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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... cc&d magazine (v211) (the August 2010 Issue) |
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Martians and Malt Liquor
Skibo LeBlanc
From the chair, he looked down upon the only objects he cared for anymore, strewn about his grungy apartment.
“Goodbye guitar, goodbye pills, goodbye mask. Enjoy life, you fools, you Tooks.”
He wrapped the noose around his neck, tightened it, and was about to “kick the bucket”, when a blinding light came through his third floor apartment window, followed by a deafening roar. This light was followed by dark, as dust and ash drowned out the sky.
He un-wrapped the noose from around his neck, stepped down from the chair, and walked over to the window. There, he could make out the silhouette of a woman running down the street, and turning into the alley next to his apartment to avoid the ash.
“Well shit, life isn’t that bad, I guess,” he laughed to himself.
He grabbed the gas mask, one of the few reminders of the grandfather who had raised him, and ran over to the sink. Rummaging around underneath it, he found an old flashlight and some batteries.
“Thank you Tommy Edison, m’boy,” he chirped as he bounded towards the door. Once there, though, he turned back around, grabbed his bottle off the table, and put it in his jeans pocket.
“Don’t want m’lady seeing these bad boys,” he said, as he finally left the room. With an excitement he hadn’t felt in years, he sprinted through the hallway and jumped down the stairs, skipping steps along the way, until he was finally at the door. He put on the antique World War II era gas mask, and stepped out into the abyss.
He could hear her cries and moans the instant he opened the door, but nothing else. She was the only sound in the world for all he could tell.
Dragging his fingers on the brick wall of his building, he followed her sound to the alleyway. When he got there, she was huddled against a dumpster, hacking and crying into her cotton sweater. She looked up, and through the tears and blood, he could see that she was beautiful.
“Please save me,” was all she said.
Having wanted his entire life to be a hero, the man didn’t hesitate at the request.
“Come on hon,” he beckoned, as he led her back to the building. “Are you alright?” A nod was all she could muster.
Once the red brick wall had guided them back to his building, he led the way to his apartment, with the girl following at his heels.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” he announced as they turned into the doorway. She gasped at the same instant he let out an “oh shit”. The noose was still hanging off the beam in the dead center of the room, swaying slightly, as if he hadn’t been interrupted.
Taking off the mask, and setting it on the lone table in his room, he extended his hand. “Hey I don’t think I’ve properly introduced myself, I’m Brier Moran.”
“Ana Merloti,” she replied, never taking her eyes off the rope, and not noticing the waiting hand. Had she looked up, she’d have seen what could have been an attractive young man, with a mangy beard and bloodshot eyes, not necessarily the face of a savior. “So you either saw the apocalypse coming, or are just really into asphyxiation, huh?” she laughed, finally looking at him, though tears still clung to her dirty cheeks. Her blue eyes and long, brown hair stood out against the grime on her face. He was unable to answer for a long second.
“Everybody’s got hobbies,” he replied, never taking his stunned eyes off of her. “Apocalypse? What, is the Pope’s name Peter?”
“Well, yeah, what’d you think all the smoke and death was?”
“I mean, I was in here, minding my own business, you know, when it got dark, and I saw you running down the street. But I haven’t seen any dead folks, though.”
“What do you mean you didn’t see anyone?” The look she was giving him now was what he figured she’d have reserved for the noose. “There are people everywhere. There are people in here. You stepped over an old man on the stairs.” Tears were beginning to trickle from those vibrant orbs of hers.
“Really? You don’t say? I should get my eyes checked,” he chuckled, walking past the chair and into his microscopic kitchen. He started rummaging through a cabinet above the counter. “Pop-Tart?”
“What? No... I’m fine thanks.”
“C’mon, you’ve got to be hungry.”
“Really, I’m fine.” She smiled, wiping away the tears and the memory of her previous look. He saw her glance around the room, and stop with interest on the gas mask that he’d set on the table. “Where’d you get that?
He had wanted her to ask about it. “It was my grandpa’s. After he died, we had to clean and fix up his house, and I found it while scrounging around in his basement. I don’t know why I’ve kept it; I’d never even worn it until today. Hell, it’s been five years, and no matter where I go, I always bring it with me.”
“Kind of like a fucked up teddy bear?”
He laughed, “Yeah I guess you could say that, though I’ve never really thought of it that way.”
“Does it remind you of him?”
“Yeah.”
“In a good way?”
“I don’t know. Everyone says we were similar in our youths. I hope to God not.”
“Why?”
He squinted to where the old wind-up clock hung on his wall, but could see nothing. The darkness had finally consumed his room, the last beacon of light. “We should get some candles out,” he said to nobody in particular, not hearing her question. She didn’t push the subject, but he could feel her eyes unlocking the mechanisms of his soul and its demons. He could feel her inside of him, probing, pushing his buttons.
He went back into the kitchen, and was about to begin looking for the candles when she beat him to the punch. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who would have candles lying around.” She was right, of course. Looking around his mostly barren apartment, he saw it through the eyes of an outsider; the tiny kitchen, the mostly empty refrigerator, the single table with its accompanying chair, and the dirty mattress with its stained blanket. Why had he allowed her to see this? What was she thinking of him?
“No, I guess I probably don’t.”
“I love what you’ve done with the place, though,” she laughed, answering his previous question.
He didn’t understand why she was still here, but he wasn’t asking any questions. He just stared at her, and didn’t remember falling asleep.
He woke up in a fog on his decaying mattress, and saw that the darkness and smog were still outside, though it could have been early in the afternoon for all he knew. He could feel that she was gone. In a panic, he looked for her everywhere in his apartment, though that only took one quick glance. He opened up the front door, looked down the hallway, and was hit full-bore with the damp and murky smell of death, vomiting on the spot. Covering his nose, he came back inside, and slammed the door shut. He next ran to his decrepit bathroom to see if she was there, but only found the dirty toilet and shower as they always were. He pulled the bottle out of his pocket, uncapped it, and downed five of the green and purple ‘Martians’, as he liked to call them. He was now down to single digits, bouncing to and fro within their vessel. He cupped one of his hands and with the other turned the handles of the faucet, but it sputtered and died. Choking on his dry, disloyal friends, he stumbled out of the bathroom to the kitchen, where, upon looking through the refrigerator, he found an old malt beverage. After the crisp uncorking, he was able to wash the pills down. He felt like death. He turned around and she was there, standing by the closed door.
She was wearing the same clothes from the day before, a thin cotton sweater that showed off her curves, and jeans, but the dirt and blood were gone from her face. He wondered how she had cleaned herself with the water being off, and where she had gone to, but figured better than to ask. “Everyone’s got hobbies, huh?” she quoted incorrectly.
He could tell that she wasn’t angry though, for some reason, and he smiled, “Like I said.”
“Well, are you ready to go?” she asked.
He didn’t understand. “Go?”
“We’re leaving. Don’t you remember? We decided last night. We can’t stay here; there’s no electricity or running water, or even food, unless you plan on living off of Pop-Tarts for the rest of time.”
He liked it when she said “we”. And sure enough, next to his mattress, were the fixings for the apparent trip. His acoustic guitar, the mask, and a winter jacket were all sitting next to a knapsack. “What’s in the sack?”
“I think it’s got in it... a flashlight, a few batteries, a map, some gloves, a shitload of different flavored Pop-Tarts, and a few forties, because that was the only liquid that was in your fridge, for some reason.”
“Damn, we’re gonna have to make some pit stops, aren’t we?”
“’Twould appear so. But don’t worry, it’s gonna be a great adventure.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he replied, grinning as he walked over to the luggage.
The man then put on the coat, hoisted the knapsack onto one shoulder and the guitar over the other, picked up the mask, and led the way out the door. He was floating as they walked down the hallway, and then down the stairs, until he no longer felt her presence behind him. He turned around back towards the stairs and saw her lying next to the decomposing corpse of a man, wailing, with her face buried in his chest.
“Why not me? Why am I here, when he’s not? I was in the same fucking building, at the same fucking time.” She was screaming now, during this terrible reminder of the happiest moment of his life; when he had found her by the dumpster. “He was better than me, everyone was, but I’m here, alone, and left behind. I was supposed to go, was about to go, but- oh God, it’s horrible, the smell, the smell.” She was gagging by the time he made it to her.
“Ana, you’re not alone.” He set down the luggage, and sat down two steps beneath her, looking at her kind face and into her beautiful eyes. “Come on now, like you said, we’ve got a ‘great adventure’ ahead of us. It’s time to leave the Shire.” Just like the last time, she smiled through her tears.
They both got up from the steps simultaneously, with Brier leading the way to the door. He grabbed the gear, put on the mask, and opened the portal wide. He looked her right in the eyes and spoke in his greatest Bilbo impersonation, “It’s a dangerous business, Ana, going out of your door.” And so the journey began.
He led the way from the doorstep onto Church Street, and it was immediately evident that this would not be an easy trek. The dust and ash were still thickly hanging in the air; as if he were looking through a muddy creek. They may as well have been on Mars or Venus. Some buildings stood while others smoldered. He did not know or care as to why. This was no longer his town
They decided to head south because that was the first direction he turned. Who knew what the nuclear winter would bring, or if this even was the onset of a terrible future. It had been early October in Viata, Virginia, a town in the northeastern corner of the state, where a sweatshirt and jeans were all one needed to combat the crisp, apple wood scented breeze. But the months no longer applied, the scent had been replaced by a heavy asbestos musk, and the temperature had already significantly dropped.
There were bodies and cars strewn about the road, lying with no rhyme or reason. No one had seen the blast coming; nobody had holed up in a bomb shelter or made preparations for what was to come. The churches were not crammed with those who had put off their confessions, or sought after their saviors. They were alive and then they were dead. That was it. They were the lucky ones, for they had selfishly left their horrid remains for him to stumble upon. He assumed they all smelled like the man in the stairs, but the musk and the mask consumed all of his senses.
They passed Nielsen’s Frozen Custard, turned left onto Lawyers, and then took a quick right onto Route 123, known as Maple Avenue in Viata. This was the road on which they would take the long walk. It cut straight through the Commonwealth, but was small enough that it was almost always near civilization. The scene on 123 was similar to that on Church, but to a larger extent.
They walked along the lonely road, until they came upon the sign which proclaimed that they were now “Leaving the Town of Viata. Established 1769. Incorporated 1890.”
“Nonexistent 2009,” he added. He grabbed the guitar off his shoulder and, staring at the sign, began to play. He could not hear the music from within his mask, but he could feel its vibrations, and knew that she heard it. As the strung-out traveling bard walked past the sign, he began to sing,
“Adios en vaya con dios
Yeah I’m leavin’ VA
And if it weren’t for tequila and pretty señioritas
I’d have no reason to stay”
The sound of his voice filled his mask, and flowed with the good vibrations. He was in ecstasy in this brown hell.
“You look like you’re having fun in there, Zac Brown,” she teased. “You’ll need to grow that beard out a bit more, and gain a few pounds, though. You never told me you could sing?”
“It never came up,” he replied sheepishly, controlling the happiness surging through his body.
“Adios en vaya con dios
Yeah I’m leavin’ VA
Gonna lay in the hot sun and roll a big fat one
And grab my guitar and play”
With that, he strapped the guitar back over his shoulder and bid Viata adieu.
With the town behind them, they continued their march down 123. In certain places the muddy water in the air was less dense, allowing the travelers better visibility. For the first time, he noticed the foliage. The leaves of the trees, which, before yesterday, had been in the early stages of their annual transformation, were gone, consumed by the mud. They were brown like the air, and without leaves, the now evident arthritic distortions in their branches gave them a human appearance. This was the new race. Every divot or bump in the stem looked like an eye or a mouth or a face; every branch an arm, with many crooked fingers. He wondered if maybe it was a good thing they generally couldn’t see.
They walked all day, never stopping to eat, never stopping to rest. When he thought that day may have finally turned into night, he walked no farther, couldn’t walk any farther. He could not move anymore. Though he was undoubtedly exhausted and starving, having not dug into the various assortments of Pop-Tarts he carried in his sack, he was not actually aware of these physical feelings yet. They were not the cause of this. He stopped walking because of the all-encompassing smog. Though there was not a sound outside, save for the constant pat of their footsteps, within his mask, the smog was loud. There was no actual sound, but he could still hear it anyway, almost like the ocean one supposedly hears from a conch shell. At first, the sound was just as peaceful, but by this time it was maddening. He clamped his ears to the side of his head and fell to his knees. He hated the smog. He ripped off the mask and screamed at it until he tasted copper in the back of his mouth. It took over all. When it was thick, the smog was the only thing. If he didn’t have to get somewhere soon he would have turned right around and walked on back to 1245 Church Street. But he did have to get somewhere soon.
While on his knees he looked up to where the sky once was. He wanted to see the stars, thought that without people and electricity, the stars would finally be able to shine their brightest. Their exit was the stars’ rise. But the smog blacked (or browned) them out, mocked him, and knew how much he wanted to be the only one in the world to see them. He didn’t even want her to see them; in fact, he didn’t even want to see her. He wanted to be able to touch her, to hurt her. He wanted to be alone, away from the smog and away from her, but, in reality, only for a moment, because she was his only reason to continue walking. His wish was answered, however, for when he jumped up from the ground, the rage (like the smog) consuming everything, she was not there. He sobered up quick, the anger from a moment ago replaced by the panic and despair he had felt this morning. He wondered why she was not here when he needed her most, though he knew it was probably a good thing she had decided to skedaddle at that very moment.
With his head relatively clear, considering the circumstances, he bent down and picked up the mask. He observed it, studying its features. He figured he probably looked like a bug with it on, or someone from another world. Well, he thought out loud, “I guess I am on another world.” He laughed at that thought. Maybe he’d start wearing a robe and brand a spiked pipe, play the part of a savage Tusken Raider. Maybe she’d get a kick out of it. “Fuck, no one’s ever gonna watch Star Wars again,” he realized, though, to be honest, he had never been much of a fan in the past. However, this truth hit him just the same.
He snapped out of these thoughts and looked at the mask once more, no longer envisioning this sand person scenario. For a brief moment he felt like tossing it as far as possible, escaping from its suffocating sound, but he didn’t. With survival mode kicking in, he felt for the first time all the fatigue and pains of having been in motion for an entire afternoon. His legs were on fire, his stomach moaned; his throat was dry, and his heart longed, for she was not far from his mind. Before he continued, he had to “get right”. He once again set down the mask (wishing he would just leave it), took the sack off his back and began rifling through it, looking for liquid. With despair he found that there were only Hurricanes. She had told him that. He knew it would be an effort not to upchuck the vile liquid, but he also knew that once down, he would feel great. He hated the taste, but loved how it made him feel, and, when it comes down to it, all we feel is all that’s real, isn’t it. He pulled the bottle from his pocket, uncapped it, and dropped a few more ‘Martians’ into his open palm. After this, there were only five left. This was a problem that needed to be remedied soon. He, for the second time that day, twisted off the cap of that cheap booze, popped the pills into his mouth, and looked into the eye of the Hurricane. He was right, it was difficult to refrain from booting all over the pavement, but he was able to keep it down. And thank God for that, because once the nausea subsided, he began to ride the smog. It was no longer a cloud, but a rainbow, and at the end of that rainbow there lay a pot of gold, eagerly waiting for him. The path was now clear, though murky, and he knew the way to go.
First however, he had to eat, and he knew, even in his state, that he’d have to sleep relatively soon. He could wait that long. The path ended not much farther along the road.
He smashed the forty on the muddy pavement, where its shatter was dulled by the smog. He picked up the mask once again (couldn’t leave it), strapped it on, and once again began to walk. He combed the sides of the road looking for anything, when God revealed himself in red, orange, and green. Half of the sign was gone, but he could recognize Seven-Eleven from anywhere. The buildings bordering it were rubble, but it stood like the beacon of hope that it was. “Oh thank Heaven.”
The glass to the front door was busted, allowing him easy access to the land of made-for-road trips food and beverages. Once inside, he turned his flashlight on the aisles, searching for sustenance. The plethora of Pop-Tart flavors were still in his sack, but he’d be damned if that was going to be dinner. He’d been stocking up on them for years, had loved them in fact, but now once he’d really needed them, had held out for something better. How odd, he thought.
The flashlight fell upon the dripping slurpee machine, its sticky sweetness all over the counter and floor. His feet made a slapping sound as they passed over. “Ah, Coke, cherry, piña colada, and Mountain Dew – not a bad combo,” he thought sadly. He walked on by, towards the snack food, really wishing for the first time that there was still electricity.
He eventually came upon the aisle in which resided the beef jerky, and knew he had hit the spot. He took off the mask for the last time that night and then went to town. He filled his belly until he could eat no more, and then found some bottled water to wash it down. No more forties, he thought with glee, time to start living clean. Once finished with dinner, he went searching the backrooms of the store for somewhere to sleep. Without any protection from the elements in the chilly front room, not to mention his hallucinating exhaustion, he slowly made his way through the Mines of Moria that were the back halls of this 7-11, when he came upon the last, stark black room. He shone the flashlight inside and found a cot, a cot on which Ana Merloti resided.
“Took you long enough,” she teased.
He dropped the sack and flashlight, knocking out its light, and ran to her. She scooched over to make room for him on the cot, and he plopped down right next to her, content.
“It took me awhile to find the way over here. You sure took off like a bat outta hell, though,” he accused. “Why’d you leave like that?”
“How else d’you think we could’ve gotten here, stupid? She laughed. “You sure weren’t going to lead the way.”
“I found my way just fine, thank you very much,” he argued, playing along with her. He picked up the guitar and began to play again, swaying slightly on the cot, swaying with her in the dark.
“When you grab ahold of me
You tell me that I’ll never be set free
But I’m a parasite
Creep and crawl I step into the night—”
“When did you learn to play that there retronym?” She interrupted, with a goofy fake drawl. “You play and sing real well, I wouldn’t have expected it, to be honest.”
“Thanks, I think. You sure you’re not just tryna shut me up?” He joked, pretending to be hurt. “My grandpa taught me when I was younger. This is actually his, the one he used to play. I got rid of mine when he died. Man we used to play all the time together. I haven’t thought about that in awhile. He was alone after getting out of the service and I was alone too. Every night – I lived with him, his house is a few towns over, actually – after dinner we’d go out on the porch and just pick and strum. If there was a game on the tube, especially if the Redskins were on, we’d bring it onto the porch with us, put it on mute, and play to the sound of the pads, and bitch about Snyder of course. I mean we did that for years. The best were those cool autumn nights when there was that natural, smoky smell in the air. Those were the best of times, up until the beginning of high school, that is, when he got sick. He couldn’t even play anymore.” With that he resumed his Sublime soul,
“Two pints of booze
Tell me are you a badfish too?
(Are you a badfish too?)
Ain’t got no money to spend
I hope the night would never end
Lord knows I’m weak
Won’t somebody get me off of this reef?”
“What was he sick with?” She asked, concerned. He hadn’t intended for her pity and care, but it felt good. He had never had anyone to tell his story to, and he loved her for asking.
“Cancer, a rare form of Leukemia. It was incurable, just kinda came onto him in no time. One day we were pickin’, the next he was in bed, dying. It only lasted a few months, thank God. But it was awful watching him deteriorate, both his body and his mind. They gave him pills for the pain, but they killed his brain. For the most part I just helped him around the house, got him whatever he needed, you know. I fed him, helped him get up to the shower and bathroom, did his laundry and stuff. But that didn’t last long or help much, for that matter. He had to stay at the hospital pretty soon after, so I stayed at the hospital too – went straight from school to the hospital, and every morning from the hospital to school. I rode the bus a lot. When I was there, I just sat on the couch in his room and played to him or read to him anything I could find in the lobby. He especially liked a tattered old copy of the Hobbit that was there. I meant to keep it, wonder whatever happened to it.” He felt like he was telling a ghost story, with them sitting there in the back and black of the dilapidated 7-11, technically was telling a ghost story, he supposed. She didn’t respond during this pause, but allowed him to reflect on the memories by himself. She knew the highlight reel of his past was playing in fast-forward; that he had to see this alone. He snapped out of his head pretty soon after though, and continued the song.
“Baby you’re a big blue whale
Grab the reef when all duck divin’ fails
I swim, but I wish I’d never learned
The water’s too polluted with germs”
“He started losing his mind after awhile, from the drugs and chemo I’m guessing. He’d wake up and not know where he was, wouldn’t know who I was sometimes, would get violent. He’d say things that didn’t make any sense, like calling me his ‘precious’, something he’d never called me before. It was almost worse when he was sane, though. He was scared and would cry. It’s awful watching your protector cry, the person who saved you die. He was old, but he didn’t want to go anymore than he had when he was twenty. Luckily it didn’t last too long, though it sure was painful. He died one morning while I was at school, they came in and told me, and I walked out of the door, caught the bus, and went to him. He was still lying in his bed when I got there, didn’t really look any different than if he’d been sleeping.”
“I dive deep when it’s ten feet overhead
Grab the reef underneath my bed
(Underneath my bed)”
He interrupted himself once again. “It wasn’t so bad right after. I mean, it was, but at least I was busy. Some relatives came in and we all helped with the funeral. It was a lot of work. They all came over for the good ole’ Irish wake ‘n everyone got pretty sloshed. The funeral was beautiful too, out in Arlington, not too far away. But once it was done there was nothing. Everyone left, went back to their lives, and I stayed to clean up. For the rest of that school year and into the summer I helped sort through all his things and fix up the house. Once that was done, they sold it, and that was that. I’ve kinda been drifting around since, living with different friends and the occasional relative, going from school to school, until I was able to work out a deal on that shitty little apartment.” He let out a sad laugh.
“Ain’t got no quarrels with God
Ain’t got no time to get old
Lord knows I’m weak
Won’t somebody get me off of this reef?”
For the first time since the end, he felt himself losing it. “A lot of times after, when I was driving around aimlessly, I’d somehow find myself parked outside his house. I wouldn’t remember having driven there or anything, just snapped out of whatever trance I was in, and was there. I’ve gravitated towards people like him since then. The place I stayed the longest was the home of a very good and gentle family, like him. He was a good and gentle man.”
She hadn’t spoken for the longest of times, had only watched him as the words spilled out, as he unveiled himself to her. She leaned into him, and whispered in his ear, “Are you a good and gentle man?” The black overcame them as they transformed into one.
He awoke hoping that what he had dreamed was real. She was gone, but he wasn’t terribly surprised. Oh he still needed her alright, more than anything, but he was as sure she’d come back as he was that he still had a few ‘Martians’ in his pocket, and he was always aware of them.
A faint light had crept into the depths of the 7-11, leading him to believe that morning had arrived, and thus, the continuation of their journey. He figured she was out there getting supplies or finding out where they were going next. He knew where they were going already, though, and he guessed she possibly did too, or at least was going to find out. It was not too far away now and always in the forefront of his mind, most definitely less than a day’s walk. He picked up their belongings, put on the mask, turned on the flashlight, and tried to find his way out of the Mines. When he finally stumbled into the front room of the store, he felt the smog begin to strangle him with its cold, dead hands. He hadn’t prepared for this after defeating it last night, walking over it and on it. Even though that foreigner of a sun was shining through, the fog was more potent, more alive, as if it had risen this morning with a vengeance. It was brighter, but thicker. He quickly rifled through his pocket for the remaining ‘Martians’ while simultaneously ripping off the mask and sprinting to the water aisle (he had Heaven pretty much memorized by now). He popped em, downed em, and like clockwork, the fog was lifted from his brain. “God, when will it lift for good? Please, make it go, make it go away. People can’t live with it, I can’t live with it, like this,” he cried, with relief being the primary emotion in this tangent.
With the last of the ‘Martians’ flowing and the smog receding, he was able to think clearly about the road that lay ahead, and what he had to do. They were well stocked, and probably wouldn’t need to stop, so he figured they’d make it there by mid-afternoon. Hopefully she’d find her way to him by then. He picked up the mask, put it on, and strolled out of the jag-ended door.
His prediction proved correct when she appeared a few minutes later. She crept up out of nowhere, trying to scare him, playfully crying “BOO!” as she jumped at him. He didn’t startle, but wondered whether she’d been looking for the future, or only scoping in the past. He didn’t see from where she had come. Maybe she didn’t know where they were going. He would soon be proved wrong.
After her arrival they walked and walked, and though it had only been a day, he could tell that this disfigured world was not going to change anytime soon. The smog wasn’t going anywhere, the trees would die, and the buildings would stay down. He didn’t mind the buildings, those dilapidated reminders, but he did wish that the trees would be able to grow again, wanted the green to overtake the brown. They were nearing his destination and he was saddened by the destruction of its past beauty, gone in an instant. “What’s the point of living when you’ve got nothing to look at?” He asked her. He never really thought about his own mortality, or the fact that he was probably dying. That never really crossed his mind. When you don’t love yourself it’s easy to dismiss those thoughts.
“You can look at me if you want to,” she replied, “Though you may have to take that mask off first.”
“Nah, I gotta keep it on. The smog—“
“You’re just hiding behind it; the smog’s got nothing to do with anything. The mask just gets in the way, obstructs your view, of, of everything. Please take it off, walk without it, for me,” she cried suddenly.
He could never say no to her. Surprised at her outburst he unwillingly unstrapped the mask, and dropped it to the matted pavement. It landed with a thud. “So much for being a sand person,” he mumbled. He could feel the tide turning, knew she had control of him. Of course, she’d always been in control, but today was different. She had yet to try and change him, until now. He now knew that she knew where they were headed, and that she was going to try and stop him, make him choose another path.
“Why are we going to your grandpa’s house?” She asked, as if on cue.
“What’re you talking about? We’ve been walking on the same road this whole time, heading in the same direction. Nothing’s changed.”
“Don’t lie to me, you can’t lie, there’s no point, I know that’s where we’re headed. Why are we going to your— his house? Neither of you have lived there in years; someone else’s corpse is rotting within its walls. Why are we going there? Don’t tell me it’s for the nostalgia.” He could see an unfamiliar emotion, rage, boiling, attempting to explode out of her. He conceded.
?“I – I have to pick up a few things that I left there.”
“What things, you haven’t lived there in years.” Her voice approached hysterics.
“It’s really nothing; I dunno what the big deal is, why you’re getting upset. We just need to stop there real quick.”
“Answer the question. I already know the answer, but you need to say it.”
He now knew she was aware of everything, the past and the future. He broke down as he spoke, shame burning every inch of his body. “My ‘precious’ are there, buried in a tin box in the woods behind the house. I need them; have needed them ever since he got sick.”
“What are the ‘precious’? She replied, pity, confusion, and understanding all trying to seep out of her cold eyes at the same time.
“The pills, like bones to a dog, the painkillers that they gave my Grandfather. When he started losing it, I, I kinda wanted to lose it too. He couldn’t play anymore and I wanted to share something with him. At least that’s what I told myself. When he was asleep, I’d take a few from a bottle he’d left lying around. Eventually I needed them more than I needed him or he needed them. I don’t know why, but I called them my ‘precious’ little friends. And then he began to call me his ‘precious’ out of nowhere. I couldn’t handle it then, I’d leave the room when he’d say that. I don’t know what made me feel worse, the fact that he’d be gone in a little while, or that I was the worst of thieves. That anything could top the grief of losing him was the worst part. Losing him should have been the worst, not what I did to him.” He looked for her for compassion, and found it. She wanted to hate him, but couldn’t, was able to forgive. He continued, tears streaming down his face. “He still had bottles and bottles of them when he died; white pills, red pills, green pills, purple pills, so many, too many. So I took em, took them all, but figured I’d OD if I kept all of them, so I took a boat load for myself, and threw all the rest in a box and buried them in the woods. I finished the last of my ‘Martians’, the green and purple ones, today. I need more, and those are the only ones I know of. Please let me go to them, reunite, it’ll only be for a little while.”
They had been absentmindedly walking during this time, and now approached the right turn that would take them in different directions. He hoped with all hope that she would agree, would come right, but ‘twas not to be.
“No. I’m going straight; I can’t go with you there. You have to stop, please stop.” Her harshness and anger had vacated the premises. She was pleading now. She hoped with all hope that he would go straight. She was his right-hand man, but not now, could not be now. “Please come with me. Please, you can do this, we can do this. You don’t need them, have never needed them.” Shiny tears trickled down her muddy face. He was taken back to the first time he saw her, by the dumpster. He wanted to go with her, but knew he couldn’t. He wanted to make her happy, do what was right, but couldn’t. That selfish section of the heart that even good men have was overtaking all.
“No,” he replied, “They’re mine. I’m going to the house and getting them, the ‘precious’, and then I’ll come back to the road. I’ll find you again.”
One part of her had expected this, the other was shocked. The tears now flowed and she turned her back to him. She didn’t say another word as she continued down the straight and narrow, to whatever future lay ahead.
He watched her disappear into the muddy watered air and felt the despair return to his heart. He then whipped out that acoustic guitar, and began to play Muddy Waters to ease the pain.
“Baby, please don’t go
Baby, please don’t go
Baby, please don’t go, down to New Orleans
You know I love you so”
He stopped playing and turned right, turned down the road to his place of reckoning, arriving there in only a few minutes. The house was mostly destroyed, with half of it having caved in, but a shed out back was still standing. It was unlocked, and within its domain laid an old rusted shovel. He picked it up and went for a stroll in the woods, until he found the cairn that marked the spot of the ‘precious’. As he dug for them, he reflected upon his earlier argument with Ana and his relationship with her and the ‘Martians’. He found it odd how she could have turned on him, on them, when they are what kept her around in the first place. She left because of them, but to get her back, he needed them. “Quite the paradox, my precious,” he whispered to himself. Once he had dug out the box, and finished his reunion, he picked up the guitar once again and played,
“Before I be your dog
Before I be your dog
Before I be your dog
I get you’d way out here, and let you walk alone”
When he had finished that last note, he picked up his belongings, and headed back to the road. He knew she wasn’t too far ahead.
