Canni

by Daniel O'Connor

  This was one of the qualities that drew her to Rob in the first place.

  “So, how is life in this subterranean hotel?” asked John.

  “Not too bad,” she replied. “They leave a Molly on our pillows each day.”

  “Really?”

  “Nah. But they should.”

  “Imagine taking a Molly just before a flip,” pondered John.

  “We haven’t flipped John, remember?” answered Rob.

  “Oh. Even before you settled down here?”

  “Nope.”

  “Shit, I flipped twice. Once in my room at the D Hotel. I thought I broke my nose, but apparently not. I did completely destroy their lamp. I could’ve blamed it on the whole ‘blind’ thing, but I came clean. They were cool about it. New way of doing business, I guess. Luckily, I was alone and didn’t hurt anyone but myself and the lamp.”

  “Shhh,” said Rob, “If they hear that you’re a flipper they’ll drag your ass outta here, bud.”

  “Did you bring him here on that freaking bicycle, Rob?” asked Cash.

  “Yep. On the handlebars.”

  “Screw you, liar,” said Cash. She was grinning just a bit.

  “John paid for a taxi. We tossed the bike in the trunk.”

  The music started. Seems Don Russo had the makings of another party down in his area.

  Funkadelic.

  “Hell yeah,” said John G. “This place might be as cool as Fremont Street.”

  “We have fewer hobos,” answered Cash.

  “Can we get involved in that party?” asked John, “I haven’t smoked a bowl in months.”

  “You haven’t done any hard labor down here, John,” said Rob, “but I think if you made a monetary donation to the greater good, Russo would happily let you join us.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Sweet. Let’s go. You in, Cash?”

  “Nah. I think I’ll just chill here,” she said.

  “What? Just a little grass?”

  Grass as far as the eye could see. Who’d have thought there was a place like this in the desert? When you’re trespassing on a swanky private golf course just before sunrise, it seems the entire world is blanketed with lush, healthy turf. Rob may not have been able to convince Cash to attend Don Russo’s latest dance party, but when the party was over, she couldn’t wait to get out of the tunnels and had hitched a cab ride with Rob and John to drop John back at his hotel. When they passed by the course though, Cash suddenly had the urge to be alone with Rob. John hadn’t minded, and Rob seemed eager to bail as well. The driver let the couple and their bicycle out by the golf course before heading back to Fremont Street with John.

  Unprotected sex had gained an additional meaning; being out of the tunnels and its true protection in numbers or its debatable protection from flipping meant that Rob and Cash were now at the mercy of fate as to whether either might kill the other.

  Cash’s thoughts ran the gamut from her family back home to her indiscretion with Paul along with visions of her own mortality and that of everyone she knew. She inhaled the sweet scent of the lawn below her and had her head tilted back, eyes on the glittering stars above.

  Rob’s mind was almost blank, still buzzing from Russo’s weed. He did love how Cash looked in that worn, gray tee that read PROPERTY OF THE NEW YORK METS, even more so when, like right then, it was the only thing on her and she was on him. He didn’t notice that there was a sky full of twinkling stars above and he smelled no grass. At the moment, he had no idea who Paul Bhong was, and had no interest in pondering mortality. His girl, if she still was his girl, was right where she belonged, and he hadn’t been sure this would ever happen again. This was how he liked it, just the two of them, with no one else able to intrude or endanger.

  Two of his favorite people ever were his Aunt Janet and Uncle Bob. One of them, he had forgotten which, told him that life was like a jet on a runway: it would crawl at first as it waited for takeoff, but then it would accelerate, pinning us back in our seats, as it blasted off the surface and into the sky. He knew that he and Cash were at the age that came just before liftoff, and he wanted it to stay nice and slow, especially at times like this. There was nothing bad at that moment. There were no viruses, no deaths, and no Cannis. There was only Cash.

  Their amorous rapture, the brilliant sunrise, and the powerful sprinkler system, all erupted as one.

  As he came to his senses, he had a question.

  “Wanna start a band?”

  She smiled, “What would we call it?”

  “The Indifferent Dead.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You know, there’s the Walking Dead, the Evil Dead, the Grateful Dead; always a catchy adjective . . . ”

  “So?”

  “Never mind. How about The Mark Cuban Missile Crisis?”

  Rob knew that though convivial and cordial most of the time, Don Russo had a reputation that instilled fear in the street people of Las Vegas. He had his own rules and would not bend. Hell, the fucker never even wore clothes.

  As he and Cash returned to the tunnels, muddled whispers filled the unusually dank air that Russo had just handed out some severe justice to a dweller who had betrayed him. The man was banished from the tunnels—all of the tunnels—and sent to fend for himself on the streets after, and if, an ambulance retrieved his unconscious and bloody self from the Las Vegas Wash.

  He got off easy.

  Word was that those floaters who would turn up outside the tunnels after a flood would more often than not be the same folks who wound up on the wrong side of Russo’s ongoing dance party.

  Don Russo was extraordinarily persuasive.

  They had a saying down below: go with the flow. You either did it, or you did it.

  As they moved through the tunnels toward their living quarters, Rob and Cash were faced with a barrage of images. Residents were moving a bit faster than the norm. They passed Russo, glimpsing only his bare ass as he hosed blood from his hands. They came upon Paul Bhong. Rob was formulating exactly what to say to the man who’d at a minimum kissed his girl when Spats came out of the dark, carrying a portable radio. The broadcast was fading in and out.

  “Holy shit, man.” said Spats. “Big Mex is saying that the vice president is dead.”

  “What?” gasped Cash.

  “Who is Big Mex?” added Rob.

  “Man, Mex is the best radio dude in Vegas. You New York types wouldn’t know.”

  “Is he reliable?” asked Rob.

  “Yes,” interjected Paul. “If you live in Vegas, you know Big Mex.”

  “I may not be the smartest fucker,” said Spats, “but everyone is questioning the popularity of Big Fucking Mex, and I just told you all that VP Montgomery is fucking dead.”

  Rob abandoned all thoughts of confronting Paul. Temporarily.

  “What happened to the VP?” he asked.

  “This reception is for shit, but it sounds like he got Cannied by someone on his staff or something, and died from his wounds.”

  “We can’t even keep our vice president safe. Holy shit,” said Paul. “Where did it happen?”

  “Right in the White House.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Can you get any other stations on that radio? Like a news channel? Just to confirm,” said Rob.

  Spats answered, “The president is going to speak soon, supposubly.”

  “FiveFourThreeTwoOne,” yelled Cash, as she counted on her fingers and sucked air.

  “Damn it,” sighed Rob.

  Cash was rubbing and shaking as they reached their sleeping quarters. Paul followed to the rear of the couple.

  “You okay, Cash?” he asked.

  Rob answered for her, as he set her down on her bed. He never turned to face Paul. “Her name is Caroline. She is Cash only to me. Don’t ever forget that.”

  It was then that Paul realized that Cash had already told Rob about their moment.

  “I came to tell you about it, Rob. I wasn’t going to be dishone
st.”

  “Save it.”

  “I just want to say . . . ”

  “Now’s not the time,” barked Rob, finally turning to look Paul in the face.

  What ate at Rob most was the fact that he still had no idea how far that liaison actually went, and he battled internally over whether he truly wanted to know.

  Paul reached out, hoping for a handshake, even if no words were to be exchanged. Rob stared at Bhong’s outstretched arm but didn’t move.

  Then came Phaedra, eyes wide with excitement. “The Witch of the Wash is talking! She’s talking!”

  Cash seemed to regain clarity with the appearance of Phaedra.

  “What?” asked Rob.

  “The Witch of the Wash,” answered Paul, knowingly. Rob ignored him.

  “Who is the Witch of the Wash?” asked Rob, eyes on Phaedra.

  “Come,” she answered, “Let us all go and see!”

  As the crimson beauty headed down the tunnel, Cash stood. She leaned into Rob and

  said, “You mean there’s a witch in these tunnels not named Phaedra?”

  He smiled and asked his girl, “Do you wanna go see?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  “Wanna start a band?”

  “What would we call it?”

  “The Linda Blair Witch Project.”

  She smiled. “Okay, that one wasn’t bad.”

  They hurried after Phaedra, with Paul once again behind them. As they stomped through the darkness, Paul spoke. “The witch lives in a pipe in a tunnel wall. She’s been here since before any of these people, even Russo. They thought she was mute.”

  “She lives in a pipe?” mumbled Cash.

  Paul answered, “Yeah, Cash—er, Caroline. It’s a long pipe, plenty wide for her to crawl around in. Polish Joe mentioned her the first day I brought you guys here.”

  They approached something that initially appeared to be a waterfall of sorts, but turned out to be a bustling wall of gnats. As they hurried through the barrier of insects, they saw ahead that Phaedra had stopped in one of the double-barrel tunnels. A handful of other dwellers had gathered, staring into a pipe that was maybe four feet wide and the same distance off the ground. As they reached the group, Cash gazed into the deep tube.

  The inside had been painted white. Despite the bright color, one could only see a few feet into the pipe before the shadows took over.

  “Her pipeline deepens to forty feet,” said Phaedra. “She is within.”

  Cash began rubbing her arms.

  “You want to go back, babe?” asked Rob.

  “Why is the pipe white?” she asked.

  “You wanna see the witch?” bellowed one gawker. “I can shine my light in.”

  “No!” yelled Phaedra.

  Cash took a step closer to the pipe, before reiterating her question,

  “Why . . . is the pipe white?”

  “Caroline,” said Phaedra, “it makes it easier for her to see the insects.”

  Rob chuckled, “She’s supposed to be a witch and she’s afraid of bugs?”

  “The important thing is that she spoke today!” said Phaedra. “Who heard her?”

  “I did,” came the reply from several.

  “What did she say?”

  “Something about seeds.”

  “Seeds?”

  It was then that a fair-sized spider known as a Carolina Wolf wandered into the whiteness of the pipe’s edge. Its legs were thick; some looked almost like thumbs. All gray and furry. It crawled up the side of the circular metal duct until it stood upside down at the top.

  The hand came from the shadows deeper within the pipe. It was old and wrinkled. Long, cracked nails. Slow and deliberately, the fingers corralled the spider and extracted it from the white surface, back into the blackness.

  “Seeds,” was the only word uttered before the chewing began.

  The same hand that had grabbed the insect emerged once again, this time placing flat on the damp pipe’s bottom, seemingly for balance. Her face, mostly hidden behind stringy hair, the color of roadkill, came just partially into the light. Her eyes were not seen, but her pointed jaw, still grinding the Carolina Wolf, was quite visible as she spoke.

  “Seeds. Fossils.”

  “Okay,” whispered Cash to Rob, “we are getting the fuck out of these tunnels.”

  “Seeds. Fossils. Time capsules.”

  Phaedra cleared her throat, “Ma’am, we were not aware that you could speak. Are you in need of anything? We are a community down here.”

  The crimped hand floated up and brushed aside the greasy strands that had blocked her eyes. She studied Phaedra, then Cash, then back to Phaedra, as she chewed.

  “Seeds. Fossils. Time capsules.”

  She cast her gaze upon Cash once again. Never looking away, she backed into the lightlessness of her dank domicile and swallowed.

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

  Weeks earlier

  Rob and Cash stood together on the concrete steps that led to the front door of a basement apartment, just across the street from Marine Park. Remnants of a two-day-old snowstorm melted around them in the afternoon sun. The water droplets sounded like a ticking clock as they fell from the leaky gutter above.

  Parked at the curb and surrounded by vehicles that had been sullied by the storm was Rob’s 1983 Chevy Malibu, freshly washed and waxed. The sunlight bounced off of it like a disco ball.

  Rob and Cash looked as bright and shiny as the car. They smiled broadly in their green plastic derbies, covered in shamrocks, as the door opened.

  “I am a bad-ass superhero!” she said, her face hidden behind a child’s drawing. The artwork depicted a slim blonde girl in a bright green costume, with a yellow cape. T-BIRD, read the inscription, in red, white and blue crayon.

  “Happy St. Paddy’s Day!” yelled Rob and Cash.

  The drawing was lowered, and there behind it, clear blue eyes engineering the most beautiful of smiles, was Teresa.

  “Happy St. Patrick’s Day!” she replied. “You feelin’ my superpowers? I can fly!”

  “My son knows she is going to be a flight attendant,” came a voice from inside the apartment.

  “Come on in,” said Teresa. “My cousin Joy-Joy is here!”

  The couple entered, passing through some green and white helium balloons, to see the back of Joy-Joy’s head as she watched TV. It was a news broadcast with the screen segmented into four; in one corner was the anchor, and the other three were labeled MANHATTAN, BROOKLYN, and ALBANY. Within each of the latter three were teams of investigators in hazardous material suits, complete with headgear and breathing apparatus.

  “They should not have canceled the parade. That’s just giving in to terrorism,” said Joy-Joy. She stood and turned to face the visitors.

  “I know I’ve met Caroline, but I don’t believe I’ve met her gentleman friend,” she smiled as she walked around from the couch. “Joyce McDougald. Call me Joy, or Joy-Joy if you like.” Cash gave her a hug, and she shook hands with Rob as he introduced himself.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said. “Islip, right?”

  “East Islip,” she answered. “They canceled our local parade too. Schools are closed. I was going batty at home. I told my husband it was his turn to watch the kids. He always takes this week off so we can do the parades and stuff. I wanted to come see T before you guys head out west. Hubby can work on our slow-draining sink and hang with the kiddies today.”

  That was a lot of info for one breath, thought Rob, yet he was charmed by Joy-Joy’s radiant smile and rosy cheeks. He couldn’t find a speck on her wardrobe that wasn’t green, either.

  “We won’t even need a parade,” he said. “We’ll have our own party right here!”

  “That’s the spirit!” beamed Joy-Joy.

  Rob turned to Teresa, “I brought the CD.”

  “CD?”

  “With the potential wedding songs . . . ”

  “Oh, God,” sighed Cash.

  “I could’ve foun
d them on my phone,” replied Teresa.

  “Screw that,” said Rob.

  “You’re lucky they’re not on 8-track,” added Cash.

  “Teresa, please tell me that you do still have a CD player,” said Rob.

  “Yes, Robert. I do. I might also have a VCR around here somewhere . . . ”

  Joy eyed the CD as soon as he presented it.

  “Fleetwood Mac?” she asked. “Cool. That one doesn’t look familiar, though.”

  “Well, it’s . . . ”

  Joy started singing. “She is like a cat in the dark, and then she is the darkness . . . ”

  “This one is more recent,” said Rob. “It came, like, almost thirty years after that one.”

  “For real? Wow. Well, play it, I’m ready to dance! I brought my Irish Drinking Songs CD, too!”

  By the time Rob was finally able to play the songs the green beer had begun to take effect and Cash’s cousins, Laura and Jennifer, had arrived. They’d all listened closely to “Bleed to Love Her”, but minds were wandering and alcohol was flowing for “Steal Your Heart Away”.

  “Which one do you prefer, Carrie?” asked Laura.

  “I don’t know. Remember these are Rob’s choices . . . ”

  “What are you doing about a dress?” was Laura’s next question.

  “We’re just considering getting married in Vegas,” replied Cash. “If we do, it will be spur of the moment.”

  “I’ll marry you, Rob,” smiled Jennifer. “If my cousin drags her feet, I’m swooping right in.”

  Rob smiled, as he thought Jen was adorable, but he grew frustrated that no one was actually listening to the song.

  The TV was muted but the images of the hazardous material investigators continued.

  “Oh my God, this blackhead is going to become a basketball,” sighed Teresa, as she stared into her hand mirror. “Rob is trying to set me up with his friend John when we get to Vegas, but he’s gonna see this monstrosity on my face and run the other way.”