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Jim Meirose

    Silence lies layered.
    Dark fills the room.
    The door opens. Opens, closes, opens.
    The hinges creak. No oil anymore.
    The lightswitch clicks on.
    The door closes. Closes, opens, closes.
    The latch snaps. Complicated spring loaded mechanism of many small parts assembled by hand still working perfectly even after no one cares any more if it does.
    Hello again.
    It’s easy to say. So say it.
    Hello.
    See you said it you can say what’s easy to say.
    Mind if I sit down?
    Glance. There’s a straight backed wooden redpainted chair.
    No. Of course not.
    The chairlegs scrape across the dull brown parquet floor. The floor is caked with layer on layer of wax. On hands and knees they’d rubbed it in with heavy thick grey cloths. The sweat dripped from their downturned noses, mixing with the wax. The electric buffer brought up the shine and this was done weekly for many many years until the building grew old and fell into disrepair. The electric buffers lay unused in the lower cellars of the building covered with layer on layer of greasy grey dust and cobwebs—the floors slowly rot from underneath—
    Elbows go down on the table.
    Mouth moves. Lips writhe. Words come.
    Still friends?
    Tongue slithers. Snake. In the grass.
    Sure. Still friends.
    Force eyes open in the pale light that flows into the corners up the walls and out under the door escaping from the room from which there’s no escape.
    You know—if we can pick up where we left off yesterday—
    Hands wring on the tabletop. It looks like it hurts wringing them like that why do something like that that hurts so bad? The untrimmed nails digging into the soft white flesh, the stretching and crushing of that flesh. The twisting of the long thin fingers and the pressure on the bones and the ligaments between the bones of the twisted crushed hands—but still you twist them you twist them harder—harder—
    Why is he saying all these things to me? Why is he saying all these things to me?
    Hands go up. Ears are cold. Press hard. Ring cuts into earlobe. Feel the metal edge. Press harder. Pain.
    Stony words tumbling one over the other. Clattering words crowding on one another almost unintelligible.
    Don’t listen.
    —now listen—don’t cover your ears again—you can sit there all you want with your hands over your ears but I’ll just talk louder I’ll make you hear me there are things you need to hear so come on come on hear me—we need to talk about what you’ve done, get it all out, before we can move on—you’ve got to admit it—
    —is he saying all these things to me? Why is he saying all these things to me? Why—
    Eyebrows lower, forehead wrinkles. Sign of deep thought. What deep thoughts are these coming up and out—from somewhere too deep to be heard or known where great creatures rip and tear at the bottom of the deepest layer of consciousness where the reptilian lizard brain operates smoothly without missing a beat yes the lizard reptilian wild untamed raging deepest strata of the mind—breathing, heartbeat, fight/flight—brain—
    But it keeps you alive it does.
    Don’t listen.
    —Dorothy’s not the same person since what’s happened you know—you think she’s still your best friend but that might be over now, since what’s happened. You showed the familys true colors that day, is what people are thinking and saying. Dorothy knows—feels more terrible than you can imagine since all this has happened—she’s hurt by all this, terribly hurt—and all for three hundred dollars, three hundred lousy dollars—if you needed money that bad, you could have come to me. I’d have lent you the three hundred dollars—I’d have lent you a thousand dollars—rather than have you do what you have done—that’s right, what you have done. Nobody else. You—
    Back against the chair. A loud creak. The wood will break the slats will split the chair will fall and on his ass he will go. Ha. Hahahaha. On his ass with his legs spread out like that and his hands out to the back to hold him up or maybe he’ll fall back so hard he’ll knock his scheming head against the hard wood floor and maybe just maybe if he hits it hard enough you’ll be rid of him rid if him rid of him for good—bloody smashed skull—grey matter visible—
    —he saying all these things to me? Why is he saying all these things to me? Why is—
    Pointing sharp long pale cold finger. Long untrimmed dirty jagged nailpoint. Dirt under the nails; unwashed. Bloody smashed skull.
    Don’t listen.
    —we’ve been all through that old trunk in the attic we’ve seen all those God-damned awful things you had up there and we know what you were going to do with them, we know you were getting them for the Simons and those others—we found the bolt cutters and knife you used up there too—we know how you made that money—and the way you had all those awful things all lined up in there like, as if it were a—oh God I can’t even hardly say it—as if it were a God-damned display for you to be proud of—
    —saying all these things to me? Why is he saying all these things to me? Why is he—
    Fist the table. Fist the table hard. The tabletop is of many tiny green grains on a white background. The green grains drift one layer atop another deep down into the tabletop with spaces between each grain, if you were small enough and fast enough you could go down between the grains where there’s no room for thought my God there’s not a thought in my head there’s really really really not a thought in my silly head—what a feeling what a wonderfully empty light feeling but frightening too—
    Don’t listen.
    —you think no one knows the things you’ve been saying and doing with those damned Simons you’ve been hanging around with and what you’ve been spending all your time on and how you’ve been making your money too and all the people you’ve hurt by it, my God, these are people you’ve done this to, real people—how will we ever make it up to them—especially the Stratfords and the Mortensons—that part was the worst— but it’s all come out now—I know and so does Dorothy—she’s mortified just mortified—she trusted you, you know. She’s never done anything besides trust you to do the right thing, to live right—you’ve sinned against God you know. In the worst way—
    —all these things to me? Why is he saying all these things to me? Why is he saying—
    Lean back, eyebrows up, slower voice up a tone. Trying to get through. But no no one can get through. This wall is sixteen bricks thick, with hard rough mortar in between, the kind of wall you’d work with a sledge for days to bring down after the great fires come and bring down all the softer fragile wooden parts of the house where the people once walked and slept and cooked and loved and ate and just because he had to unfreeze the pipes with that torch, that flaming bluetipped scalding torch in the middle of the winter on that new year’s eve day when all the smoke came from under the eaves and the flames just ate the house all up—and you watched from your living room window yes you did you watched it didn’t occur to you to call the fire department after all it wasn’t your business it wasn’t your God-damned house—
    Don’t listen.
    —I just thought you needed to hear these things first from me before you hear them from Dorothy—come on don’t just sit there with that blank face, with those hands over your ears—you know why I’m saying what I’m saying. You had no business breaking in there, you had no business taking those things, Jesus Christ—of all the places to steal from—how could you have done it? How could you have done such a filthy thing? You weren’t brought up that way—and they’re pressing charges you know you’re lucky the police let me come up here and visit you—
    —these things to me? Why is he saying all these things to me? Why is he saying all—
    Cold eyes narrow, look pierces. Pain of barelegged walk through the thornbushes. Long ago in shorts. Picking huckleberries and raspberries and blackberries in the brambles walked through barelegged. Where the field mice are underfoot unseen and where the field mice lie in dark places under woodpiles field mice lying on their sides with their young suckling at their teats to be discovered and destroyed by frightened idly walking past crude boys—the small grey beasts are innocent as all beasts as the lizard reptilian brain way down there at the bottom of it all is innocent—the boys swing their sticks down on the mother and babies thinking thank God there were sticks lying here that we could use to destroy these—filthy field mice.
    Don’t listen.
    —don’t look into the tabletop—look up at me! You’re sick! Do you hear me? You’re sick and you’ve got to face it before its too late to get any better—to do the things you did you have to be sick any normal person would have thrown up doing what you did down there by the church—but you’re no normal person, is what people are saying—they’re saying you must be some kind of animal—I’ll tell you what I’ll be praying for you I’ll really really be praying for you—
    Fists form whiteknuckled on the tabletop, flex, and release. The grains on the tabletop are wide apart—dive into the tabletop disappear in the white cloudy creamy color. As before, drift down past all thought diving hands thrust out toward the bottom and hit the bottom and walk along the muddy bottom clogged and choked with broadleafed weeds raising clouds of billowing mud behind—and look for the pennies they’ve all dropped in there for luck, look for the pennies so it’ll be worth your while—
    —things to me? Why is he saying all these things to me? Why is he saying all these—
    Dive dive deep deeper than words can follow.
    Finger points once more more sharply, tip moving jagged in the air, making jagged lines. Another dirty nail. How hard is it to clean your nails? They make brushes just for that. Yes they make brushes just for that—like they make combs for the hair and razors for the legs and underarms and for the face and sometimes even for the whole head—a smooth bald head cannot be a breeding place for tiny creatures with many legs that do not suckle their young but just cast their eggs out into the brush or the hair and the eggs hatch and make more tiny creatures with many legs that do not suckle their young—but they bite they always bite to get at the most precious blood—
    Don’t listen.
    —what you had in the attic was awful. What you did down by the church to get them was worse. And what a mess you left in there! You left your tools all scattered around— didn’t you think that’d get you caught? Don’t you care about getting caught at all? What you did is against God you know. And we can’t get that awful day out of our minds—what were you thinking? To do such a thing? And what made you think we wouldn’t find out? The whole town knows! The whole God-damned town knows! And for three hundred God-damned dollars! And they say you just snapped, is what they say—but I know you knew what you were doing every step of the way. You’re always in control. It was those Simons, I know that—but how could you have gotten in with those awful people, that do such awful things—those damned Simons—I always told you those damned Simons were no damned good—
    —to me? Why is he saying all these things to me? Why is he saying all these things—
    Jagged fingertip waving—follow the jagged fingertip waving more crooked lines in the air. It’s spelling something what is it spelling here in the air between us? Watch it move—there’s a word—there’s another—it’s saying something that can’t be read its writing it is but it can’t possibly be read in this life no not in this lifetime—some words are not meant to ever be read—
    Don’t listen.
    —but for some reason you’ve got it all blocked out—come on, don’t kid yourself like you’ve been kidding yourself all this time that no one knows what you did—we all know—so why not admit to yourself that you’ve done all these things too? It’s a first step—you act like nothing’s happened—you act like nothing’s happened at all—you just sit there how can you just sit there like this—admit what you’ve done—admit it! Admit you broke in there! Admit what you did!
    —me? Why is he saying all these things to me? Why is he saying all these things to—
    Whiteknuckled hands grip the tabletop edge. The table trembles the legs rattle the wood flexes and creaks. The table could fall what would happen if the table fell there would be a clatter to beat the band what kind of saying is that anyway its a silly saying to beat the band the wood would go splintering clattering sliding all around pieces of wood would fly through the air and though some would strike you in the face you’d just laugh and laugh—and it wouldn’t sound anything at all like a band for Christ’s sake—
    Don’t listen.
    —but wait until you hear what Dorothy has to say to you. She’s coming up to see you you know—all the way up from Louisiana—that’s right she’s taking time off from work and all and taking the train all the way up from Louisiana that’s how important this whole thing is to her—she’s going to tell you all the same things—you’re going to have to answer to her—your best friend! How could you have forgotten she was your best friend? How could you just have ignored what this would do to her reputation? She’ll be here tomorrow—she’ll be here to see you—oh you’ve blackened the family name good, you have—and people aren’t going to forget this for years—maybe never—
    A hand is flattened out on the table flat as a flatfish ever heard of the flatfish it lies flat on the bottom how does it feed—is there such a fish as the flatfish it must move along the bottom and suck up the muck and get what food is there in the muddy muck, green gouts of slimy food and then it will lie on the bottom and rest, spent and exhausted and looking up with its fishy eyes into the layers of water above up toward some kind of dimlit shimmering light—
    Why is he saying all these things to me? Why is he saying all these things to me? What I did was not terrible it didn’t hurt anybody the only one who could have got hurt was me and I didn’t—no I didn’t do it what am I thinking no I didn’t do it they’re trying to make me think I did it must fight them they’re liars liars liars. I would never go in such a place and do such a thing.
    Voice lowers, coming out, flowing, draining, slowing. The voice coiling like a snake in the wet too-green stinking sopping swampgrass. Stinking skunk cabbage, stinkbugs to get under your shirt and to be crushed when found to leave a black powdery smudge of what is left of them legs and all— under the smooth white cloth of your t-shirt at the racks in the comic books store red and green and white and purple and silver spattering the comic book rack—all yelling colors, colors that yell at you look at me, look at me, look at me—I didn’t do it—
    Don’t listen!
    Coiling voice coils over and under itself. Coiling as a sidewinder snake walks across the desert sand hungry to bite like some great vicious cat—
    Now listen—and you know this—I’m just speaking to you as a friend. I’m just trying to cushion the blow that’s coming, when she tells you what she thinks too. We just want to snap you out of it you know that’s all we’re trying to do—we want things to be back like they were before is all we want—we want the old you back. If that’s possible. You’ve got to admit that you did it first though.
    But I didn’t.
    Hands come down. Air goes in ears impression of ring is on earlobe but can’t see it can’t see it can’t—can just feel it can feel the sharp fading pressure there—can’t see yourself from the side or from the back without a mirror what if there were no mirrors you’d never be able to see yourself you’d have to imagine how you looked how terrible that would be what would you imagine you looked like in a world without glassy clear shiny smooth mirrors—where you’ve never seen yourself?
    I know I didn’t. Hands, feet and fingers and toes—no of course I didn’t do it.
    Elbows come up off the table. Hands clasp with finality. Blue veins in the handbacks. Red knuckles. Pigs knuckles in the big vinegar filled jar come home that night long ago so long ago when the seed was planted. Bring home a tomato pie just for the hell of it bring it home in the middle of the night and expect that everybody’s just going to drop what their doing, stop watching TV and all and be grateful for the God damned tomato pie laid there on the coffee table at eleven o’clock at night, the pie that no one wanted anyway, but the smell, oh the oh so heavenly smell they don’t smell that way any more like they used too its an indescribable smell yes there are things in this world that are indescribable—oh and they always call them pizzas now they never call them tomato pies but they called them pizzas back then too I wonder why not why not call them tomato pies any more—pizzas and tomato pies and pizzas and—
    I didn’t.
    Okay. I’ve got to go now. Still friends right?
    Oh for a world without mirrors. Oh to not be seen from every side.
    Right.
    I mean—you know I’m just saying all these things—being honest like this because I care. There’s still a lot of people that care. You’ve got to know that.
    I didn’t.
    Bites lip hard has to be bloody has to—
    All right then—
    The chair scrapes across the dull brown parquet floor. The floor will be scratched and marked before this is all over. But no one will care because this is an old building no one gets down on hands and knees and rubs wax into these wooden floors any more—no one’s sweat drips down to mix with the swirling wax—butcher’s wax do they call it? Or do they call it something else—I know they call it something—
    Hands wring on the tabletop. Knuckles crack.
    Pop.
    Snap.
    Goodbye for now.
    Goodbye.
    The latch clicks. Springs drive the plungers home.
    The door opens. Opens, closes, opens.
    The hinges creak. No oil anymore.
    The door closes. Frame rattles. Closes opens closes.
    Slippered feet shuffle across.
    The light switch clicks.
    Dark fills the room.
    The chair creaks.
    I didn’t do it I don’t care what they say.
    Silence lies layered. The dark in the room flows under the door and dissipates outside, where there’s clear fresh clean new light.

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This appears in a pre-2010 issue of cc&d magazine. Saddle-stitched issues are no longer printed, but you can requesting it “re-released” through amazon sale as a 6" x 9" ISBN# book! Email us for re-release to order.

This appears in a pre-2010 issue
of cc&d magazine.
Saddle-stitched issues are no longer
printed, but you can requesting it
“re-released” through amazon sale
as a 6" x 9" ISBN# book!
Email us for re-release to order.