Half Dead

by Brandon Graham

  “Andrew collected these,” Barney explains. He lifts a white plastic church with a tall steeple, a coin slot cut in the roof’s ridge. Barney places it in Calvert’s hand.

  Calvert turns it and reads the inscription along one side: “Luke 12:15: Then he said to them, ‘Watch out! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; a man’s life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions.’” He finds the scripture a confusing thing to print on a bank. He turns it over, looking for an answer.

  “The Bible is full of stuff about the evils of money and the quiet dignity of being poor and meek,” Barney explains. “But congregations run on money, and some preachers get wealthy spreading the good word. Capitalism holding hands with Christianity makes for a complicated relationship. Some might call it irony. Others might see it as hypocrisy.”

  Calvert puts the plastic church in its spot and picks up a bar of soap. “Have clean hands and a pure heart. Psalm 24:4” is pressed into its oblong side. He runs his fingers over the words, feels the deep relief, the dry surface pulling the moisture from the tips of his dying skin. It feels like his fingerprints might peel away, leaving him smooth as a newborn. Reborn.

  He slowly moves counterclockwise along the pews, reading some things, skipping others. A few minutes later he returns to where he entered.

  Barney waits, finishing his joint. He pinches the last bit of blackened paper between his fingers and slips it into the front pocket of his overalls. He clears his throat and asks, “You think these things elevate faith, or you think they cheapen it?”

  Calvert feels a reverence for the space. He doesn’t want to speak for fear he’ll break the spell. Very quietly he replies, “It may do both.”

  Barney nods and walks out the door, and the spring screeches; Calvert’s footsteps resonate across the make-believe geography of a southern night. Calvert lets the door slap when he follows Barney out.

  They turn into a similarly sized space where the walls are covered in evenly spaced color photos. In the center of the room is a collection of headless dress forms set at different heights. Each is costumed in elaborate black rubber outfits. There’s a red vinyl couch along the far wall where two women sleep, legs entwined, one of them snoring softly. Barney places a shushing finger over his lips, and Calvert understands he shouldn’t wake the couple.

  “That’s Lyla and Sandra. They were up all night getting the exhibition ready,” Barney says quietly. “Lyla is the photographer. Sandra makes the clothes.” Calvert nods. He recognizes Sandra from the goldenrod flier.

  Calvert moves around the room. He studies the first few photos at length, attempting to decode the meaning. They are overhead shots of people on a sidewalk below a building, this building, probably taken out the window of this apartment. By the third piece, realization dawns: they capture people hunching over their smartphones, ignoring the people they walk beside, their children, their pets, their lovers. They are arranged chronologically, taken over the course of one day, starting in the early morning and moving until the sun has set. He finds himself watching the evolution of one particular shadow cast by one particular tree. The shape, direction, and scale of the shadow changes only slightly between some images, drastically between others.

  When he reaches the couch, out of consideration he only takes a glance at the photos over the sleeping couple. He turns his attention to the display in the middle of the room. Each dress form has rubber clothing: a shirt, a jacket, vest, belt, or skirt. They are paired with backpacks, fanny packs, and messenger bags. Every item is fabricated from woven bike inner tubes, complete with strategically placed clusters of valve stems.

  Barney gestures and Calvert follows him to the next room, where he finds a long table made of old doors dropped in a roughly welded angle iron frame, surrounded by mismatched chairs, no two alike. Dangling over the table is a cluster chandelier of oversized, side-mounted headlights, mostly rust pitted and dented, but rewired and working well. Against one wall sits a fifties-era juke box with most of the lights glowing. Further into the apartment is a kitchen with mismatched appliances.

  Barney points to the table. “We’ll have wine if you want to come have a drink later?”

  “I can’t get drunk since I died.”

  “I see. Well, we got a couple more rooms.”

  They pass the kitchen, move down a hall past a bathroom, and enter a space that’s part bedroom and part art studio. “This,” says Barney, “is my room.”

  Calvert nods.

  “I don’t make art. I make things. Those things are an extension of who I am. They are a record of my life, a creative document. There’s no division between my living space and my working space. I don’t exhibit. I invite people into my life.”

  Calvert likes what Barney has to say. He doesn’t think he could be an artist, but perhaps he could make things. If I weren’t dead, I might like to try. “What kinds of things do you make?”

  “Let me show you.” Barney walks to a chest of drawers that has a top that’s a workbench. He takes a round tin from a shelf and pulls off the lid. “This,” he says, holding it for Calvert to see, “is textile ink. Pantone Silver. Smell it?” Barney smells the ink to demonstrate. “I love that smell.”

  “I can’t really smell things,” Calvert says.

  “Too bad.” Barney takes up a putty knife and carefully sticks it into the open tin. He turns the tin while holding the knife still and scrapes an even portion from the entire surface of the ink. “Never gouge the ink, Calvert. Don’t be that guy. Promise me you won’t be an ink gouger.”

  “I promise.”

  “Do you know what happens when you gouge ink?”

  “It hurts the ink?”

  “Maybe its feelings. I’m kidding.” He winks. “It lets in air and you get hard spots. Next thing, you’ve wasted a can of ink. It’s tragic to waste supplies. Tragic.”

  Barney shows Calvert the shiny glob of smooth ink on the end of the metal blade. He works without speaking for long minutes. He wipes ink onto a thick slab of glass and begins spreading it out and scraping it up, over and over in a steady, hypnotic rhythm. When he’s happy with the consistency, he takes a hand roller from a hook and spreads the ink flat. The roller runs over the viscous ink making a sticky hiss. Barney carries the roller to a waist-high surface filled with wood block letters. He lets the roller kiss the top of each letter, first in a series of vertical strokes, then a series of horizontal motions. He sets the roller aside. “What size T-shirt do you wear?”

  “Medium,” Calvert says.

  Barney reaches under the worktable and pulls out a black tee stretched over a shirt-shaped board. “One medium shirt,” Barney says. He slides the shirt and board into a slot. “Come pull this handle, nice and firm.” Calvert steps beside Barney. Barney explains, “I made this press. I made the letters. A hardwood called holly wood works best. It’s a clamshell press. You pull this handle, the letters tip up, the shirt tips up, they meet flat in the middle. Clap!” He claps his meaty palms with a loud crack. “Okay. So, pull this.”

  Calvert pulls the long lever, and the two halves clap together. He lets the handle return to its resting position, and the shirt has a phrase printed in silver over black: “The wages of sin beats minimum wage.”

  “There,” Barney says, and he places a big hand on Calvert’s back. “We made a shirt. How’s that feel?”

  “Like a magic trick,” Calvert replies.

  “Exactly,” Barney agrees.

  The Point

  Moe slips into the bench seat across from Whistler. Her cousin is drinking Goose Island Honkers and eating chips with guac. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want to drink. I went ahead and got chips.” Whistler gives a wave to the server, points at Moe.

  “Thanks for meeting again,” Moe says. “Sorry how lunch went down. Besides, I promised you a meal.” She digs through the chips until she spots the kind she likes: a little brown, still warm, folded over on itself in the fryer, and extra salty. Asymmetrical beauty. With great sa
tisfaction, she scrapes the singularly irregular chip through her favorite chunky guacamole.

  “Listen,” Whistler says, “you were right. I’m sick. Literally my guts are in knots with this case. I want to do good. That’s why I became a cop. But my new job is ostensibly to keep the mayor’s office happy. Our mayor, being a politician, is mostly concerned with appearances. Don’t get me wrong. I like the guy. But working people, real people, always get the short end of the stick in the game of politics. Whose city is it? High-rise citizens and out-of-towners? Or real fucking people?”

  Moe clucks her tongue in solidarity.

  The server approaches the table.

  Whistler takes an angry swig of beer.

  The server has a dapper waxed mustache twisted into a turned-up fishhook over each end of his thin lips. “What can I get you?” he asks Moe.

  She avoids gazing directly at him. “I’ll have a Golden Margarita. Rocks and salt. In a mug. And we’ll take two shots of tequila with a plate of limes. Got all that?”

  “Got it. Will you be sticking with chips?”

  Whistler swigs more beer.

  Moe says, “We’ll decide on food later.”

  A lady at a nearby table taps her plastic menu and calls to their server. “This says the special is tacos de lengua. I don’t know how to say it. What is that?”

  “Excuse me a second,” the server says.

  Moe watches him leave and says, “Too bad.”

  “What?” Whistler asks.

  “Too bad we gotta find a new Mexican joint.”

  “What for?”

  “Hipster infestation.”

  “And suburban moms,” he adds, cracking a smile.

  The server comes back, “Another Honkers?”

  “Why the hell not,” Whistler says. “We’re getting drunk.”

  “So look,” Moe says, “I was tough on you. I’m upset. We have so much violent crime. Highest it’s been since 1998. I’m a journalist, you know. I want to write about the problem, report solutions, and make a difference. You know, change things.

  The dandy server comes back with drinks. “Wave me down when you’re ready for food.”

  “You bet,” Whistler replies.

  Moe realizes Fancy Lad didn’t bring limes. That fucking mustache and poor service. “Where was I?” She licks salt from the rim of her glass and takes a gulp of margarita, spills a bit down her chin and onto her chest. She pats her T-shirt dry with a napkin. “Mmm. That’s good. The answer to our problems may be more booze.”

  “I’m coming around to that,” Whistler says.

  “What I was saying, though,” Moe says. “As if it matters, no one wants to read those stories. Nothing I do matters one damn bit. The name of the game is quick sensationalism. The thing is to be first. If you’re first to print, you win. I’m fucking tired of it.”

  Whistler nods. He shovels in a chip piled high with guacamole.

  Moe goes on. “Aggregated social media news silos and a national piss-poor attitude about the free press. It’s a terrible time to do what I do.

  Whistler speaks while he chews, “Maybe it’s exactly the right time to do what you do. Bad times are when journalists have the most impact.”

  Moe gulps half her margarita. “Maybe. In school I got romantic ideas about social crusades. That kind of journalism doesn’t take place in the real world. It’s academic bullshit so professors can have something aspirational to talk about. But it’s a big lie. In the real world, content is secondary. Truth is rarely discussed.”

  “You were full of idealism at lunch.” He points a loaded chip at her.

  “I was full of something.” The grin in her voice doesn’t reach her lips.

  He crunches a chip and part of it falls. He catches the errant bit in his palm and pops it back in his mouth. “You were about to lead a revolution earlier. What the hell? If you’ve given up, what chance do us mortals have?”

  Moe looks bashful, smiles fully, and pushes a shot glass in Whistler’s direction. He doesn’t go for it right away. She tries to explain. “Two things: one is I got a raise. I’m on staff now.”

  “Way to go,” Whistler slaps her a loud high-five.

  “Yay me,” she says with no enthusiasm. “Thing of it is, I’m helping these two kids right out of school. They are a pain in my ass. But the issue is, I’m starting to doubt journalism. Every time I help them, I feel like I’m perpetuating the same lie I fell for.”

  Whistler starts to object. She plows ahead. “And two: a few weeks ago, I got a text from Vivian about a shooting. Two people shot in a drive-by.”

  Whistler is starting to feel loose. He opens his yap to ask something silly. He sees by the look on Moe’s face he’s missing the point. He keeps quiet.

  “One of those people was Candice Flores. She was the first girl I had a crush on. She never knew. Anyway, after high school she got married, had a baby, and was shot in a parking lot while dropping her boy at day care. Stray bullet. No reason. Random as fuck. A little boy’s mom is dead. Candy is dead. I showed up cold. Found out who it was. Completely lost my shit. Here’s the thing. I’m not going to write about it. Not because of our connection; because I’m spending my time convincing you to help me so I can build a story about a white man who saved a Chicana. Why? It supports stories I already wrote about the attack on the Harpole woman north of the river. In other words, white woman killed in the North Loop equals story. White man is a hero in the South Loop—there’s a story. Mother shot in Little Village dropping off her toddler—not worth the ink.”

  Suburban Mom glances her way.

  Moe lowers her voice, “Worst of all, it’s me. I want to write stories other outlets will circulate. I’m invested in making Text Block a success. It’s me. I’m selling out. What’s happening to me? I didn’t even have the balls to write a tribute about Candy.”

  “You’ve got balls, Moe. You’ve got giant girl balls.” He holds out both hands and hefts imaginary oversized girl balls. She gives a polite smile. “Lookit, cuz, I feel you.” He slams his shot of tequila, wipes his lips with the back of his hand, and washes it down with a swig of beer. “Last week I met this girl. First thing she asked: What do you do? I hate that because I know soon as I tell her I’m a cop, she won’t see me anymore. Everyone has an opinion on cops.”

  Moe licks salt from the edge of her margarita, lifts her shot glass in a salute to a shared sense of hopelessness.

  Whistler tips his beer. “So I told her. Then she asks, ‘Why would you want to be a cop?’ I gave her some lame answer to keep it light. But later I thought about it.”

  “Was she cute?”

  “Pretty cute. She smelled good.”

  “Was she into you?’

  “Not really. I won’t call her back.”

  “You think she might be into me? I can be very charming.” Moe winks badly.

  “Really? You should be charming sometime so I know what it’s like.”

  “Sorry I interrupted.”

  “It’s okay. Listen though, that reminds me: the victim next to the dumpsters. There was a perfume smell. It was flowery, and a little chemical. Her boss’s wife said Anna Beth was sensitive to smells. Allergic or something.”

  “I guess dying next to a dumpster was especially insulting.”

  “I guess so. Where was I? I ever tell you the worst thing I had to do on patrol? Man versus car homicide. The victim’s girlfriend took his PlayStation controllers and drove off while he was in the bathroom. She threw the game controls out the car at an intersection. The boyfriend ran after her, dodged traffic, and snatched his gear. The girlfriend turned her car around and drove down the sidewalk after him. She hit a homeless woman digging in the trash and a dad wearing an infant in a sling. My job was to sort body parts into evidence bags. That’s when I realized patrolman was not for me. That’s why I started studying for detective.

  “You never told me.”

  “It wasn’t noble. I couldn’t stand the job I went to school for. I was desper
ate. I was afraid.” Whistler scrapes the remnants of guacamole from the bowl with his finger.

  They drink in silence for a while, watch a couple of men in ball caps take up space in the next booth.

  Moe digs for another folded chip among the boring average chips.

  “Oh,” Whistler adds. “Guess what?”

  “What?”

  “You got a raise, I got demoted. The case isn’t mine anymore. Ruther is lead. I told the whole squad about Ginny Flores and her tie to the first murder. They think I want to be a superstar.”

  “Shit, shit, and shit,” Moe says.

  “That about sums it up.”

  “Okay,” Moe says. She waves to the server. “Where does that leave us? You thought you got an important job, and it turns out you’re keeping the city’s image spotless for the mayor. I’m a queer idealist, in a nonideal world for a queer on a crusade. What’s the fucking point? Careful what you wish for, I guess. Francis and Sebastian are so proud of us. They think you get a degree and you’re on Easy Street. They worked hard to give us this chance. What the fuck do we do? I’m really asking you. I’m lost. I don’t know what to do. Just tell me.”

  Whistler shrugs. But he keeps turning the question over in his head.

  They order tacos and another round of shots.

  They crunch on more chips and guac. Finally Whistler says, “If we don’t do what’s right, no one else will. We make a stand. We fight the good fight.”

  “How do we do that?” Moe asks.

  “We solve this case. We find this killer before he kills anyone else.”

  Surreal Confessional

  Calvert steps away from the homemade printing press and watches Barney work.

  “We can dry this shirt right now. That way you can take it with you,” Barney says. He grabs the freshly made letterpress tee, board and all, and slides it into a waiting cabinet. He closes doors and turns on mismatched hair dryers mounted along the cabinet’s base. “There,” he says. “Ten minutes and the ink should be set. Want a drink?”