I pulled into the bar, and found it to be a barren wasteland. A parking lot of fifteen spaces, only four taken up. Some of the employees must’ve parked in the back, that I knew. And that told me there was maybe ten people inside all together.
The club was buried in between a bunch of already closed buildings. Above the door, a flickering lamp stood. It illuminated the parking lot, showcasing it’s numerous cracks and pot-holes. Off and on. Like a frequency.
“SOOooooo…” James said, stepping out. “This is the place?”
“Looks like it—and they probably sell some strong beer, too.”
We stumbled over a speed bump, and kept walking. “You ever have Steel Reserve?”
“That hobo beer? Yeah, I have.”
I stepped through the door, and immediately saw a group of people slumped in a corner. The counter was pristinely-polished wood, and the stools were red. A man in a black apron stood at the counter, pouring a drink from the tap. While James went to grab a table, I ordered drinks. A pitcher of beer, and four shots of tequila. The whole time, the bartender never talked to me. He just listened.
I brought the drinks back to the table and set them down. I lit a cigarette, and James sighed and said, “Irwin, you smoke so much.”
I shrugged. “It’s an addiction.”
“I know that, but the more you smoke, the worse it gets. How many packs?”
“One-and-a-half a day.”
“Okay, you’re getting there then. I thought it was two.”
I scoffed and pushed my drink away. “You hate it.”
“Yeah, I kind of do.”
“Everyone does.”
James shot a glance at the shots and his jaw dropped. “Tequila? Really?”
“Don’t worry about it.” I said with a smile. “Just drink.”
“I have work tomorrow. We have work tomorrow.”
“Again, don’t worry about it. I have a cure.”
“Really? A cure for a hang over?”
“Lime juice, green tea, and carrots.”
James laughed and slammed his hand on the table. “No way that works. No way.”
“Just trust me—and drink up!”
James stared at the shots and grimaced. He tightened his reach, and grabbed them. He slammed the shot down on the counter. His mouth was wiped, and he groaned. “Tastes like lighter fluid.” He said.
* * *
“Okay, okay, that guy over there!” James said, pointing. A man stood holding a glass of beer, in ripped jeans, a band t-shirt, and silver necklaces. He stood straight up. He had confidence.
“Oh, please, ten different kids all across town.” I said.
“What? How do you know that?”
“Look at him, dude. The muscles. The chains. Probably has a lot of drugs too—that’s why he gets women, though that’s an outdated stereotype.”
James folded in on himself and gasped with awe. “I need to become an FBI agent. Holy shit.”
“Trust me, not as glamorous as it looks.”
“Even with being an orphan, and moving around, I had a 4.0 GPA. Then two weeks after graduating, I enlisted in the marines. Did spec-ops there—so the FBI wanted me. Sounds all fun and dandy, right?”
“Yeah. Completely.”
“My SAC was this elderly man for two years—and believe me, I’m being nice. In the beginning, I wasn’t allowed to do shit. There was more red-tape than the military, seriously. I had to quit weed because of the weekly drug tests. There’s paperwork for everything. I don’t decide my schedule, and I don’t decide what I do. It’s like I’m captive. My life is not mine.”
* * *
I threw myself back into my seat, and laughed. I sat forward with a smile and said, “James, you are by far, the funniest person I’ve known.”
Surrounding us was a crowd of people, all chattering and talking. The clinking of glasses. The sound of people gulping. It all congealed into a massive shape of colors and sounds. Like we were moving in slow motion, while everything went fast.
James tilted in his seat and his eyes were relaxed, like he was stoned. “What were we even laughing about?” He finished with a chuckle.
“I think it was…”
“You can’t remember either!”
“No, I got this. Just… just wait.” I drummed my fingers on the table while blowing spit bubbles. My mind had come to a halt. Error 404.
“Yeah, I don’t remember either—hey, what time is it?”
“The clock’s too far away I don’t wanna move.”
“Yeah, neither do I.”
I grabbed the frosty pitcher of beer, and poured some in the glass. I drank it.
* * *
“You ever think about how weird shoes are?” James said. He had asked to bum a cigarette a few minutes ago. Of course, I obliged.
By now, people were starting to shuffle out of the bar. There was less noise. More quiet.
I stared blankly into my glass. It was still a little frosty, and you could see my finger prints. “What?”
“I mean, think about it. They’re shoes. Clothes for your feet.”
“Yeah, that’s true.” I giggled and mumbled, “Shoes for your feet…”
We fell into a silence. James rested his head on the table to stop himself from puking. It was the only position he could lay in that wouldn’t make him nauseous. He would’ve kept his eyes open, but they were too heavy.
I put out my cigarette in the tray, and tried counting the butts. “One, two, three… five, six—wait, no. One, three—fuck.”
James lifted his head up and said, “There’s eight in there,” and then laid back down.
“Eight? Jesus Christ…”
“Yeah. Maybe you should quit.”
I sat up, and steadied myself. “You ever hear of Viktor Frankl?” Above our heads, the light flickered.
“Vikter Fronkl?”
“No.” I said. “Say it with me, vik.”
“Vik.”
“Tor.”
“Tor.”
“Frankl.”
“Frankl.”
“Viktor Frankl.”
“Vikman Fronkl.”
I sighed and said, “Alright, you don’t need to know his name. That’s fine. But I wanna tell you something, um, something incredibly important about him. Something of great—“
“…Yeah?”
“Basically, this guy lived through the holocaust, and he realized that the only thing a human can really do is decide their own meaning. Decide how they deal and perceive—uh, things.”
For the first time in twenty minutes, James lifted his head up. His eyes had a glimmer to them. Like he had been just been struck by a beautiful force. “So, it’s like… stoicism but fucked up.”
“Yeah. Man—I can’t imagine living through that.”
“Jesus…”
“But, really, I think it’s kind of beautiful.”
“Beautiful?”
“Yeah, how if you master yourself your unstoppable. You’re basically, kind of a God. Nothing can topple your, uh, your castle.”
“Irwin…”
“Yeah?”
“What are we gonna do about the case.”
“What do you mean?”
“This shit isn’t normal for this town. Two murders happening in two weeks? The fact that there’s maybe a second killer? It’s terrifying!”
My face crumpled, and I grimaced. “Yeah, I don’t like it either.” Though I was thinking in my head that I’d never seen a case like this, I decided not to speak. It would only spook.
“You know what I’m gonna do now?” James said.
“What?”
“I’m gonna get back into painting. Like, oils and shit. They take forever to dry, but it always creates such a nice texture. Like a dream on canvas.”
“Why?”
James locked eyes with me, and mumbled, “So I don’t feel scared anymore.”
I solemnly nodded. “And what do you like to paint?”
“Abstract landscapes.”
* * *
They stood outside the bar after it had closed, too drunk to drive. The only car in the parking lot was their own. Around them, was the midnight chirping of crickets. Just behind a thin layer of fog, was the illuminating moon. Around it, was a bay of stars.
James leaned against the wall and his legs wobbled. “Man, I feel like I’m twenty-one again.”
“That happens when I’m around a lot.”
“Yeah, cause you’re, like, an old man with the heart of young adult.”
I raised an eyebrow and stared at James. “When the fuck did you start speaking like that?”
He laughed, “Dude, I feel like I’ve reached a new level of drunk. Like, beyond wasted.”
“Okay, you’re over blowing it a bit.”
I sat down on the curb, and stared out at the vast darkness. We were in the parking lot of something nestled between the highway. And yet, no cars. No motorcycle being revved. Just the faint chirp of crickets. I felt like I could cut the silence with a knife.
“Hey, Irwin?”
“…Yeah?”
“Grab my hair.”
“What?”
“Grab my hair! I’m gonna puke!”
“OH!”
I grabbed his pony tail and stood away from him. Vomit poured out from his mouth, and some even got on my shoes. With a grimace, I stepped away and sat on the curb.
“Can I have a cigarette?” He asked.
“Sure.” I said. “We’re gonna be here a while, anyway.”
* * *
AND NOW, YOU’RE BRAND NEW T.V. CHANNEL
(BUILT FOR CELESTIAL TRANSMISSION)
“Wake up, Mr. Sander.” I said.
“Get up…”
“Get up…”
The air in the room was different, he noticed. And I remember thinking that. I know everything about him. What he thinks. What he sees. What he smells. He’s like me.
And Irwin slowly rose, and rubbed his eyes. He stretched. He yawned. There was flies buzzing around, and Irwin swatted at them. One thing he noticed though, was the smell of rot.
And his eyes darted to the television screen, which was a dim green. He paused for a moment, staring. Then he looked to his left.
My flesh was burnt and charred, sometimes it’d even spark. I had no eyes. I had no skin. And very little muscle mass. And Irwin’s eyes slowly went to my stomach cavity, which had flies burrowing and nesting.
“Hello, Mr. Sander. My vessel has been burned in an effort to get to you. I am piloting our own dead body.”
He screamed, and fell back off the bed. He scrambled upwards, and hugged the wall. All while his jaw was hanging open. Irwin could not say a single word. He was frozen. “That’s fine. No need to speak. All I want, Irwin, is for you to listen to me.”
“I’m—I’m calling the cops!” He ran to the kitchen and pots and pans scattered.
“Mr. Sander, I can assure you that calling the police won’t help you.”
There was a pause. And then his head peaking out from behind the wall. “…Why?”
“Because this isn’t real—or, it’s not the plane police are on! I’m inside your dream.”
“Your voice…”
“Yes, you finally noticed. Sounds like you, doesn’t it?”
“Why? Why is a dead body speaking to me?”
“Not just a dead body, Mr. Sander. Haven’t you been listening? I’m you.”
“What do you mean?”
I smiled. “Simply put, I’m you from a time that does not exist yet. But it will, unless you continue to allow me inside your head, and guide you. It took blood. Fire. Obsession. But I am here—I’m finally… here.”
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