I Will Rise (5 page)

Maybe.

Maybe nothing, because I can’t even fuck things up properly.

Staring at the Ajax-speckled prawn, impossibly blue, set apart from his brothers by a cloak of acrid toxins, idiot tears well up and my hand starts to buzz. I am the prawn and the prawn is I. How silly and clichéd. As if there wasn’t enough shit wrong with my brain, now it’s making weak metaphors. Always this need for metaphor. The whole world hooked on metaphor. Why can’t we all just be straight with one another? Why can’t we all be straight with ourselves? I have to start. I can’t get by. I don’t make sense. I am overwhelmed with feeling and anger and disgust and emotion, a black cloud (always this weak dependency on metaphor) fills my skin like a second skeleton.

Defeated, past tears, I am ready to overturn the prawn trays and stomp tonight’s dinner special into mush. Prickly red anger raises the hairs on the back of my neck and dampens my temples. Everything I am is ready to explode and I turn myself inward to welcome the anger with a warm, wet, bloody embrace. But, before I can wrap my inner arms around the chaos, a pale, colorless, glimmering memory grabs my unhinging attention and shakes me numb.

I am frozen, anger halted, reliving a moment.

Here, but not really here.

Birthday failure.

I turned thirty-three years old nearly a year ago. I spent the day at home, staring into space, waiting. For what? I don’t know. Change? Maybe Alice Michael would have something new and important to tell me this year. Maybe God had big plans for me. Whatever the case, I was sure something special was going to happen. Finally, something special and important was going to happen to me. This was my time.

For the past six or seven years I’ve spent my birthdays much in the same way: lounging about the apartment alone, watching television, projecting my hate for Allen Michael’s
Contact
(which isn’t as bad as usual because my birthday shows are Alice’s death-day shows and Allen always does a tribute complete with pictures and anecdotes about Alice’s life), taking pleasure in lethargy, and then crashing out early in anticipation of my annual visit with Alice. This year I spent it the exact same way, but that strange excitement, that odd anticipation, made things feel different.

In the end nothing different happened and I wanted to kick myself for thinking something different would. Did I expect Merlyn to come and find me? Did I expect something beautiful and worthwhile to spring from my indolence? Like all the rest, the day crept by and died into the night and I went to bed. Alice whispered the same old antihuman rhetoric into my dream ears. Another year fallen and there I was older, emptier and sadly disappointed by the idea that something exceptional should have happened but didn’t.

I guess thirty-three is the big one. I mean thirty sucks— no more fucking around, the fire of youth extinguished and all of that—but you still feel young. At thirty-three things get serious. At this point certain goals should have been accomplished.

I can’t help but picture Christ on the cross, thirty-three years old, bloody, and in agony. These images were burned into my mind at a young age. Growing up Catholic shapes your brain. It teaches you about fear and death and sorrow and raises a construct of two wildly diverging worlds within your thoughts: a world of good and a world of evil. There is no middle ground, it’s black or it’s white, it’s heaven or it’s hell, it’s moral or it’s a sin. In any case, for some reason, through all of that heavy-handed mythology Christ’s age at the time of his crucifixion really stands out in my mind. It’s such an infinite, enigmatic, impossible age. As a child I got the idea in my head that everyone should die at thirty-three.

I secretly prayed I would never make it.

I hoped to die young.

I hoped and hoped, because if I made it beyond thirty-three I would have outlived Christ. I don’t know why, but that seems unnatural to me. There is nothing specific or direct I can attribute to this idea, nobody’s ever placed emphasis upon it, but it’s there, festering, fueling the guilt nonetheless.

Sometimes I think I am this fucked-up, gimp-handed, ugly-ass loser for a reason. Sometimes I think am misunderstood and persecuted for a reason. Religion doesn’t make a difference to anybody anymore. There’s nobody to die for our sins. But there’s me with my hand. There’s me ridiculed by the masses. There’s me crucified. There’s my ability to separate the good from the bad, to draw the empathetic sympathetics and repulse the evil, self-absorbed, cold hearts. If I have a seizure in front of you and you want to help me, your heart aches at the sight of my suffering, then you are one of the devoted. You are saved. If you run the other way, if I make you sick or angry or cause you to laugh, then you are damned.

Sometimes I think that God and I have this unique relationship and that one day he’s going to make all of this up to me. One day he’s going to part the clouds and come down like a giant Monty Python cutout and tell me I am the one, I am his second son and I have passed the test, I have suffered and taught the masses about human compassion and now, at long last, it is time to come home.

So, on my thirty-third birthday I sat at home and waited. He took Christ at thirty-three and I had a strong feeling it was my turn.

Now, eleven months later, I am still here and I am still pathetic and I am still damaged. That strange little fail-safe in the back of my head, the notion that God has special plans for me, is rapidly expiring and each year that passes—faster and faster, existence a blur, my whole life approaching a void, approaching a crucifixion that may never come—I lose more faith. The closer I get to thirty-four the further I get from hope. Something has to happen soon, something has to save me.

Birthday reminiscence kills my anger dead.

I scoop up the Ajax-blue prawn, slip it into my pocket, and push the prawn trays back in place. Grabbing my backpack, I put away the two eviscerated Ajax tubes, the two full Ajax tubes, and begin covering my tracks. I am tempted to throw out the flour/Ajax mixture, but feel too dumpy to do anything but slide the vat back into its storage space. Somebody will discover my handiwork soon and all will be thwarted.

Who cares? I don’t really give a fuck.

Who cares? I don’t give a fuck about anything right now.

All I know now is that I am tired and these mood swings really take it out of me. I grab four twenty-ounce
c
oca-
c
olas (that anarchist spirit returns! Shut up, I’m only thirsty), slam one down in three gulps, retrieve my hooded sweatshirt, wrap the remaining three into a tight bundle, shove it into my backpack, and prepare to leave. Doubling back, I grab a large piece of foil from the prep line, enter the walk-in, wrap as many salmon and halibut filets as I can and then shove them into my backpack. A little something for my troubles. Switching off the lights I trudge through the restaurant, head lulling in defeat.

As I push through the side exit door a piercing alarm wails to life.

Chapter Four

Exodus

The ritzy seafood restaurant I work for is flanked on all sides by large expanses of well-lit parking lots. It sits wide open, curbside, on one of the city’s major arteries. When the alarm sounds, I jump with fright and instantly break into a cold sweat. There’s nowhere to run, but at this hour the world is mostly deserted and I may have enough time to get beyond the open concrete before an on-site security guard or a real cop shows up. Nevertheless, the idea of running, unprotected, brightly lit with a backpack full of empty Ajax tubes and seafood freaks me out.

There’s no way I could lie my way out of this one. I am ugly and suspicious and visibly nervous. There’s no way I could lie my way out and, as expected, my hand begins to buzz and twist.

Not now! Please not now!

The alarm continues on apeshit. Streams of distress weave wild from my palm. My knees weaken, synovial fluid solidifying. Refusing to give in, I break for the street. If I could just put a few blocks between myself and the restaurant, it should be all right. Three-quarters of a mile up the road the city gives way to a mini forest. It’s small, spanning only a few acres, but it’s dense and perfect for hiding out.

The incriminating contents of my backpack, despite the padding of my hooded sweatshirt, jostle and crinkle and beat louder than Poe’s telltale heart. I am marked and obvious. Suspect, curious bulges and the strong smell of fish are sure to give me away. I want to throw the evidence, but I can’t afford to sacrifice my backpack; it’s my livelihood. So blindly, I run and I run and I run. An eternity passes, my lungs nearing collapse, my head teeming with fear, before I hear the clip-clop of my footfalls overtaking the fading alarm. Relief. I am out of range and it looks like I won’t have to ditch the salmon or halibut after all.

Panic dissipates.

Adrenaline forces a smile.

I look around and notice the streets are devoid of life except for the occasional bum. Slowing to a walk I try to breathe easy. I continue on until I reach the edge of the mini forest. I should have kept my head and made for home, but you know, I’m dumb and pressure makes me even dumber. Turning back now might be too risky; I can’t chance walking past the restaurant. Stopping along a sidewalk lined with big, droopy, shadowy trees, I remove my backpack and sit on the curb to kill time before making my way home. Fishing for a Coca-Cola, the adrenaline-fear buzz dies and my thoughts spiral downward:

Undifferentiated. Did I think this act of revenge was going to help?

Far from special. Did I actually think I could pull it off?

Thirty-three years old. Still nowhere. Forever nowhere.

Seemingly unrelated to God and somewhere at the back of my thoughts I scream:
Take that, you bastard! Perhaps now you will take notice! You have no choice but to notice a sinner!

Notice me (me, your other son).

Notice me (please).

Loser, bastard, loser.

The feeling-sorry-for-myself bullshit is rising and building, reaching crescendo, when boom! The world goes white.

I look up and there’s nothing, all shape and dimension blown to oblivion. My eyes suffer and strain and burn. I bring up my hand, makeshift visor, and try to squint the world into being.

(Has it begun?)

Finally (notice me).

I’m ready to come home (notice me).

But no, an ugly mortal voice pulls me to earth: “How are we doing this evening?”

Shit.

Slow composition, fuzzy focus and I catch a flash of patent leather. The glint of metal. My nose twitches around a vile, rancid smell even stronger than the fishy one emanating from my backpack. Authority. Power. It stings my nostrils, causing me to recoil.

The cop continues to shine his flashlight in my eyes, adjusting the beam, attempting to break my desperate play for focus. I begin to stand.

“Stay down!” He barks the order like a gorilla establishing supremacy.

All self-pity and loathing are replaced with nervous fear. I feel like a child. The cop speaks again, but I tune him out and stare past the flashlight’s glare. His cruiser is parked across the street, enveloped in shadows. Apparently, he had the same idea I did.

I wonder whom he’s hiding from?

Aside from that metal target pinned to his chest, being a cop has to be the greatest job in the world. Imagine it: working late-night hours in a sleepy city, parking your car in the darkness, turning off your radio, taking a nap, or best of all: finding ways to abuse your power. You know, for the sheer thrill of it. Just imagine it: getting gratuities, free food. Imagine it: people have no choice but to respect you. Imagine it: children look up to you. And best of all, imagine it: complete freedom. To be a cop is to be truly free. Exempt. Rules? Rules, Shmules. Plus, who knows, one day you might even die in the line of duty. Imagine the comfort one could take in knowing that there is the possibility that you might die unexpectedly, heroically, staining history with a lasting impression of grace. No grinding on, growing old, shamefully inching your way to the grave like the rest of us. Oh sure, I can pray for accidents, random violence, car crashes, the sky falling. It could happen. A merciful unexpected death could claim me, but the odds are not in my favor. A cop’s odds are exponentially greater.

There’s movement in the car. I look harder. K-9 Unit. The cop’s furry partner presses its steamy nose to the window. Below him,
Paunch
is airbrushed in willowy cursive upon the car door. Paunch. Like Paunch and John from
C.H.I.P.S
. Cute. German shepherds are very co—

The cop taps me on the forehead with his flashlight. Not hard, but not soft. The impact makes a meaty thumping sound and obliterates my train of thought.

“I’m talking to you,” he growls.

He thumps me two more times for emphasis. This time they are very light, more like touches than thumps, but these are far worse because they are purely rude. Extreme disrespect.

“Hel-lo?” Exaggerated, as if he is speaking to a retard.

“Yes, sir?” I answer quietly and restrained. I turn my eyes down as fear mutates into anger, expanding, sharpening—a pike in my guts, a bloody thorn in my abdominal workings. Childlike worry dwindles and my skin goes flush. The cop continues to talk but I can’t hear him. His stupid mouth moves and moves, pushing out noiseless words. Blood rushes too loud and it sounds as if I am underwater.

I see a streak of red out of the corner of my left eye. The cop nudges my backpack with his foot and then gives me a little kick. He is getting pretty peeved with my deaf act. I look up at him and try to tell him with my eyes that this is no act, that for some reason my jacked-up brain won’t let me hear. Officer—I read his nameplate—Lumply or Lumpy or something, is losing his patience. His eyes narrow and he jabs me in the chest with his flashlight. He takes a few steps back and I am able to read his lips as they mouth for me to stand up. I obey.

Over his shoulder I see another streak of red. I stare lazily, expecting nothing but the usual, typical flashes of fading color. This time however, the color doesn’t fade. It stands a few feet behind the cop. It smiles and waves. My jaw drops and my eyes bug out and my groin tingles. The “it” in question is none another than the red-haired girl from the library.

She’s dressed the same, shocking red hair, bondage pants and a tight baby tee, except this time the shirt doesn’t read
Fuck You
. Instead it reads
The Dead Hate The Living
. This is ultraweird because
The Dead Hate the Living
is the title of a low-budget horror movie I caught on late-night television a few days ago. It pretty much sucked, but it figures with this girl. Remember, “Individuals” who run around in groups of “Individuals.” There’s probably a whole group of “Individuals,” a cult if you will, in love with this shitty little movie.

Anyway, the girl continues to smile, and like before, her strange eyes trip me out. For kicks, I hold my gaze and attempt to stare her down. Her pupils dilate, forever widening, the black bleeding into the white. Dark whirlpools, endless holes, and I am falling, sucked in, air gone moist and thick.

In my head I hear: “All of this could be yours.”

All of what?

This isn’t a sex thing. I am well-conditioned. Despite that blasted tingling below the waist I’ve got things under calm control.

Then what?

Her mallrat, fashion-revolution, makeshift anarchistic attitude? Please, I have no doubt her ideals and tenets are as plastic as the credit cards she uses to maintain her punk aesthetic.

Then what?

The eyes have me. I am trapped, locked in, unable to look away. It feels as though something inside her is comingling with something inside of me. Like at the library, she’s trying to tell me something. Like at the library there is something strangely familiar about her.

I think I can hear Officer Lumpy yelling at me, but I ignore it, I am determined to figure this thing out.

Deeper and deeper, the girl’s eyes have gone completely black, unblinking. At her core a beacon, a pulse, a magnet. It mesmerizes and pulls harder. I see a tiny planet
e
arth doing tiny revolutions. Closer and closer. Its surface is knobby and angular. Closer and closer. Crosses and stones and metal rectangles cover every inch of its surface. A world of reminders. Life remembered, not lived. Life as memory.

The girl’s pupils shrink down and I am spit back into my own head. She licks her lips and smiles bigger.

Lumpy gives up trying to get through to me and turns for his car. He walks right past the girl, paying her no attention.

“He’s going for the dog. He thinks you’re dusted.” She twists a lock of red hair around a finger.

“Wha—” Speech stalls out. My mind is spinning. The images in the girl’s eyes were the exact same ones in my dream, the same ones I prayed for at Albertson’s.

“He thinks you’re on drugs. The dog is gonna sniff your bag.”

“No, I, I know what you meant. What was all of
that
about?” I point at my eyes for emphasis.

“Not now, Charles, there isn’t time. Pick up your shit and run.”

And for some reason, despite the questions floating about in my head, this suggestion makes perfect sense. Officer Lumpy is across the street and I could get a mean head start. The mini forest is only a few feet away. If I ducked into the woods it is doubtful he would find me, it would be too much trouble. The dog might be another story, but fuck it, I can climb and it can’t.

“Hurry up, Charlie.”

Again with the name.

“How do you know my—”

“If it makes a difference, I’m Annabelle. Now we’re even. Just hurry up!” She runs off, a red blur trailing behind her. I grab my backpack and zip it shut. The instant I make a movement, Lumpy yells “Freeze, motherfucker!” I ignore him and run like hell.

He won’t shoot me. As far as he’s concerned I’m just a harmless druggie.

He won’t shoot me. I’m not worth it. I’m just an inconvenient distraction and if I’m quick enough he’ll probably just shrug his shoulders and wander back to his cruiser for a little peace and quiet.

He won’t shoot me.

“Go get him, Paunch!”

He won’t shoot me.

Not with a gun anyways. But he might as well have because before I make four, maybe five, full strides, Paunch, the canine bullet, is nipping at my heels.

In case you were wondering, dog teeth hurt like hell. Paunch gets a vicious grip on my left calf and with a quick jerk of his powerful neck he wrestles me down. Falling, twisting, I look for Annabelle, but she’s nowhere to be seen. I catch a glimpse of blurry red, but then Paunch’s brutal bite turns all to a starry white. Slamming down, I land on my tailbone. Ouch. The white stars multiply and go electric, charging the insides of my skull with more hurt.

When I hit the ground, I bounce and Paunch loses his grip. He immediately recoups and lunges for another hunk of flesh. I bring my right arm up to cover my face and jut my left arm outward, hand splayed in futile stop-sign fashion.

The flesh of my left palm appears to explode outward. From my vantage point it looks as if I have squashed a large clump of pinkish
p
lay-
d
oh flat and its edges have spread out messy around the sides of my hand. Here comes that familiar buzz and for the first time in an eon my hand has chosen an opportune time to act up. I hope I won’t snap out of it until I am safe in the back of Officer Lumpy’s car or jail or wherever. I hope I won’t have to actively participate in this dog mauling or bear witness to my arrest. I hope I can coast along in my blurry, muddled, hand-produced netherworld and deal with things later, after I’ve had time to cool. I am fucked anyhow so I might as well fade out while I can.

Paunch has his doggy mouth open wide, lips pulled into a snarl, teeth sharp and eager. Ready to eat my hand down to a stump, he springs from lunge to leap. Airborne, his doggy eyes go wide and his little paws futilely start to backpedal. His fur raises fright-wig-style and he looks like an overgrown flying porcupine. Something is scaring him out his doggy wits. Can he see what I see? I’ve heard that animals have an uncanny intuition about these things. Earthquakes, ghosts, danger. But can Paunch actually see my hallucination? It’s in my head. Imagined, not real, not even imminently real. It’s not about to happen, it is happening and it’s doing so in my skull apart from the world. Apart from the animal kingdom.

Regardless, Paunch, yelping and yipping, suddenly wants nothing to do with me, but alas, he is moving through the air much too fast to stop. His snout slams into my palm. I feel nothing, but Paunch’s body goes rigid and hangs frozen in midair. It begins to buck and shake and slowly disappear into my hand.

As before, the backside of the hand is unbreached. When I lean forward and peer around for a better look at the front, the palm has become that gaping, endless void and it’s sucking Paunch down. I try to pull my arm away, but it’s locked up. Like always the little bastard gives me no leeway. The world has completely fuzzed and the hand-trick freak-out is in full effect, except this time it’s not just me caught in the maelstrom, it’s me and Paunch. Well, me and what’s left of Paunch. His hind doggy legs kick and kick and his tail quivers, pulled down low with fear. Just before his entirety is swallowed up, his legs become still and his doggy tail droops limp. The remainder of Paunch goes in dead and sick, sick, sick, I become jelly.