Undermind: Nine Stories (10 page)

“Excuse me, gentlemen. Could you possibly spare
some food? I haven’t eaten for a few days. I have money.”

“Your money’s no good. You should know that.
What have you got to trade?”

The CEO reached into the pockets of his grimy
pants and pulled out his keyring with the Jaguar fob. He looked at
his keys with sadness, then dropped them on the ground. They were
useless. His homes and his cars were gone. He opened his tattered
suit coat and reached into the breast pocket. He withdrew his
lambskin wallet and thumbed through its contents. Black and
platinum credit cards and several crisp hundred dollar bills.
Worthless. He shook out the cards and money. The cards scattered
around his feet. The wind snatched the bills and carried them down
the street. He offered them the empty wallet. They shook their
heads.

“I don’t have anything,” he cried out, on the
verge of tears, his stomach aching for food.

“Is that watch made of real gold?

The CEO drew back his frayed sleeve, exposing
his watch. He slipped it off with his other hand.

“Yes. Yes, it is!” he said, holding it out to
them.

The man closest to him looked at the other man
who nodded.

“Okay. One squirrel for the watch. And half a
bottle of water.” He handed over the stick with the charred meat
skewered on the end of it and reached down for something by his
feet. He came up with a plastic bottle half-filled with cloudy
water and handed it over.

The CEO took them both, grateful for the chance
to eat and drink, but at the same time, he worried about where his
next meal would come from now that he’d traded away the only thing
of value that he still owned. He had no practical skills, or
anything with which to bargain in this post-nuclear world.

Even though he ate slowly, his meal only lasted
a moment. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, then drank the last of
the water. He was about to toss the empty bottle into the burning
trash barrel, but one of the men held up his hand, signaling him to
stop. He realized that the bottle was a resource, so he screwed the
cap onto it and stuffed it into his coat pocket, smiling. He was
learning.

“Do you want to help us look for squirrels?
We’ll split whatever we find.”

“Yes. I do. Thank you!”

It was turning out to be a great day. He’d
eaten, and acquired a bottle, and he had made two friends who could
teach him things. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been so
happy.

###

The sound of a
chainsaw yanked me from my slumber and when I opened my eyes, I saw
a pretty, nude blonde lying next to me with a knife sticking out of
her chest and blood running down her sides, pooling in the shallow
depth of her abdomen.

Surely I was still dreaming. No one wakes up
like this. I closed my eyes and squeezed them shut really hard,
then I opened them again. She was still there. So was the blood,
and the knife. What the fuck?

I scrambled up and looked around. Where the fuck
was I? How did I get here? The house was empty and looked vacant.
There was no furniture and nothing hanging from the walls. Just
trash scattered around the carpet. Empty beer cans, snack food
wrappers and cigarette butts that had been crushed into the carpet.
The place smelled like bug spray and urine.

I looked down at myself and saw that I was still
dressed, but my hands were stained with blood. That made no sense
at all. I would never kill anyone. And if I did, it would be in
self-defense. The girl lying on the floor did not look anything
remotely like a threat to anyone. She was naked and unarmed. She
looked far more like a victim of a crime than a perpetrator of one.
Even though I had no memories of how I got here, and I did not
recognize this girl from anywhere, I was certain that I didn’t kill
her.

I tried to recall where I was last night but I
couldn’t remember a thing. I had a better chance of remembering the
weird dream I’d been having before I woke, and it was all but
evaporated now. I needed to look at the girl, even though the
thought of doing so filled me with fear and revulsion, but first, I
had to get the blood off my hands. I could imagine someone saying,
“We caught him red-handed.” Great. My sense of humor was intact.
Maybe I really was crazy. This was no time for joking around.

I went into the kitchen and turned on the
faucet. Some rust-colored drops of water sputtered into the sink as
the faucet gave a final exhalation. No water. Despite my foggy and
rattled brain, I still had enough mental processing left to think
of checking the toilet tank. I found the bathroom, and lifted the
lid off the tank. I briskly scrubbed my hands in the rusty water,
urgently trying to get the blood off of them. I got most of it. It
had caked around my cuticles and under my fingernails, but that
would have to do for now.

I went back to the living room for the task I
dreaded. I needed to really look at this girl and see if I
recognized her from sometime before last night, which I had no
memory of. When I walked back into the living room, it seemed as if
her arm was in a different position than it was when I left. Could
she possibly be alive? I bent down and started to reach two fingers
toward her carotid artery, but stopped myself, remembering that
fingerprints could be left on skin.

I know it looked like I was the one who killed
her, but I was still certain that I hadn’t, despite having no
memory of the night before. And if I wasn’t the killer, I wasn’t
going to provide evidence to the contrary – beyond that which
already existed. I placed my hand in front of her nose instead of
feeling for a pulse. While I waited to feel even the tiniest
breath, I looked at her chest for any sign that she was breathing.
I had the strangest feeling as I looked at her. On one hand, she
was very beautiful, but on the other, she was a bloody corpse. She
presented a horrible mixture of beauty and violence. I don’t know
how anyone could do that to another person. I know I couldn’t.

I felt nothing on my hand, and I saw no movement
of her chest. I was pretty sure she was dead. Either someone was in
here with me and moved her arm, or I had just imagined that it was
in a different position. To be sure, I decided I better check the
rest of the house. The real killer could still be here. I started
walking down the hall when I heard a car screech to a halt out
outside.

Shit! That was probably the cops. What the fuck
was I still doing here? I should’ve run away as soon as I woke up.
What difference did it make if the house was empty or not? I had no
reason to be here at all. Well, I guess I could have looked for
clues about what had happened last night, but I don’t even know
what I’d look for.

I ran into the first bedroom on the right and
went to the window. I unlocked it and pushed it up. I kicked out
the screen and crawled through. Now, where to? I didn’t even know
where the fuck I was. So, first thing – get far away. Anywhere
would do.

I ran across the backyard and hoisted myself up
and over the brick wall and into the next backyard. There was a
sliding glass door in front of a covered patio but the blinds were
closed, as were the ones in front of a small kitchen window. I ran
around to the side of the house and reached a wooden fence with a
metal latch. I stopped and waited, listening. No one was pursuing
me. I lifted the latch, opened the gate and walked alongside the
driveway all casual as if I was just heading out for a stroll.

I had to think. How could I have ended up at
that house? At the sidewalk, I turned right, still completely
unaware of what part of town I was even in. I hoped to get a clue
when I reached a corner with a street sign. What was the last thing
I could recall? I remembered being at work yesterday. I left work,
went home. Wait a second. Yesterday? How did I know if I only lost
one day? Maybe today wasn’t even Saturday? I instantly patted my
right, back pocket, knowing it would be empty. It was. Where the
fuck was my cell phone?

Oh shit. What if it was in the house with the
girl? The cops will surely think I was the killer – and a stupid
one at that. My other pocket was empty too. No wallet. This was
just getting better and better. No keys in my right, front pocket,
and no cash or coins in the other front pocket. I realized my car
could be parked right out in front of the vacant house; another
thing advertising that I’m the primary suspect. Could my life be
any more fucked?

***

I passed several street corners without learning
where I was, but when I finally hit a boulevard intersection I got
partially oriented. As far as I could tell, I was in North
Hollywood somewhere. I went south on Lankershim until I came to the
Metro. I could take it to within a few blocks of my apartment – if
I had any money. I resigned myself to walking the seven miles to
where I lived. I was hot, thirsty and hungry. My body was fatigued
as if I’d already walked miles, and my mind felt stunned, as if I’d
been whacked in the head with a two-by-four.

I told myself to try to think rationally as I
walked, blindly stepping into traffic at the next intersection.

“Yo! White boy! You fi’n ta get yo’sef
keelt!”

I stepped backwards suddenly as a city bus
whooshed by inches from my face. I tripped when I ran into the curb
behind me and fell, landing on my ass. The old black man laughed as
I added ass pain to my growing list of miseries.

“Yo mama nevah learnt you to look befo’ crossin
da street? Dayum!” he said, hooting with laughter. When he regained
his composure, he extended an old wrinkled brown hand to help me
up.

“Thanks,” I said. “I was lost in thought.”

“Dey be yo’ last thoughts if’n you don’t watch
yo’sef!”

“Thank you,” I said, not knowing what else to
say. I certainly couldn’t explain my predicament.

I stood there numbly looking at the traffic,
willing the pain in my tailbone to subside. Walking was going to be
a lot more painful now. Seven fucking miles of pain until I could
take some aspirin, lie down, and try to figure out what was going
on.

“Jeet today?”

“Excuse me?” I asked, turning to look at the
man.

“Here, take dis,” he said, reaching into his
inner jacket pocket and handing me a Twix.

At the sight of the candy bar, my stomach kicked
into gear and growled ferociously. I didn’t know when I’d last
eaten. I gladly took the candy from the stranger and tore into the
wrapper with my teeth. It was warm and the chocolate clung to the
inside of the wrapper. After eating the twin bars, I licked the
chocolate off the paper, then walked over to the wire-basket
trashcan next to the streetlight post.

“Now I knows you din’t eat today.”

“Thank you very much, sir. If I had any money,
I’d pay you, but I—“

“You jis pay it fo’ward when you can,” he said,
dismissing my explanation.

The light turned green and I thanked him for the
fourth time in two minutes before complying with the sign that now
said
WALK
. When I reached the other side, my mind went back
on autopilot as far as navigating the obstacles on the sidewalk. I
weaved in and out around pedestrians, newspaper vending boxes, and
the occasional street beggar partially blocking the way with their
outstretched legs, sitting on the sidewalk holding their cardboard
signs with
God Bless
written on them.

I put the sugar from the candy bar to work,
forcing myself to think back to the last thing I recalled. I had
left work and gone home. I checked my email, watched the news on TV
for a while, and then when I got hungry, I decided to eat out
somewhere. I drove to a nearby bar that makes great burgers. But I
didn’t eat. Someone bought me a beer and I think we talked for a
while. I remember that I didn’t want a beer, but I was being polite
and trying to get out of the conversation with the overly friendly
guy who seemed really intent on talking to me and buying me drinks.
Not in a gay way – just an obliging, clueless way, like someone who
wants a friend and doesn’t realize they’re imposing.

That’s the last thing I remember. How is that
possible? I crossed another intersection and strained to recall
more of what happened in the bar. The fact that there was nothing
at all in my mind to be discovered made me wonder if the guy had
spiked my drink. It made perfect sense. He was determined to talk
to me despite my short answers and the fact that I kept returning
my gaze to the menu rather than engage him in conversation. I could
imagine him putting something in my beer, then when I got groggy,
he could’ve walked me out as if he was helping a friend who was too
drunk to drive. Then he could’ve driven me to the house in North
Hollywood. Then what? He went out, found a girl, brought her back,
stripped her and killed her, then laid her out on the floor next to
me?

What the fuck sense did that make? Whoever the
guy was, I had never seen him before. I’d never seen the girl
before either. Maybe the guy just needed someone to be a patsy and
I was dumb enough to sit there accepting his drinks instead of
doing what I wanted to do, which was just eat, and see if any
attractive females showed up while I was eating.

A horn honked, which is not unusual, so I
ignored it. Then it honked again, right beside me from a car that
was moving at the same rate of speed that I was walking. I looked
over and saw the driving leaning over so he could see me through
the passenger window.

“Need a lift?”

It was the guy from the bar! Considering what
he’d apparently done to me, he was the last person I should be
accepting a ride from.

“Sure,” I said, walking over to his car and
getting in.

***

I know it seems stupid that I got in a car with
the person who was most likely responsible for the hell I found
myself in, but he was also the only person in the world who might
be able to shed light on what was happening to my life, and
why.