turn and walk up the stairs out of the subway.

Once on street level, I turn and walk a couple feet to my hole in the wall apartment building. I walk inside and look ahead to see the elevator doors slide open. I begin to jog, hoping this time I won’t be stuck riding up with the guy that likes to blow smoke in my face. I walk in satisfied and press the button to the sixth level.

As the doors start to close, an unclean dog runs through it, along with an elderly man, two college dropouts, and just my luck, the man that likes to blow smoke in my face. I already see him sucking on his cigar. The doors now officially shut and the elevator goes up.

Every level that I go up, another person leaves except for the smoker. I have ridden the elevator up with him so many times that I know he lives on the seventh floor, the level right above mine. My level comes up as I feel that I am almost there, without him once blowing smoke.

The elevator opens and, feeling now safe, I turn to look at him and smile. The cigar man turns to me, blowing smoke once again in my face. I am instantly blinded and coughing up a storm as I feel his hand, pushing me out. I watch as the elevator doors slide closed, leaving me angry and embarrassed.

All the while, I just think that this guy gives smokers a bad name. I take out a smoke from my pants pocket and light it. Puffing the smoke out, I begin walking down my hallway which always seems to look run-down. This place feels like a bunch of people has committed suicide, because they’d rather die than have to sleep another night in this hellhole.

I burn out the end of the cigarette next to my wall, adding to the art left by many other people before me. I get to my door, unlock it, and walk in to my apartment room.

Once in the living room, I can’t help but think about how beautiful she still looked. I look at the books stacked all around my room and see the open space where Madi’s book was always placed. I look at all the empty pizza boxes stacked up alongside the wall. I can’t believe I didn’t go talk to her. She was right there and I just couldn’t do it.

I fiddle with a Rubik’s cube and a car commercial plays on the TV. I stop what I am doing instantly. I watch as a BMW drives through the dessert. My dream car, I say to myself. This is probably as close as I am going to get to a car like that. My eyes are stuck as the car does a 180 to a 360 in the sand.

The commercial ends and I feel me slipping back into reality. Below me on the ground is an open box with pizza in it that seems to have been out for days. I look back to the fridge, wanting to eat something from it, but it seems so far away. I look back at the pizza.

Suddenly, I hear a whispering voice, “Eat it. Eat it.”

Unable to restrain myself, I reach down, pick up a piece of the cold pizza, and take a bite. I hear the commercials have ended as I look up to the TV. James Bond is playing at a high risk card game. He looks at his card hand and pushes all of his chips to the center table.

“All in,” he says. That’s courage right there, betting it all, not caring about the consequences, I think as I keep
watching
. Bond wins the hand and piles of money start to stack in front of him. That’s the way to get fast money. Bond got the right idea. Now he can go kill the casino manager/terrorist, get the girl, and save the day. If only life was like the movies. How easy everything would be.

I flip the channel, getting myself caught watching a kung fu movie instead. I think back to my young adolescent days where I would watch these types of movies from sunup to sundown. Playing kung fu around the house till my father got home. The simpler times; those are the kind of moments I wish I could relive again.

Absentmindedly, I finish the cube and look down at it. I might not be a millionaire, but I can finish a Rubik’s cube in less than ten seconds. I look down at my stomach, at the weight I have put on. I take another bite of my pizza to try and forget.

I reach over to the coffee table and pick out a chocolate bar from the bowl I just recently filled with candy and chocolate. I unwrap it and bite into it. Desperately trying to obliterate the feeling of loss, I take another bite and feel the sugar rush. Staring into space, trying not to remember the man sitting there with Madi on the subway, I continue eating until the bar is gone. I reach for another.

My gluttonous stupor is interrupted by a knock at the door. I get up and open the door. Madi stands there holding a red Christmas stocking with packages of Tredstones gum sticking out of the top.