Wednesday, March 26, 2008
It is raining in Washington Heights this week..
Kevin Lansing #983
The Task
At the sight of Patrick's body, Kevin's heart was gripped with grief. No, he thought. I must maintain my composure until my task is complete. Kevin paused a moment to collect himself. Finally, he was ready.
Snapping latex gloves onto his hands, Kevin somberly trod to the steel table. Picking up a silver scalpel, he held it up, where it glinted in the light of the bare bulb dangling directly above the center of the table. "So much has been done," he exclaimed, enunciating every word with utmost care. "More, far more, will I achieve; treading in the steps already marked, I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation!"
With that, Kevin bent down to cut the stitches that held together the corpse's chest from his previous incisions. Kevin then pulled apart the sides of the rib cage like the bascules of a drawbridge, the corpse's sternum having been delicately sawed in half. Inside Patrick's chest cavity, a collection of electrical wires intertwined with the blood vessels and sinews, the result of Kevin's three years of labor. Several of the wires originated at either of two points on opposite sides of the heart, corresponding to the places where the two pads of a defibrillator are placed. From there, the wires branched throughout Patrick's body, down his arms and legs to the tips of his fingers and toes. Scars all along his body verified their presence. However, Kevin's greatest task was yet to come: Reinvigorating Patrick's brain. Kevin knew that drowning deprived the brain of oxygen, the real cause of Patrick's death. Cardiac arrest was a secondary effect. His years as a lifeguard had taught him that much. After one final inspection to ensure that the wires were properly secured, Kevin refolded Patrick's rib cage and began to sew up his chest again, delicately lacing the stitches from the corpse's navel to the space between its collarbones.
Now that the corpse's chest had been sewn up, Kevin was ready to start on the spinal cord. But first, he needed coffee. Lots of it. It was going to be a long night.
Doffing the gloves, Kevin cracked open the door of apartment 981, surveying the corridor for signs of human life. Seeing none, he slipped out into the hallway and locked the door behind him. He sprinted down the stairs, out the front door of Washington Heights, and down the street to the coffee/convenience store, not wanting to lose any time that could be directed toward his precious task. He ordered an extra large black coffee with a double shot of espresso from the red blouse-clad cashier, whose stunning looks Kevin was too busy to notice. Upon receiving it, dashed back to room 981 as quickly as he had come.
Kevin gently set the coffee down and locked the door behind him. Turning to face Patrick's body, he was filled with a tingling sensation: he knew the day was drawing near when he would have Patrick back. Taking a sip of the coffee (slightly burnt as usual), he felt his veins surging with caffeine, amplifying the feeling of excitement. Kevin wondered if this is how Patrick would feel once the lifeblood began to flow through his veins again.
But never mind that. He had to get back to work. Kevin gently rotated the corpse so that it lay flat on its chest. Having once again donned a pair of gloves, Kevin cut two slits in Patrick's back, one on either side of the spinal cord. He then began to dexterously thread a wire through Patrick's vertebrae, starting near the pelvis and working his way up toward the base of the skull. It was a long and tedious process. Kevin alternated each vertebra with a sip of coffee.
Several hours passed, and Kevin had only inserted a wire on one side of the spinal cord. He would have to save the other side for the next night. Taking some surgical tape that he had pilfered from the free clinic down the street, he temporarily closed the incisions. Peeling off the gloves, he turned to the door. At the door, he paused to steal one last glance at Patrick for the night and to whisper, "Good night." Then, a glistening tear rolling down his cheek, he slipped into the hallway.
Walking through the corridor to his apartment next door, Kevin was brought back to reality by a faint whimpering. He froze. Maria was sitting in front of her door, sobbing. Kevin panicked. No one was allowed to know that he had been in apartment 981. No one. No one should have the opportunity to come close to suspecting that he was up to something. Kevin hoped that she was too caught up in her tears to notice that the apartment he had come from was not his own. He sat down beside her and waited for her crying to subside.
Clio Ford Apt. 1215
She entered the small coffee shop just as a gust of wind swept down the block. Her hair blew across her face, covering her eyes and causing the grocery bags that hung from the fingers of her left hand to twist and cut off her circulation. The wind was cold. She was glad she had gone by her apartment to change into jeans before she ventured out to complete her part of the preparations. When she reached the counter, her order was taken by a pretty woman in a strikingly red shirt. Pulling out her wallet from her purse, Clio searched for the extra quarters she was always meaning to spend. She smiled and apologized as she handed the woman several dollars in change, but the woman did not return her smile.
She was almost asleep when she heard the knock on the door. She pushed herself of the couch and rubbed her eyes as she walked to the door. She checked the peep hole for security's sake, but it was who she was expecting. She hadn't asked him to come; he had simply volunteered. She pushed the deadbolt back. She greeted Ollie warmly, inviting him into the kitchen. She handed him one of the now cold to-go coffees and a mug and pointed him to the microwave. It would be a long night. He suggested they watch a movie to pass the time.
She knocked again on the door, louder this time. “Ryan! Wake up!” No answer. “You said you would help us!” She raised her hand to knock again. The door opened suddenly. A very sleepy Ryan stood in the doorway. He peered into the gloom of the hallway. Ollie was leaning against the opposite wall and tiredly watching the action. A small gym bag sat at his feet. “It’s tonight, is it? I thought we were doing this tomorrow.” Clio groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “Alright, alright, give me a minute…” Clio smiled.
The tenants of Washington Heights rarely used this door. She had carefully observed it for two weeks to make sure of this fact. The saw made a horrible shrieking noise as it cut through the thick metal of the ground floor door. Clio worried that someone would hear, but the only night guard was asleep in the small entrance way all the way on the other side of the building. Still, Ollie stood guard at the end of the hallway, just in case. Clio stood staring in front of the window while the saw whirred on next to her. She thought for a second she saw a flash of movement but gave it up to her imagination after watching for a few more minutes. The noise stopped. “Alright, now you can do the rest,” Ryan said, standing.
The elevator door slid open. Ollie and Clio stumbled sleepily into the hallway, Clio digging in her bag for her keys. She looked up when she heard a voice. “Ma’am, is this your apartment?” A policeman stood directly in front of her door. “Yes it is. Is there a problem?” “There’s been a break-in at a shop down the street. Grow Towards the Sun. The alarm system was triggered. You're the owner, correct?”
Alan "Low ride" Douglas Apt. 116
Alan swaggered over to his stolen desk with the sales catalogs, customer list, and the also stolen red telephone. The telephone was a world in which he ruled. Through the microphone, speakers, and endless electrical connections Alan could talk anyone into buying everything. He was a compulsive and skilled liar so he could easily talk people into buying the office supplies that his telemarketing company supplied without the bat of an eye. He told the truth even when he lied. The people missed the lies, they weren't looking for lies, they were looking for the truth and that was all they heard.
Once at his desk he started making the calls, flipping through the catalogs, and selling his bullshit. His fifth customer was a bit skeptical, but Alan gently assuaged his doubt.
"So you can ship the ink cartridges in two days instead of the standard two to three weeks for a small fee," the customer inquired. Alan knew the sale was made he just had to seal deal with his tongue's transparent film of lies.
"Oh, of course. We can ship it any time you'd like." Alan wasn't lying. His company really could ship anything whenever they wanted, but the company wouldn't. Alan couldn't even request special shipping for phone orders because the company followed a no exceptions policy based on the principle of saving every dime they could.
"Well, how much is two day shipping?"
"It's $3.65 for packages ove 10 pounds."
"Excellent! I'll take the 100 ink cartridges with two day shipping then."
"Well, I'll put you order down and you just need to send a check to the sales office at 11035 Wessex St. in Baltimore."
"What's the zip code?"
"Oh, that's 770709. Sorry I almost forgot to mention it, but as soon the check clears your pakcage will be on its way."
"Great. It was nice doing business with you and I hope to do it again," said the customer attempting to be friendly.
"The pleasure was all mine." Alan really meant what he said. He enjoyed lying through his teeth and felt no sympathy for the man with the insincerely friendly farewell. With everything said Alan hung up and kept going at the phones until 3 o'clock.
He needed to put a shirt on, get his Supplementary Security Income check, cash it, get cigarettes, and meet up with his friend before his date. So, he went to the closet and dragged out the last relatively clean shirt in there. The shirt was stolen from drunk girl at a party. The shirt was white with a target, like the ones used for shooting practice, printed over the heart and had a red wine stain from the party all over the front so it seemed like Alan might really have been a human target. As soon as the shirt was on Alan left for the Social Security office to get his Supplementary Security Income.
SSI is cuckoo money. They give it to crazy people to keep them off the streets. Alan worked his ass off to get on it. Everyday for three weeks he went to the Social Security office acting out of his mind. He enjoyed it. The scamming and the insane antics were his specialty. He'd go in the office shit in a cup and offer the clerk a sip. When the clerk didn't accept, he'd yell and fling the cup. Then he'd start apologizing to the chair for not offering it some feces. One day he brought in a kitten and started accusing the animal of molesting him. Alan would go on crazy rants about his hero Idi Amin while drinking his urine out of a cup. He'd say that Idi Amin was his brother and was coming to take over Baltimore. Idi Amin,the Ugandan dictator that drank his enemies blood and ate their entrials, really was Alan's hero, but the only time he could appropriately talk about him in public was when Alan was trying to get on SSI. Eventually he got on it and now he reaped the benefits. Alan loved his SSI scam more than any other and loved picking up those checks. The scam was his way to fuck with the government and a golden opportunity for petty cash.
As Alan walked through Washington Heights main entrance he saw Delilah. Plunk was her last name he thought, but the name seemed almost too weird to be true. She cast him a suspicious glance as he walked by her. Delilah probably thought he was crazy and the other tenants probably had a similar idea, but Alan thought they were all crazy too. Alan was glad that the other tenants couldn't judge him, at least not with any credibility. I mean what evidence of abnormality could Nicole, for example, throw in his face that he couldn't throw back at her. He'd he plumber yelling about "the bitch" stiffing him and stealing his wrench, so he knew she had nothing on him.
Alan made the walk, six fucking blocks, to the Social Security office. The wind was cold, but he was stoked for the money, cigarettes, and date that would lead to more money, so he bore the cold with a pleasant frustration. He felt like he fought the good fight against the wind to secure his cash and he could overcome the wind for the violent pleasures the day had waiting.
Once he was at the office and had picked up his check he really had to piss. So, he whipped it out and started pissing on this ladies dog to show the people he was really crazy. Not only that, but the reaction someone has to their pet being urinated on is hilarious. The lady with the dog went hysterical. She was dumbstruck and completely offended. People that don't know what to do get violent and this lady was no different. She started yelling and searching for her mace, but Alan ran out singing "You Bet I've Got Something Personal Against You" by Black Flag.
He walked back to Washington Heights, but stopped Manny's to get cigarettes and pineapple white owls. He'd gotten $375 dollars in Supplementary Security Income for the month, so he called his friend to come over and smoke the weed he was about to buy.
Alan walked out of the apartment, up one story, into the hallway, and to apartment 215. He knocked and he waited for the click. The door slid open as far as the chain would let it as Marcus peered out. For some reason he was being cautious today. "Come in," he said as he pushed the door shut, unhinged the chain, and opened it all the way. Alan walked in and sat down. Marcus followed inquiring "what it'd be today."
"Just gimme a quarter of some mids. Thirty, right," Alan demanded.
"Yeah, just hold on while I weight it out. You sure you don't need anything else."
"No, I got a date with a girl whose paying me out the ass and not fucking me in it so I'm holding off until later."
"Sounds good. Here you go." Manuel handed Alan the sack and Alan handed him the money.
Alan left telling Manuel he'd see him later and headed to his apartment where he put on the Archies and started rolling one up. He loved oldies. He got that from his dad who was in a low-rider gang. He was singing along to "Sugar, Sugar" as his friend walked through the door.
"Hey, how's it going." That was his friends usual greeting.
"Good, and you." That was Alan's usual response
"You know, it's allright,but I got jury duty and I don't know what to do."
"Do you have the form they sent you to fill out." Alan knew what to do and he was sure his friend would appreciate the help.
"Yeah,why?"
"Lemme see it." Alan held out his hand as his friend passed over the form. Then he grabbed a thick felt tip marker and wrote in all capitls "VIVA LA ANGEL DUST."
Alan handed the form to his friend and said "Just send that in and they won't fuck with you again."
"I guess that's one way to deal with it. It's sure a lot better than actually going to jury duty."
"Yeah it is," Alan said as he lit the blunt and started smoking. After 3 hits he passed the blunt to his friend who started hitting it.
"So, when is your next show?" Alan wanted to know because he was gonna plan something and he knew his friends in the band would do anything for him to make sure he didn't do anything bad.
"This saturday. It's at venue about a mile away. Do you want to go with us and get in free?"
"Yeah, that's what I was waiting to hear." Now, Alan had confirmation that Delta 88, his friend's band, was going to patronize him all day with the hope that if they did he wouldn't do anything totally out of line.
After the blunt was done, they ate lunch and Alan told John, his friend, he had to go shopping for his date. John had to meet up with his girlfriend, the lead singer for their band, so they parted ways.
Alan went shopping and got a red button down shirt and black slacks for his date using the Supplementary Security Income. He smoked a cigarette on his way back thinking about how awsome the night would be-lots of money, heterosexual relations(his favorite), and heroin. "I gotta get syringes he thought." Alan stopped by the pharmacy on his way back to Washington Heights and picked them up. Luckily, although only in this situation, he was diabetic, so he had access to plenty of syringes. He'd sell them to other junkies too. That was another one of his scams.
Once back at his apartment, he took a shower, ate some toast, and brushed his teeth. By the time he was done with everything the clock said seven fifteen, so he smoked a blunt to the head to pass the time. He thought about what the girl might look like and what she would talk about as he smoked and listened to the Archies again. He listened to them a lot when he was in a good mood. He changed clothes and stepped out on the landing for the fire escape to smoke a cigarette. Finally he walked to the park as the clock struck eight.
Lola Fontaine Apt. 925
The Life and Times of Lola Fontaine: Out and About in Washington Heights
She slid the shiny, smooth stockings over her long, lean legs. She shivered as she felt the satin of her corseted bodice hug her curves. She gasped for air as each closing inch of the zipper forced what breath she had left in her frail, shaking body outward. The yellow toe-pinching pumps stared at her from the corner. The fluffy feather boa rested on her chair like a python awaiting its next victim, and the elaborate head dress onto which she had painstakingly sewn four thousand twenty two shimmering sequins sat waiting in its garish oppression. She had waited for this moment, but this was not how she had pictured her debut at all. She had wanted the luxurious dressing room of Hollywood starlets with the multi-bulbed lighted vanity mirror and sumptuous costumes draped around the room. Instead, she was in the sketchy bathroom of the bar down the street from the looming Washington Heights apartment building. Faucet-dripping, light-flickering, dirty, smelly, gray insanity was closing in around her. She opened the creaking door into the rancid bar smelling of spilled beer and wasted hope. The lurid light flooded into the bathroom and she slammed the door closed strangled with anxiety.Lola snapped out of her dreamy flashback as the imitation rain shower began to drip brown, cloudy water on the fruits and vegetables in the produce aisle of Manny’s Grocery. She was picking yellow pears, or at least what was supposed to be yellow pears, and she watched curiously as a woman she knew from her apartment building, Delilah Plunk, delicately selected five and only five red apples. Lola had never heard this woman speak, but she seemed so lovely. To Lola, everyone seemed lovely. Lola marveled at her adorably plump fingers as they caressed each red apple before gingerly placing them into the bag. Delilah glanced Lola’s way, but Lola quickly averted her eyes, batting her long lashes. Lola grabbed her grimy pears, and scampered away to pay for them.
Lola made the short trek from the Manny’s back to Washington Heights avoiding the strange and disturbing stand housing a stuffed tabby cat. She waited on the uncertain elevator, optimistic that today it would not stall in between two floors. The doors opened, already this was a good sign. Standing there in the elevator was another lovely person. Lola was speechless. This woman was breathtaking. Her bright red lips, full and pouty, matched perfectly her beautiful red pumps. Lola had to know this woman’s name... and perhaps where she had purchased such gorgeous shoes.
"Hello there... um my name is Lola," she said sheepishly."
"Lemme guess. Are you a showgirl?" the woman said with a smirk as a flood of wine-scented fragrance filled the elevator.
"Oh my goodness gracious, however did you know?" Lola giggled.
"Lucky guess, I suppose," the woman said rolling her eyes. "Anyway, my name is Nicole Lee Carmine," she slurred.
"What an absolutely lovely name," said Lola as she clapped giddily.
The elevator screeched and lurched to Lola’s floor, and as she bounced off with her yellow pears in one hand, she excitedly waved goodbye to Nicole. "Wow." Lola thought. "What an interesting woman, and she seems ever so friendly. I bet she’s a movie star. Oh fiddledede, I forgot to ask her where her shoes were from."
Elizabeth Faraday Apt. 713
A New York Resolution
The phone dropped to the floor. Elizabeth crossed her arms as she began to pace the room. Her options were limited - now more than ever, but the facts remained.
'There's Mal,' she thought, 'the psychotic Private Investigator who stalked me across the country — because he couldn't take no for an answer. And my car—’
She paused.
‘Out of the picture, tainted by a tracking device. … there's no way out,’
She sighed.
‘And no way back.'
Elizabeth reached for her coat and headed out the door. She couldn't sleep. Not now. She needed to face him ... somehow, but she needed back up.
Without a second to loose, she pulled out her cell phone.
“Hello?” Mal answered.
“Meet me at Oscar’s in fifteen.”
“Liz, is that—”
“Order the New York Strip.”
Elizabeth ended the call as she crossed Bucher Drive. She noticed the police station, but notice it was all. Besides they weren’t at the top of the food chain. Mr. Machelli owned this town, which was the exact fact Elizabeth was counting on.
“Elizabeth,” Oscar smiled. “What can I get you tonight? A little filet mignon for the lady?”
“Tonight, I need a New York Strip.”
Oscar’s eyebrows lowered.
She slid him the fifty bucks as he led her to the back.
“Where’s Mr. Machelli?” she asked.
Oscar was kind enough to lead her to him. “Mr. Machelli, this is Elizabeth Farraday. She—”
“Do you need me to take care of someone, Ms. Farraday?” Mr. Machelli asked, continuing to watch the night’s activities. “I’ve seen a stranger hang around your car for too many hours in my parking lot. Malcolm’s his name, isn’t it?”
“Yes,”
“Is that him now?” He asked, noticing the newbie walking into the ring.
Malcolm was the same as he had ever been. He wore a tweed suit and a black collar shirt, a brown fedora in his hand.
“Yep,” she said softly. “That’s him.”
“Do you want him—?”
“No, just far out of town. Leave me a tab for the gas."
He nodded.
Elizabeth tried to leave the ring without causing a scene, but it was no use. As she slipped past Malcolm, he smiled. “Elizabeth,”
“Malcolm,” she said, quickening her pace.
“Elizabeth!” he called, turning.
Silence fell around them, as they were beginning to appear more entertaining than the bids.
‘It’s now or never,’ Elizabeth thought.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Home,” she said, turning to him.
“Back to Cali? Great,” he smiled. “We should have lunch sometime.”
Elizabeth scowled at him.
“What are you going to do, Liz?” he laughed. “Hit me?”
Elizabeth sighed, turning away as if she was going to leave.
“Oh, right.” He continued. “You’re the girl who couldn’t hurt a fly.”
The crowd ooed and hissed as they watched the encounter.
Without a moment’s pause, Elizabeth turned around and punched him square in the jaw.
He dropped like a dummy.
'Luckily you're nothing more than scum,' she thought.
Elizabeth squatted beside him as he blinked into consciousness seconds later.
“Liz?”
“Soggiorno I’inferno via da me.” She said slowly and clearly, before turning to leave.
The crowd parted to let her through.
“Liz?” Malcolm called as he slowly began to rise. “Liz — what did you say?”
“Stay the hell away from her, that’s what!” Mr. Machelli laughed as his associates circled around Malcolm.
The cool night air was refreshing as Elizabeth walked out onto the street. She could sleep. It was resolved. She could write again. Upon entering her apartment, she glanced at her laptop.
“Tomorrow,” she said, making her way to the kitchen sink.
As the hot water ran over her hands, she felt as if she was washing away more than the dirt and blood of the evening. She was clearing away a chapter of her life — a resolution.
‘But everyone knows,’ Elizabeth recalled. ‘It’s our past that comes back to haunt us.’
Victoria Lampshade Apt. 27
Gifts
Grandmother is the sort of woman whom you can crown with a thousand and one metaphors but never quite capture in type. She is as immense, as ancient as the Appalachian mountains wherein she dwells. She has tree-trunks for legs, boulders for breasts and white wisps of cirrus clouds for hair. Her teeth are jagged stones, her face is an autumn-leaf tracery of wrinkles and veins. Her blind eyes are the sun-starved gray of a snail's underbelly, and yet she sees incalculably more than those with technically perfect vision (which is a good thing, on account of her being somewhat hard of hearing).
The wind was howling, the sun rising and the year 1989 when Grandmother felt it -- the strangest sensation, as if something had reached its hand into her, grabbed a clavicle and started tugging.
Vexed, she stopped her knitting to swat at the thin air and mutter, "Busy, busy now. Leave me, you hands, you little imps' hands!" Then she resumed the project that lay across her lap -- something trying very hard to be an afghan but, in truth, more closely resembling an exploded woolen eggplant.
It was no use. The tugging only grew more insistent. So Grandmother tossed aside the blanket-in-progress/defunct aubergine and with a tormented cry of "Imps! Damned little imps!" reared to her full height (which was as impressive as a mountain's, a redwood's, a bear's, etc). She stormed out the cabin door, through brambles, across creeks and up steep slopes (in her stocking feet, no less) before finally her demons relented. She cupped her hand to her ear and heard something -- a weak wailing, a whimper. She dropped to her knees. Sure enough, there it was at her feet -- a mewling infant, black curls just beginning to sprout on its out-sized head.
The blood drained from Grandmother's wrinkled face and her voice dropped to a whisper. "It has begun."
Victoria ponders the question for a second, tops, and then shakes her head no. "He's not for sale." The man heaves an alcohol-reeking sigh, but Victoria only strokes the vulture's unfeeling head and offers the man a squirrel instead. "Little guy makes an excellent paperweight."
"I'll take him," the man says amiably before shifting to a more conspiratorial tone of voice. "You, uh, know of any good gambling around here?"
She glares at him. "I don't hold with gambling, Mister."
He shrugs. "I'll take that as a no."
She turns back to the vulture as the sinful man leaves with his squirrel. "That was a close one," she hisses. "I've just plucked you from the very fingers of perdition, you know."
She nods at the fat woman who has just now passed by, with grocery bags in her hands and an elegantly cut coat on her back. "Look at her," Victoria adds. "Where did she get a coat like that, I ask you, in a place like this? She's a harlot if ever a harlot I saw. This is a wicked place, and only me between you and it. You'd best remember that, and try doing your job -- next opportunity you get, that is."
Then she smiles, believing her feathered associate sufficiently chastened. "Oh, I could never part with you. You're downright important, you know! Why, I'm not quite sure . . . but Grandmother said it was so."
. . .
"I will give you three things before you go, Victoria," Grandmother said. "And they're all of them downright important."
First was the opossum, and next to it a bottle of whiskey. "Give this one a drink, and he speaks the truth," Grandmother said. "Just don't spoil him with fine liquor. Whiskey will do."
Next came the vulture. "This one will scream when danger is near -- and you'd best take heed of such warnings when they come."
Finally, the box. Grandmother did not explain the box. She said only, "Do not open this. It will open when the time comes."