[I got a job selling ad space in several local newspapers. I
sucked at it. Lasted two weeks. But my boss learned that I was a writer, and he
said a few of these newspapers (College News and Chicago Commuter in
particular) wanted to run fiction. He wanted to see what I had, so I gave him
three of my stories. This is the first. It was in College News, February 2002. Fair
warning: this is a terrible story. I indulged myself far too much, even if this
is a semi-true story. The picture in the book is real, but I did nothing about
it except use it as a bookmark. So yeah, the protagonist is 99% me. There is a
word I use in this story that I have removed from my real life vocabulary. I
will put it in a character’s mouth, but I won’t actually say it in my everyday
life. The word is “retarded.” Looking back on that, I feel kind of sick about
it because I said it in real life back then. Often. Usually as part of a joke.
I don’t do that anymore. There are several words that I don’t use in everyday life
because I find them abhorrent. I stopped saying it when I realized how fucked
up it is in about 2005, I believe. The 1% of this character that isn’t me is
the creepy shit he pulls near the end of the story. I have a horrible habit of
extrapolating from real life the most fucked up shit in the world, and this is
one of those cases. You probably won’t enjoy this story, but it is, indeed,
between shit and mediocre, so . . . Also, there is mention of a story that the
protagonist is working on. I really did write that story. It sucked, and
shockingly enough, a publisher wanted to buy it. They went out of business
before they could publish it and pay for it. Ah well.]
Sometimes I just have to stop and wonder: why did I go to
college in the first place? All I want to do is write fiction. I have no desire
to teach, I can’t stand being an editor (which I was, for two weeks on the
college literary/art magazine), and while occasionally it could be fun, I have
a burning hatred for journalism. These are the only possible reasons I could
have had to go to college, and not one of them applied to me.
I suppose there were other reasons. Maybe I felt I had
something to prove, but what? That I could do it? A blind retarded ape prone to
lunatic violence could have gotten through college. My grandfather told me that
I should go to college because it promises great employment opportunities, but
I don’t think that’s why, either. All college has done for me was keep me away
from good jobs because I had to spend a majority of my daytime in classes, and,
as one asshole once put it, “We don’t want anyone still wet behind the ears. We
need people with experience.”
It was because of these “great employment opportunities”
that I ended up working two part-time jobs at not much more than minimum wage.
Life is hell, but even in this torturous experience, I still have two loves:
reading fiction and writing fiction.
It was the former love that brought me to the used bookstore
on the corner of Whitmore and Brown on a rainy August night last year. I had
been going there ever since Mom first brought me there at the age of five. The
old guy who ran the place, Tom, had a fine collection of Hardy Boys and Choose
Your Own Adventure books, enough to keep a young avid reader coming back for
years on end. Of course, I buy different books these days (Stephen King, Joe R.
Lansdale, H.P. Lovecraft, and plenty other such writers keep me entertained
these days). For someone who doesn’t have a lot of money (like me), Tom’s used
bookstore was a Godsend. You could either trade books in for free books
(something I’d never do; I like my books too much) or you could buy books for
half the cover price (which was very good, considering a lot of the books he
has are old and originally sold for a dollar or two). Needless to say, I’m a
frequent customer.
When I walked in, Tom looked up from his weathered old desk
(he claims it once belonged to Daniel Webster, but he’s quirky like that) and
gave the usual, “Hello, Johnny-boy. How’s your mother?”
“Doing fine,” I said as I wiped my feet on the doormat.
“How’re you doing?”
“Not too bad,” Tom said. “What brings you out in the rain?”
“I got my paychecks yesterday,” I told him. “Paid the rent,
got some food and drink, paid some bills, and I still have a bit left. Besides,
I need something new. You got any James Herberts?”
“Nope, just Haunted, and you bought that last month.”
“Damn,” I said.
“I did get a hardcover Misery, if you’re interested.”
“Hardcover?” I asked. When he nodded, I asked, “How much?”
Tom picked the book off a nearby shelf. “I’ll call it at ten
bucks.”
“I’ll take it,” I said as I forked over the ten dollars.
When he handed me the book, I looked it over. While the cover was just a bit
ripped, the book itself was browned and a bit ripped, the book itself was
browned and a bit soft, as if someone had dipped it in water. Not too bad; it
was still legible, and that was good enough for me.
“Thanks, Tom,” I said, tucking Misery under my denim jacket
to protect it from further water damage. “I’ll see you around.”
“Keep dry, Johnny-boy,” he returned as I walked out the
door, leaving nothing but the jangle of a bell in my wake.
I didn’t get to Misery for a while; I was too busy working
on a story about a vain health nut who falls apart to cast my attention on the
book. Truthfully, I still hadn’t gotten to it after that, but a couple of days
after I finished writing the story, I accidentally knocked into my night table,
sending a small lamp, my telephone, and Misery to the floor. After picking up
the first two, I noticed something poking out of the book. When I slid it out
from under Misery, I saw it was a picture, and it was one of the most
depressing things I ever saw.
It was of a woman who must have been in her early twenties,
despite the bags under her eyes and the sagging flesh at her throat. She wore a
shirt slightly big for her with FUN IN THE SUN printed on it with palm trees
and a beach below the phrase. There was a small rip in her shirt, revealing a
patch of skin so pale it reminded me of white wash. Her arms were so thin she
might have been a junkie if not for the absence of track marks at the elbows.
She was smiling, but her eyes were like those of a dog’s on its last legs.
She sat on a mattress with a balled-up blanket but no sheets
at all. Next to her, on a fold-out table, stood a cheap television that was no
doubt black and white, topped with a crooked antenna.
The woman was far from beautiful (although maybe once upon a
more optimistic time she was), but something about her just struck me. I don’t
know how to describe it. It wasn’t love, and it certainly wasn’t lust. Concern?
Worry? Maybe that’s as close as I can come. Hers was a poverty even worse than
mine, and it looked like she was being crushed by her own life.
Over the course of the week, I tried to forget the picture,
but it kept surfacing in my mind, like a corpse without an anchor in a sea of blackness.
I kept wondering, what happened to her? Is she all right?
Finally, I caved in. I had to find out, otherwise the
thought of this woman would haunt me until I’ve shuffled off this mortal coil.
When I got out of work on Friday, I headed over to Tom’s bookstore. After the
usual pleasantries, I pulled the picture out of my coat pocket.
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen this woman, have you?” I asked,
showing him the picture.
He put on his reading glasses and carefully examined the
woman. Finally, he looked up and said, “Yep. She’s the one who dropped off that
book you bought last week. I don’t know her name, though.”
At least she’s alive, I thought.
“Strange thing about her,” Tom added. “She wanted to
exchange her books for money instead of other books. There’s plenty of signs
around here that say I don’t do that. You’d think she’d be able to read.”
Looking around, I noticed that there really were a lot of
signs that said WE DON’T BUY, WE EXCHANGE. There must have been one every five
feet.
“Why you looking for her?” Tom asked. “You know her?”
“Yeah,” I lied, looking at the picture which Tom had handed
back to me. “We used to hang out when we were kids. Haven’t seen her in years.”
“That’s strange,” Tom said, smiling. “World’s a funny place,
huh?”
I nodded, putting the picture away. “I don’t suppose she
traded any other books in, did she?”
“Actually, she did,” Tom said. He started rummaging around
on a bookshelf until he came back with three books, two hardcovers and one
paperback. The paperback was a worn-down copy of The Great Gatsby. One of the
hardcovers was Angela’s Ashes, the other being a pristine, flawless copy of
John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men.
“Strange reading tastes, huh?” Tom asked. “A hell of a
variety.”
“Not too strange,” I said. After all, while horror is my
favorite genre, my reading habits are not confined to it. As it happens,
Steinbeck is one of my favorite writers.
I already had Gatsby (another fine novel, I might add), and
Angela’s Ashes had pages falling out, but Of Mice and Men was not only in
perfect condition, it had what I was looking for just inside the cover: a
message written in gigantic cursive. It read, “To Suzy—Congrats on finally
moving out! I know you’ve always wanted this book, so enjoy! Lots of luck!
Remember to call! Love, Mom.” Beneath this, in a different, smaller style, was
written, “Susanne Moore, 415
Morrison Ln., Apt. C, Illinois City.”
“I’ll take this one,” I said.
“Thirteen dollars,” he said. I gave him the money and left
after saying goodbye.
Now that I had her address, I had no idea on what to do.
Besides, why did I go through the trouble of getting her address in the first
place? Am I a stalker?
No, I don’t think so. She’s not beautiful (or famous) enough
to be the subject of a stalker. I remember I said something about concern, but
could that really be it? She’s a total stranger. Why should I feel concern for
her?
I don’t know, but I did. For a week, I had that address, and
I did nothing but try to push her out of my mind. Still, she was too strong for
that. She pushed her way into my dreams.
I don’t remember most of them, but there was one that scared
me so bad that I woke up with my heart pumping like the Hoover Dam. We were in
this room that was completely red with no doors, no windows, and no furnishings
save for the hard wood chairs we sat on, positioned across the room from each
other, looking each other in the eyes. We didn’t talk, act, or do anything; we
just sat and stared.
Finally, I asked, “Are you all right?” She smiled, revealing
a mouth with every other tooth missing, the remaining ones chipped and slicked
with blood. She reached a hand out to me and tried to call for help, but she
split like Rumpelstiltskin and maggots crawled out of her body as if she were a
stuffed toy. Her hand shot out and landed on my lap, and at the touch of her
flesh, I screamed and woke up.
It wasn’t long after I had that dream that I started going
out of my way heading home after work just so I could drive past her apartment
complex. If my guess was right, hers was the one with the lights out at seven
o’clock in the evening.
It was when I started driving by the apartment as a
destination that I realized there must be something seriously wrong with me.
Why was I so obsessed with this woman?
I don’t know why I did it, but one Saturday afternoon, when
I didn’t have to go to work, I drove to the complex and parked in the lot by a
sign that said, “Visitors.” When I entered the building, I looked for a mailbox
with her name on it. There was Moore, Susanne in apt. C, and I felt my stomach
ripple like a wave. I couldn’t believe I was this close to her.
Luckily, these apartments didn’t have a locked door before
reaching the lobby, a door that would open only for a key or a buzzer. It was a
cheap building with peeling paint and smashed bugs stuck to the walls. In fact,
there was no lobby, just stairs leading up and a hallway.
I walked down the hall past two doors; the third had a
sticker on it, indicating it was apartment C. I stood at the door for a while,
wondering what was on the other side. Would it be just like the picture? Is she
in there? Does she have a significant other?
Before I even realized I was doing it, my hand curled into a
loose fist was raising, getting ready to knock. My knuckles met the door three
times, and I instantly felt horror at what I was doing. I desperately hoped no
one would answer, but somewhere inside of me, I knew it was bullshit.
One way or the other, no one answered. I was getting ready
to leave when I did something that to this day, I still don’t know why I did
it. I grabbed the doorknob and turned it. Much to my surprise, I found it was
not locked, and soon the door was wide open.
I walked in and closed the door behind me as quietly as I
could. “Hello?” I called out in my infinite madness. “Is there anybody here?”
I looked around as I waited for an answer, although there
was hardly anything to look at. There was a table and a couple of chairs and
that was it for a living room. The kitchen was not much different; the only bit
of furniture was a kitty litter box and a food dish, which looked like it
hadn’t been used in a week. Oddly enough, while I didn’t find a cat, I found
lots of fur on the kitchen counter, as if someone had collected all the cat’s
shedded fur into one place.
In the refrigerator, I didn’t find a single thing. I started
wondering if maybe she didn’t live here anymore, and once that revelation
occurred, the sane part of me relaxed. No one was going to come home to find me
snooping around.
I passed up the bathroom and went right to the bedroom,
where I found the shock of my life. It was just like in the picture; here was
her mattress, her television (which wasn’t even plugged in), her phone (also
not plugged in), and most surprisingly, her.
At first, fear jabbed into my belly like a bayonet, and I
thought she didn’t answer my knock because she was sleeping. My instinct was to
run, but there was something wrong with this picture. It took me a moment to
realize she wasn’t moving, not even to breathe.
As I approached her still form on the mattress, I noticed
that she was naked, using her balled up jeans for a pillow, her FUN IN THE SUN
shirt for a blanket (the one from the picture was nowhere to be seen).
Normally, the sight of a pair of well-rounded (if barely existent) breasts and
a thin bush of pubic hair would have at least stirred something up in my pants,
but her eyes turned off anything that might have been woken up. Her face was so
thin and stretched that even if she was alive, I don’t think she could have
closed her staring eyes. One was askewed, but the other, the one with the ants
teeming in the corners, was staring directly at me.
I looked away, but I didn’t feel the least bit sick. Maybe
it was all the horror movies I’ve seen, I don’t know. As I gazed at her body, I
was shocked to see how thin she was. For a moment, I thought I was looking at a
black and white picture of a concentration camp victim, with her ribs spread
out like the wings of a bat (I’m sure I could have counted each one) and her
branch-like arms stretched from her body like a tree in winter.
The next thing I knew, I was at a 7-Eleven payphone,
reporting Susanne’s body to the police. I don’t remember much about my exodus
from the apartment, but I vaguely remembered using my sleeve to wipe down everything
I had touched, and even more vaguely crying while I did it, but that’s about
it.
When I got home, I put Misery (with the picture still in it)
on my bookshelf, unread. I don’t think I can even bear touching it again.
There was something about her mentioned on the news as a
human interest story (as in, “I hope this never happens to me, but I’m kind of
curious about it happening to someone else” story). She was survived by no one,
and she had starved to death.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had
succumbed to my obsession just a few days earlier. Could I have saved her life?
Would she have let me? What could I have done?
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