by Ufuk Özden
We teleport outside and someone’s talking about the first time he had sex. It happened in a hotel room and the cheap mattress hurt his knees. He says it wasn’t like anything he’s seen in the movies, for all the wrong reasons. It was harder and shorter.
Then I find myself, still in my body, crossing a street. After another blackout, we’re in a line, getting some street food. I think I’m having some potato wedges. I tell my ex-colleagues that the universe cuts back on budget when you’re drunk, skipping the moments that would connect the scenes. I don’t hear what they say. We’re floating through a tunnel and all I see is a glimpse of the things that I do. I might or might not have done things that only third parties could tell me. And I spilled some ketchup on my jacket.
My feet move with ease as if I’m bouncing around on a moon walk. Sounds turn into fluffy clouds that are lazily floating above my head. I can touch the sounds and collect the scents in the air with my hands. The light from streetlamps melts down like cheese, marinating the pavements. I get the feeling that life’s flowing into me through my nostrils as I breathe. I can leap and bounce off the walls without getting hurt. I can outrun anyone. I can destroy anyone with one punch. I try to sing a song that I heard on a cassette tape that I’d borrowed from an old friend. I don’t remember the lyrics, but I think it was a song about some imaginary battle fought by a group of very cheerful people with blunt weapons.
We can do many things — therefore, we do. We walk into another bar which is home to many animated late-night drunks who are squeezing the night for its last drops. I walk down the hall after entering, and soon after my head turns into a boulder. Me and my head roll along in the direction of the bar. We make our way through seats, tables, glasses, moving mouths, saggy ears, broken glass shards, vibrating hips, sharp noses, wagging heads, and crushing bass notes.
I order a shot, do it, order another one in a different colour, and curse the music as the DJ pumps up the volume. I tell them that I have unfinished business at the bar and leave the table. I meet this lively couple and offer to buy them drinks which triggers an uncontrolled mingling spree. I say hellos, shake hands, do shots, feel my tongue falling off, hear my own slurred speech, and commute between the tables in a chain reaction. I’m constantly being introduced to groups of people who constantly launch me into other groups of people. Not unlike a frenzied probe, travelling in the vacuum of space, surfing on the gravitational slingshot rides. Fast enough to catch up with Voyager, paint a dick on it, take a selfie with it, and send it to the Pale Blue Dot.
Eventually, someone drags me to the dance floor. Our bodies involuntarily swing, and we orbit each other as she keeps tickling me around my waist. Then we go out for a smoke and have a conversation about life, pets, and our favourite pickles. She holds my hand as we walk back, and I do not protest.
We dance back to the dance floor with our desynched limbs all over the place. I attempt to dance a perfect circle around her but instead I bump straight into her because I forgot to soften my grip on her hand. Luckily, it’s a night of forgiveness.
She stares at me for a brief moment before she bites my earlobe. Then we go for a kiss, and her spinning tongue inside my mouth feels like a mill fan made of flesh. I close one of my eyes to take a good look at her to evade the curse of my double vision. I reach out to stroke her hair as she stands still staring at me in the eye while she’s scratching my testicles. Overall, I wouldn’t mind some scratching in the right spots, and I’m more than happy to offer some scratching back in the right spots. But I wouldn’t mind a gamma-ray burst that destroys the earth either. I feel numb to the tragedies of life. I also feel numb to her touch, but it doesn’t matter in the universe of things. I slowly close my eyes, slowly open my eyes, and do it again.
I find myself in the backseat of a taxi with her where she is discussing the recent roadworks in progress with the driver. “The roads can be very bumpy these days,” I squeak and my eyes close again.
At some point, my body steps out of the taxi when it stops, walks up the stairs when pushed, walks into a flat when invited, and makes itself at home when asked. We kiss in the hallway while my hand, curled up like a claw, is trying to find a shoulder to land on.
We walk into her bedroom, trying to envelop each other in clumsy hugs. Our kisses miss the lips and land on some hair, a cheekbone, a jaw, or the air instead. We crash into the bed in the midst of our mating dance and topple over. I roll over in the wrong direction for a moment, but I quickly regain control. I roll back only to see her coming in fast to run over me.
When we meet in the middle, I try to get on top but my elbow hurts. The springs inside the worn-out bed hurt my arms and legs as if I’m lying on bed made of nails. I try to kiss her, miss her head, and yet she grabs me by both ears, pulls me towards herself, and starts sucking on my nose. I stay still. Then she points at the curtains that need to be drawn. Rolling again, I make my way to the curtains. The window’s also open and I shiver when the cold breeze hits me. I make a move to close the window which resists because of a faulty frame. She moans. I don’t know what she’s moaning at, but I feel like I should also moan out of respect. With a hard push and some moaning, I manage to close the window.
When I go back to the bed, she grabs me by my belt buckle with one hand and submerges her other hand in my pants. I surrender like a turned over tortoise. Trying to touch her, on the other hand, proves difficult with her tight T-shirt neck collar. My fingers tap on her collarbone and then reach her bra. My wrist clicks as I put my hand inside it. She squeezes my bits harder in response, which causes an uproar within the contents of my bladder.
I excuse myself for a moment, stand up, and drag myself into the restroom. After a brief exchange of looks with the drunk in the mirror, I throw up into the sink. I clean it up with the towel that I then put into the laundry basket, wash the sink as much as I can, and immediately throw up again. When I turn back, I find her peacefully snoring in a foetal position. I walk to the door with a waddle, tie my shoelaces, and walk out.
After one blink I’m home, standing in the hallway. I find the ghost in the living room, repeatedly changing her socks in a trance that only an undead in eternal procrastination would understand. Although my brain has been soaked in alcohol, I immediately realise that there’s something I should be concerned about. Although she moves the way she usually does, determined in her fixed pattern, she’s more transparent. She’s eating the biscuits that have appeared in her hand. I turn on the flashlight on my cell phone to double-check and, as I suspected, her figure’s getting more transparent. I’ll wake up with one more trouble tomorrow. So be it. I have to put myself to sleep. My head has no right to say no.
A Morning of Regret
I had a very vivid dream where I was driving a car on a highway without a door on the driver’s side. I kept on driving, nevertheless, trying to find my door to no avail. Each time I reached out and got the hold of a handle I pulled it as hard as I could, only to realise that it was the door of the car driving next to me. Everyone was honking. People rolled down their windows to scream and curse to the full extent of their lungs. Through their open windows, I saw dogs barking and children sticking out their tongues as they drove past me. I was ashamed. I’d just wanted to find my door.
Despite having blurry vision, my itchy eyes spot the ghost standing right next to my closet. She’s standing perfectly still in the corner, holding a simple calculator in one hand and what appears to be an aubergine in the other one. Although she’s in her usual outfit, which consists of a T-shirt, a skirt with flowers on it, and flip-flops, the patterns on her graphic t-shirt are flickering. She’s always been crystal clear and stable. She’s always moved with certain precision whether she constantly peeled a potato for two months or read a flyer for two weeks.
I stand up to greet the dizziness. Each step feels like a somersault in low gravity. My head’s still spinning. I go to the restroom and empty my bladder that’s swollen enough to hurt my stomach. I’m keeping an eye o
n the hall though, hoping to see the ghost moving around doing her phantom chores. I’ve kept all the doors open since I saw her for the first time for it always gives me the creeps to see her walking through the walls. And as long as the doors are open, she is kind enough to walk through them.
I decide to spoil myself with a fancy breakfast of two boiled eggs and coffee with milk. One of the eggs cracks immediately when lowered into the boiling water but I pay no mind.
I’m more concerned about the blue devils closing in. They hit me before I get a chance to stand my ground. All those moments of terror pop up in my wrecked mind at the same time, hitting me in the coldest shade of reality and followed by echoes; it’s another parade of humans getting smashed, hit, shot, burnt, drowned, stabbed, and dismembered in the cruellest fashion on the earth, in the air, and on the sea. Now I need to take my time watching the cracks on the tiles while imagining all the horrors that are yet to befall.
Once my mind begins the simulation, I can’t help but give into the contents of the dreadful scenarios. I feel the shockwaves, the trembling, the initial reaction of defying what has just happened. Then I try to build a wall between my good old mediocre reality and my imagined, twisted reality. And I calm down until the next time. Masonry, however, has never been a skill that I could brag about, given my poor competency in using my hands. Not a single piece of furniture that I’ve ever assembled happens to stand for more than a year. I have a bag full of surplus screws that I could never figure out where to put.
I finish my royal breakfast, take a sip of my greasy tea, and walk back to the bedroom to check on the ghost. She’s standing in the same corner, facing the wall which is okay by my standards. However, it turns out to be a short moment of relief as I realise that she’s trying to paint the wall with the aubergine in her hand. Random patterns in the most unappealing shades of colour appear on the wall. They look like some crushed fruit bits left on the ground after the local organic food market closed due to some rental issues with the local municipality.
I grab my mobile phone and search for a place offering medium services near me. It feels like a dumb thing to do for certain, but then again, I don’t know what else to do. I’ve done many things without admitting why I did them. Now I see the answer. It’s because I’m dumb. Not distracted or suffering from vitamin deficiency. I’m a mere fool. So enlightening. I’ll wear my badge with pride and follow my dumb heart.
Did you know I was dumb? I ask my friend.
Yes. And I think you want to be validated for something you’re about to do, he replies. And there he is again, putting things very mildly.
Apparently, there is a place in my neighbourhood with a foreign number that only accepts text messages, as mediums don’t usually pay taxes. The place has a very primitive website which is decorated with many mystic illustrations where humanoid figures cast colourful lights in the least expected spots on their celestial bodies. I walk around the room, stop after a few steps, and type a short message: “Hello. My ghost seems to be sick. Maybe it’s something she ate? Please advise.” My phone beeps after a few minutes, delivering me a message that they’ll contact me by phone as soon as possible. And so, I wait. The ghost keeps working on her art. Whatever she’s painting, they look like squashed zucchinis. I pick up my phone the moment it starts to ring.
“It seems like you need our guidance,” says the stern voice on the phone. I would love to have a powerful voice like that. It’s a shame that I can only squeak. I nod. “Avoid any interactions. Do not try to interfere or engage,” the voice goes on.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply. I honestly don’t know how to interfere when a ghost is painting my walls with an aubergine.
“I’d like to have an appointment, please,” I say. When the stern and mysterious voice replies, I somehow feel relieved that we’re going back to earthly matters. It’s asking for a deposit before I can book an appointment. The voice, hopefully equipped with hands, will text me an account number. And once the voice, hopefully equipped with eyes, sees the required sum in its bank account, it will come back to me with the details. I am on the verge of getting ripped off and I like it.
Since I experienced chronic anxiety first-hand for the very first time, I’ve learned to cherish these moments. Nothing calms me down like doing something downright retarded, and being able to say, “Fuck it!” to describe your motive, if ever asked.
I wire the deposit from the small amount that I inherited when my grandmother died. It was written in her will.
One of the dozen drivers who were involved in the accident that killed my cousin was an old man in his eighties. When interviewed, he said that seeing a young lad go in such a horrible way made him tear up his will and think about what he really expects from his days left. He decided to donate his entire fortune to a cryonics company so that they’ll keep his bits in good shape until they figure out what to do with them.
My unreliable heart skips a beat when the phone rings. I immediately pick it up to hear the new instructions from the stern voice. It tells me where to be and when to be there. Sure thing. Then the voice asks me if I have the means to afford the session, naming a price that many would find hefty. I’d like to keep the cash since I’m unemployed and clueless, so I ask the voice if they accept credit cards. I get a firm “No.”
“And what if I pay extra?”
The stern voice murmurs something to someone and, after a brief moment, it agrees. I confirm the appointment and the voice retreats back into the cosmos where everything shines in a supposedly mystical way.
“We’ll get you fixed, hang in there!” I tell the ghost. She continues to hammer on the wall with her aubergine.
Where Things Are Expected to Shine in a Mystical Way
T he stairs smell of humidity and bleach. I knock on the door after a brief soundcheck. I must usually practice before I speak. The stern voice, luckily equipped with a body, opens the door. It’s wearing the body of a skinny male in his forties in a kimono. He’s wearing thick bracelets made of topaz and amethyst. His hands are hennaed in exotic carpet patterns and his fingers are decorated with stone rings that reflect the dim light illuminating the stairs.
I clear my throat and try to tell him that I came for my appointment, but he interrupts me by raising his hand. “She’ll see you shortly once we have handled the payment process,” he whispers. He asks me to allow him a moment, please, and after I have allowed him his moment, he closes the door. The light goes off after a few seconds as I stand motionless. I wave my hands around to activate the light sensor again. Shortly after, the door reopens, and the man walks out telling me to follow him down the stairs and into the street. He’s wearing white sneakers, which create a contrast with the rest of his outfit, but I’m not the one to judge.
We walk down the street without exchanging any words. We walk past a small hardware shop with a handwritten sign on its window that reads, “TEMPORARILY CLOSED DUE TO SURGERY.” I can’t help but imagine a choir of nails and screws singing along for the day the stitched-up, good-as-new shopkeeper will return.
The man comes to a halt in front of a grocery store and turns around to face me. It appears that I could pay the remaining sum here in exchange for the services that I require. I nod. When we walk into the store, he first points at the shopping cards and then to one of the long valleys between the aisle mountains. He searches the pockets of his kimono and pulls out his mobile phone where he opens up a shopping list.
“I didn’t know kimonos had pockets,” I say in an attempt to be friendly. I could at least expect some good company if I’m getting ripped off.
“Oh,” he replies with a chuckle, “this is a morning gown.” Now I got my money’s worth.
I take the helm behind the cart and our voyage into the mystical aisles begins. The man in a kimono, who has now become a man in a morning gown, picks up his treasures as we sail through the store. We fill our cart with ground beef, wine, vegetables in many colours and shapes, and fruits in vivid colours.
One needs to be well-fed to shine like a traffic light, obviously. I smile as I swipe my card. It’s marvellous to be dumb.
We walk back to the apartment. I’m guided into the room where the psychic has been waiting for me. She looks similar to the guy in the morning gown, except she’s not wearing a morning gown, but a black dress. The small room we’re in is unornamented; save for the dazzled looking mounted owl, which looks like it forgot something that an owl should never forget. I take a velvet seat as instructed and start tapping on my knees.
“You are haunted,” says the psychic. She has the husky voice of a chain smoker.
I clear my throat again, hoping not to squeak. “Not really,” I say. “My ghost appears to be sick. She looks more transparent and she’s been doing things that don’t make any sense. I want her to be okay.”
She was there for me, boiling eggs for herself for weeks when I broke my arm. She kept me company when I squatted on the carpet having panic attacks. She supported me by constantly opening and closing an umbrella for eight hours.
The medium how long I’ve had this being for. For about two years. And how did it begin? I was bored. So, I walked to the kitchen and went over the lines between the tiles. I moved on to the walls, trying to spot every single crack and brush spot. I wanted to memorise all their patterns. I went to the bathroom, read the labels on my shampoo, looked inside the toilet. I went to the living room and watched the patterns on the carpet for an hour. I inspected the shelves in my closet, the dusty corners of the rooms, the window frames, sockets, and kitchen stalls. Then I started all over again, but this time I touched and smelled everything I could get my hands and nose on. I smelled the cushions on the couch and watched the bottom of my frying pan. Hours had passed when I felt exhausted smelling the carpet. Which smells very unpleasant, mind you. When I stood up, I saw her for the very first time. She was having a sandwich. She was going to keep eating that sandwich for another two days.
