“Let’s see.” Fieldy jumped back on his computer. “I’ll see if I can find his name under the Faculty list.” He scanned several names, “I found it. Creek Johnson. He teaches government, got his Master’s degree from Sam Houston. According to this he is still employed at Angelina.”
“I need to go see him,” I said. “If he’s going through the same thing I am . . . I know it must seem nuts, but I need to talk to someone else, if only to prove to myself that I’m delusional.”
“I don’t know, mate,” Fieldy said. “If this guy is as neurotic as he seems and with you going through your own thing, then he might just confirm your own . . . Wouldn’t it make more sense to go see your therapist? Maybe get some different meds?”
I shook my head. “You see, that’s your problem right there, Fieldy. You talk about us being stagnant, but when I try to shake things up you just want to play it safe.”
He sighed. “I see your point, mate. How about a compromise. We go see this therapist of yours and then go talk to Creek?”
“I’m supposed to go see Dr. Chod tomorrow. I’ll go see her, but afterwards I want to talk to Creek. You’re saying you will go with me?”
Fieldy laughed. “Yeah. Maybe I wasn’t as good a friend as I needed to be when you sobered up. I’ve never really known how to support someone, just ask Linda. I’m sorry for that, but I’m here for you now. Can you forgive me?”
I nodded.
Fieldy pointed at my head. “Is he . . . Is he saying anything?”
“Who?” I asked.
“That voice in your head.”
That was the moment I realized that Bogart had been ominously silent. “Bogart isn’t saying anything,” I admitted. “Probably sulking.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing.”
We stayed awake most of the night bullshitting about ridiculous subjects ranging from John Hughes movies to ‘90s professional wrestling. As a soft sunrise filtered through the blinds, Fieldy passed out in his tan recliner in the midst of trying to explain the social importance of the New World Order. I curled up on the couch and clutched a throw pillow like it was a life preserver. Dante hogged half the couch and his snores reverberated like snotty thunder. Every time I closed my eyes, I was overcome by the sensation of sinking into dark, still water while unknown things slithered all around me.
You fucked us, kid.
Bogart’s intrusive voice jarred me and I sat up.
How do you know you can trust this asshole? He’s a fucking druggie. As soon as he sobers up he’s going to either call the cops or your wife. Either way you are fucked. You need to be hauling ass.
He’s my friend, and besides, I don’t have anywhere to run.
There’s always somewhere to run. I’ve been running for decades. Carrion-Six-Toe will get bored of fucking with you before long. Just wait it out in Cancun or Montego Bay.
How long is “before long” to you?
Not long. Maybe a decade or two.
Fuck you, Bogart. Shadow would be in her twenties. I’m not going to be a deadbeat dad like my . . . I’m not going to do that. I’d rather die than be like that.
Well, at least you know the two outcomes. You’re a sinking ship. Sinking fast.
I get it, and you are a rat.
Don’t be like that. I’m just trying to look out for us.
That’s bullshit and we both know it. You look out for yourself and no one else. Why would I expect different? Chaz was your last ship, right?
That’s not fair.
Isn’t it though? There probably isn’t a word for loyalty in your language.
There’s a word for stupid . . .
How could I trust that you’d look out for me when you even betrayed your own kind? Aren’t you basically being hunted down because you are a traitorous little . . . ?
Pineapple.
I closed my eyes and fell into a wonderfully dreamless sleep.
That boy needs therapy, psychosomatic.
That boy needs therapy, purely psychosomatic.
That boy needs therapy.
Lie down on the couch, what does that mean?
You’re a nut! You’re crazy in the coconut!
What does that mean? That boy needs therapy.
I’m gonna kill you, that boy needs therapy.
Can you think of anything else that talks, other than a person?
Uh ohh, uh oh, a bird! Yeah!
Sometimes a parrot talks.
Ha ha ha ha ha !!!!
Yes, some birds are funny when they talk.
Can you think of anything else?
—The Avalanches
13.
Chod
The next morning, I awoke with Dante furiously licking my face. I gently pushed him aside and sat up. Fieldy was still seated in the recliner. He was unnervingly still. I watched him and tried to discern the subtle rise of his chest, but there was no sign of life. After a few tense moments he gasped and sucked in air, like a deep sea diver who had stayed below too long and just managed to rise to the surface before drowning. After several seconds of him sucking in air like a renegade goldfish he settled back into a corpse-like state. Through it all, he stayed asleep.
As if his drug and alcohol addiction weren’t enough, the asshole’s also got sleep apnea.You really know how to pick them, kid.
I walked over and placed my hand on Fieldy’s knee. He jumped like I’d just thrown him off a cliff. His eyes flew open and he stared at me like he was seeing a stranger. It took him some time before he recognized me, nodding and mumbling, “Jesus, Ripley, I forgot. I was sound-ass asleep.”
“Sorry, I was a bit worried about you. Do you know you stop breathing when you are asleep?”
“Not all of the time. Just when I’ve really tied one on.” He sat up and groaned as he stared at the empty beer cans. “Fuck me.” Fieldy dug into the couch cushions, pulled out the zip lock baggie, and then dry swallowed several yellow pills. He slowly melted back into the recliner.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He smiled broadly and then leapt out of the chair, shouting, “Fucking-A, you bloody wanker.”
“Are you still good with going with me to see my therapist and Creek?”
Fieldy blinked several times, like he was winding the gears in his brain. “Of course. That’s today, right?”
I checked my phone and saw that it was already past noon. “Yeah, my appointment is in a little over two hours.”
“Hell, that’s no problem, mate. Let me take a shower and we can hit Denny’s for a late breakfast and . . . ”
“My therapist is in Tyler. It’s at least an hour and a half to her office.”
Fieldy nodded. “Fair play. Give me a sec.” He stumbled over to his bathroom and, without bothering to close the door, gargled Listerine while taking an epic piss. He spit the Listerine into the toilet and flushed. Then he sprayed on an excessive amount of Old Spice and said, “I’m knockered, but it’s hunky-dory. Let’s go. I’ll drive.”
I retrieved my bag, put it in the backseat, and climbed into Fieldy’s Mini Cooper. It was a restored 1971 Morris 1000 that was blue with a white racing stripe on the hood and a convertible top. It was Fieldy’s pride and joy and, unlike his apartment, it was immaculately clean. I wasn’t in the mood to talk and I’m guessing he felt the same. He pushed a cassette tape into his deck and The Clash howled while we cruised. I figured I’d struck a nerve with Bogart because he was silent as a ghost.
When London Calling began I fixated on the lyrics with a new understanding: “London calling to the imitation zone. Forget it, brother, you can go it alone. London calling to the zombies of death. Quit holding out, and draw another breath. London calling, and I don’t wanna shout. But while we were talking, I saw you nodding out. London calling, see we ain’t got no high. Except for the one with the yellowy eyes.”
In Henderson, Fieldy pulled into a Chevron station and asked, “Can you get me a Red Bull or a Monster while I fill her up?”
“Sure.”
Henderson is not what I’d consider to be a diverse town, but I appreciatively noted an elderly Pakistani woman wearing a flowy blue dress. A golden hoodie covered her hair and wrapped around her chin, framing her wrinkled face. She was speaking to a beautiful, dark young woman with thick red lips and a heavy Haitian accent. I eavesdropped on their conversation while I loaded up on packages of Jack Link’s Beef Jerky and debated on which poison to choose for Fieldy: Monster Pipeline Punch Energy Juice or Red Bull Purple Edition.
Apparently, the Haitian woman was pregnant because she was explaining why she was purchasing Flamin’ Hot Funyuns and Hostess Cinnamon Rolls. “My mother always told me that if a pregnant woman doesn’t satisfy her cravings immediately then their newborn will get a birthmark for every unquenched craving. It just so happens that my child loves Funyuns.”
“And the cinnamon rolls?”
As the Haitian woman smiled, I noted how perfectly white her teeth were. “Those are for me.”
“I’ve never heard of that wives’ tale,” the Pakistani woman said.
“We have other beliefs, too. If you have a strong hatred toward your child’s father during pregnancy, then the child will look just like him. Luckily I love my husband even though he’s ugly.” The women laughed and the sound was angelic. She pointed at the wall behind the counter. “Can I get some Tums as well?”
“Are you having acid reflux, dear?”
“I am. We also believe that acid in the stomach means the baby is growing hair.”
The Pakistani woman smiled and said, “Now that one I have heard before.”
I stepped up to the counter next to the Haitian woman. She glanced at me and smiled, but her expression immediately turned to concern, her smooth brow suddenly wrinkled with confusion. Almost reflexively she reached out towards my face and then quickly retracted, like a snake had appeared.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She faked a smile. “No, that’s my fault, I’m very empathetic. There’s something wrong with you isn’t there?”
I nodded.
“It’s your health, right?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s . . . your ear. Are you growing deaf?”
I shook my head. “Really it’s the opposite.”
She nodded. “We have a belief about that too. Ringing in your ears means that someone is talking about you.”
“That sounds right,” I admitted.
She reached out and gently touched my forehead, then my sternum, and then the left and right side of my chest. While she did this, she whispered, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
Fieldy was waiting when I climbed back into the car and handed him the Red Bull. “Jesus, Ripley, purple Red Bull?”
“That’s all they had.”
He pointed at my lapful of jerky. “Are you planning on going camping later?”
“This is just breakfast,” I said. “Do you want some?”
“No thanks.”
We arrived at Dr. Chod’s building with ten minutes to spare. The elevator was out of order, so we had to climb three flights of stairs. It was a breeze for me, but Fieldy was noticeably winded. The reception area was empty, except for an elderly woman who was perched on the leather couch absently flipping through Good Housekeeping. I sat down next to her and Fieldy sat down across the room in a tan sled base chair. He pointed up at the speaker and mumbled, “Jesus, is that Kenny G?”
I wondered if the elderly woman was here for the same reason as me, and if so what exactly it was she was dying from. There were a number of possibilities, considering her advanced age, but I settled on Alzheimer’s. These are the sort of thoughts that are best kept to oneself, however I decided I needed to find out. Reflectively I think I wanted to speak to someone who could understand how I felt. I wanted to connect with the woman even though she was a stranger, and perhaps precisely because she was. With very little tact I touched her knee and asked, “Alzheimer’s?”
She frowned and asked, “What?”
“I’ve got CJD . . . ” I began. “Basically, my brain is atrophying. I shouldn’t pry.”
“Oh, dear.” The elderly woman put down her magazine and stared at my face. Her eyes were wet and filled with love. “No Alzheimer’s, in fact I’m sharp as a whip and I’m not . . . I’m not dying. I’m here with my granddaughter. She has leukemia. I’m so sorry. It’s really unfair, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. We stared at each other, but neither of us could think of anything else to say. When her granddaughter stepped out from the hallway the elderly woman sighed with relief. Her granddaughter was younger than I expected, maybe seven or eight. Even beneath her billowy pink dress I could see that she was alarmingly thin. She was wearing a blonde wig that was too big for her head. She smiled at her grandmother and I realized she still had most of her baby teeth. She probably wouldn’t live long enough for them to fall out.
I could smell her. It was awful.
Run.
The frantic internal voice startled me. The little girl’s attention turned to me and the pleasant smile she had directed at her grandmother morphed into a scowl that seemed incongruous with the innocence of her face. Alien.
Please, run.
The elderly woman lifted the child like she was light as an umbrella and they quickly left, but I could still feel her gaze on me like a sunburn.
Chod was standing in the hallway. She cleared her throat as I turned to her, and tried not to shudder. Before you start thinking my view of older women is distorted by some sort of misogyny or prejudice or Freudian residue, remember that I said the Pakistani woman was attractive. Chod, however, was hideous.
I glanced back at Fieldy as I followed Chod toward her office and he gave me an awkward thumbs up. As the office door closed I realized the stench that had emanated from the little girl was little more than a fart on the wind. The confines of her office reeked like a sewer filled with abortions.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Chod said.
I sat down in the uncomfortable chair closest to the door. I was already itching to get out of there. Chod plopped down in her leather swivel chair and stared into me. She waited for me to speak, but I didn’t have anything to say to her. I wondered how long I would have to sit in the office for Fieldy to be satisfied that I had given it a good effort. The nauseating stench was quickly pushing me toward dry heaves. Chod was as repugnant and inexpressive as a sex doll in a frat house.
Suddenly the smell was gone and I was aware of the potpourri that sat in a black bowl on the end table next to my chair. My next sensation was a spontaneous migraine, made more intense because I hadn’t felt it since, well, since Bogart took residence inside me.
Chod finally spoke, “So, Ripley, what has changed?”
“What do you mean?”
“You indicated at the end of our last session that you weren’t interested in therapy. What has changed?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Nothing.”
“Is that true?”
“Not really,” I admitted. “My friend thought I should come back.”
“The man in my lobby?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you typically follow the advice of your friends?”
“Not really.”
Chod nodded and continued to stare at me. The whites of her eyes were veiny and yellow. Her complexion had grown worse since my last visit, in fact, her face was covered with more acne than a teenage fry cook. She cleared her throat and asked, “Did you tell him?”
My head was pounding and the overhead lights were raping my pupils. I mumbled, “Yeah, I told him.”
“How much?”
“Everything. I told him everything. That’s why I came back. Because I told him . . . ”
Chod shook her head. “That is unfortunate. I’m going to have to add him to the list.”
“What list?” I asked. “What are you?” But I already knew. I had known when I smelled the little girl in th
e lobby and realized what was inside her. I knew it was inside Chod as well.
“It’s not too late, you know,” Chod said. “So far no one has had to pay for your insolence.” Chod reached out to me and handed me two horse sized tablets. “Swallow them. Then you can go home, spend your last few days in the pool room and die, and I will spare your friend and your family. At this point I don’t even want you. It would be almost impossible to get the taint of that traitor out you.”
“What did you do to him?” I asked. “I don’t feel him anymore.”
“He’s still in there,” Chod said, gesturing at my head. “I just got tired of hearing his whiny voice, so I locked him down. Purely a temporary measure. You are the one who needs to evict him. Take your medication.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Did you take over Dr. Chod because of me? Is this just an elaborate scheme to get to me?”
Chod hissed. “You arrogant little twat. I have been in this body for years. She is my crown jewel. You are practically nothing to me. Our second meeting in the apartment was pure coincidence. I mistakenly let you live because I didn’t realize you had become a host, so I was waiting for you to come back to me when you were closer to death. Everyone eventually comes back to me and then—”
“Why would an old woman be so valuable to you?”
“It’s not your concern.” She chuckled and added, “ . . . why not. You paid for the session. Even an Elder like myself can only control certain human hosts. Children. The elderly. Retards. Drug addicts. And of course, people who are . . . ”
“Dying,” I finished. “So you set yourself up to have victims hand delivered to you while you posed as a grief counselor.”
“Victim is the wrong word. I am a savior, not a victimizer. I give my hosts a greater purpose as our collective voice grows louder, until He finally has no choice but to awaken. Better to be part of the cure than just another filthy sentient disease. Once he awakens there will be nothing except the oblivion that comes with the true death.”
“Who is He?” I asked.
“You cannot even fathom Him.” Chod frowned and coldly commanded, “Take your medicine.”
I lifted the pills. My head was pounding so badly that the room seemed to be subtly spinning. It was just like taking Excedrin Migraine.
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