Herbert and Bulcavage bandy back and forth, the conversation going off on far-flung tangents, until Basil is thoroughly confused. He nods off, and time passes. He jolts awake at the sound of his name.
“Yes, sir,” he says, louder than he should have.
“What do you think of what Herbert just said?” Bulcavage asks.
“I think it’s good,” Basil says—again, louder than he should have, and having no idea what Herbert just said.
“And?”
“And well done, well put.”
“I’m sure a guy like you will come up with infinitely better garbage than the garbage I just gave you,” Herbert says. “What I gave you was nonsense.”
“Agreed,” says Bulcavage. “We need a hook—something to build a campaign around. Our ‘Just Do It.’ Our ‘Plop, Plop, Fizz, Fizz.’ Basil?”
“I like what Herbert said. Someone should write it down before we forget it.”
“Herbert’s not our chief copywriter.”
“But … we’re a team.”
“Exactly. Herbert’s job is to take your brilliance and turn it into full-fledged creative. Consider it your job to inspire him. In this case it looks like the cart’s preceding the horse. I’d love to hear an original thought from your end of the table—aside from inventive ways to paralyze our clients.”
“I guess I do have one idea.”
They wait.
“Transcending death,” Basil says.
Herbert laughs out loud. He moves his hand to his mouth, trying to hide a smirk.
“‘Transcending death’?” Bulcavage repeats. “‘Transcending death.’ What the Christ is ‘Transcending death’?”
“My idea. You know, for the campaign hook. Isn’t that what we all want, to live forever in some way? For our memories—or the memories others have of us—to endure?”
“We’re selling threshers and augers here, not salvation.”
Basil keeps going, further fleshing out his idea. At one point he’s describing a scene in which a young boy sails a mile above the earth, in the wisps of clouds, the wind tousling his hair. In the scene, as he sees it, a flock of gulls surrounds the boy, then suddenly, the boy becomes an eagle. Only then does Basil realize he has stopped making sense. His tongue seems to have gone on autopilot, his mind somewhere else entirely—lost in a fog, miles from here. His body wants to curl up in a ball by the side of the road and wait for the fog to burn off, for this problem he has created to melt away.
Bulcavage turns to Herbert and says, “Is he shitting me?”
Herbert leans back in his chair, eyes scanning the barren walls. His head turns to hide a mischievous smile.
“You’re shitting me, right?” Bulcavage says, this time directly to Basil.
“I think it works,” Basil replies. “Apparently.”
“No good?”
“No. No good.”
“I guess I am a little tired.”
“I should hope so. My second grader could do better.”
“There’s no need to be nasty, sir.”
“You think this is nasty? This is civil. This is pattycake. You want to see nasty? Say ‘Transcending death’ again.”
“I’ve said it only once, sir. You’re the one who keeps repeating it.”
Bulcavage jots a note on the sole piece of white paper on the table. He mumbles something under his breath.
“Beg your pardon,” Basil says. “Was your babble meant for my ears?”
Bulcavage looks up, his eyes finding Basil’s, and says, “If I wanted you to hear it, you’d hear it.”
“Says the coward …”
“I’d watch myself if I were you.”
“You think I have reason to fear you?” Basil says. He stands, his whole body as tense as strung piano wire, and flips over the empty chair next to Bulcavage. “You’d squirm beneath my thumb like a halved slug. I’d leave you nothing but a sticky puddle.”
“Well, this certainly took an unexpected turn,” Herbert says. Basil realizes his gaffe, how horribly he has overstepped. “Look, Basil,” Bulcavage says. “I don’t think—”
“Excuse me,” Basil interrupts. He takes a deep breath and adds, “Forgive my outburst. It’s been a tough couple of days, and I’m not too dense to realize my insolence has no excuse. I’m happy to work up a few other ideas. Give me the afternoon. Please. That’s all I ask. I tend to work better alone anyway, when my mind can wander.”
Bulcavage raises a hand and wishes Basil away.
Basil clops sideways out of Herbert’s constricted office. He lingers behind Bulcavage and spies the bald spot at the back of his boss’s head. A few flakes of dandruff dot the perimeter where the hair has retreated from the shiny scalp.
He considers how easily he could dispose of this insignificant human. With one swipe he could remove the head from its place between the man’s shoulders, then core out the skull, artfully plucking any lingering gray matter from its cradle, and burnish the bone in fire. The finished product would make a lovely serving dish for whatever tasty snack he desired.
He exhales and exits the room, knowing he has words to write and make precious.
* * *
Basil sits at his desk, head supported by both clawed hands.
Fingers drum against his bare forehead. Exhaustion overwhelms him. He yawns to expose yellowed canines.
So much for that grand experiment.
But who could blame him for his outburst, or even for falling asleep on the job? No meeting should take more than an hour. Even he knows this. Still, he should have behaved better. He gazes out the window to study the sunlit landscape. A rap at the door robs his mind of the chance to ramble.
“A minute?”
It’s Bulcavage.
Basil waves him in.
“Let me be frank,” Bulcavage says. “That stunt wasn’t what I was hoping for.”
“Me neither. An inauspicious beginning indeed.”
“Did we make a mistake here, you and me?”
“It’s too soon to tell.”
“Realistic optimism. I love it,” Bulcavage says, smiling and pointing a finger in Basil’s face. “Tomorrow’s a new day and all that.”
“I had a long night. I—”
Bulcavage holds up a hand, not wanting to hear it.
“Listen, everyone has days they want to wipe clean. I have my share too. Nothing a good night’s sleep can’t cure. Speaking of, where are you staying?”
“Staying, sir?”
“You’ll leave here tonight. You’ll go somewhere and lay your head down on something soft—a pillow, a pile of dirt, a whore’s ass. Where will that somewhere be?”
“I’ll find someplace dry. Someplace quiet.”
“So you’re homeless.”
“I’m a wanderer.”
“A wanderer, sure, but that’s not working too well for you right now, is it? You need a little stability. Listen: After work, you’re going to follow Herbert. He’s going to introduce you to a guy, a friend of mine. His name is Anton Zhuk. Good ol’ Anton will fix you up. Considering where you came from, what you’ve been through, I think you’ll appreciate having a roof over your head again.”
“I appreciate this kindness.”
“Kindness has nothing to do with it. We can’t afford another performance like the one you gave today.” Bulcavage pauses. “You can’t speak to me like that, especially in front of Herbert—in front of anyone, in fact. Understood?”
Basil wants to reach across his desk and crush Bulcavage’s windpipe. Instead, he nods in agreement and chalks up his inaction to personal growth.
“It’s late on a Friday, meaning the workweek is just about done,” Bulcavage adds. “Get some rest. Use the next two days to get your head straight.”
“Yes, sir. You think Herbert would mind stopping somewhere before taking me to my new residence?”
“Yeah, I suppose you’ll be needing a few things to make yourself comfortable—a toothbrush, a towel, some pornography. Maybe a Durafl
ame so you feel right at home.”
“I need to fetch my motorcycle, sir.”
“Whatever you need.”
Bulcavage sighs and backs away from the door, leaving Basil to dream up ideas for making the name Big Bair Agriculture and Machinery linger in people’s memories.
* * *
Basil hunts and pecks his way around the keyboard. The words are just beginning to come when Herbert appears in the doorway.
“Chop, chop,” he says.
“Pardon?” Basil replies.
“Bob says I’m taking you to Anton’s. It’s Friday at five. Let’s go.”
Tomorrow is a new day, Basil thinks, just like the boss says. He turns off his computer and follows Herbert out the door. As they descend the stairs, Basil recalls the brunette he encountered that morning. He exits the stairwell to the first floor and peers down the hallway, hoping to catch another glimpse of her. No signs of life other than a phone chirping faintly in the distance.
As he leaves the building, he steps past the shrub he recently desecrated with his volcanic feces. Herbert ducks into a small silver sedan. One thought fills Basil’s mind: This is going to be a tight fit.
“You’ll have to cram,” Herbert tells him. “I just got this thing detailed, so try not to get any demon schmutz on the seat.”
It takes some doing, but Basil succeeds in pretzeling himself into the passenger seat. His face pressed against the glass of the windshield, knees at his chest, he hopes for a quick ride. Then, he remembers.
“My bike!”
“What?”
“Mister Bulcavage said you would take me to my bike.”
Herbert makes a point of checking his watch, even though it would be just as easy to eye the neon-green numbers of the digital clock recessed into the car’s dashboard.
“Well, where is it?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“Then I can’t exactly take you to it, now can I?”
“If you drive around, I’ll let you know if I see anything familiar.”
Herbert sighs and backs up quickly, jerkily.
Basil’s cheek becomes one with the windshield. His oily skin smudges the glass.
“So,” he says, attempting small talk. “Herbert Teak from Beak.”
“Des Moines.”
“Oh, right-o. What brought you here?”
“To Savage?”
“To Beak.”
“The same automobile you’re presently fouling up.”
“Ah, good thing I’m fluent in smartass. What’s Des Moines like?”
“It’s fine.”
“Just fine? It couldn’t have been that fine if you left.”
“I said it was fine.”
Basil tries a few more times to unlock the mystery of his coworker, but Herbert scuttles every attempt. He directs Herbert to “turn here” and “make a left here,” adding, “This looks familiar” before deciding a moment later that the surroundings, in fact, do not look familiar at all. Finally, Herbert says he has had enough.
“Listen, man. I don’t have time for this. It’s the weekend, and I have shit to do. We’ve been driving in a circle for twenty freaking minutes and you have no idea where you’re going. At this pace Anton will be a freaking corpse by the time we get there!”
An uneasy silence stands between them before Basil points an elbow up the road and says, “There it is.”
“What?” Herbert throws up his arms, incredulous.
“My bike. It’s in the ditch over there. I can see the handlebar sticking up.”
Herbert pulls forward and slams on the brake pedal. The sedan squeals to a stop next to the toppled Harley. Basil uncoils himself from the front seat and clops to the edge of the road. In one smooth motion he hoists the bike from the ditch and straddles the saddle.
“See? Right where I left it. I guess I’ll follow you.”
He tries the starter, but nothing happens.
“Shit,” he says.
“What now?” Herbert calls from his car.
“It’s not working.”
Herbert storms from the driver’s side, moving in short, stuttered steps, mumbling one curse word after another. The only ones Basil can make out are “shit licker” and “badger fucker.” Herbert brushes against Basil and looks for what he expects to find.
“You’re out of gas, genius!”
“Gas?”
“It’s what makes the damned motorcycle go boom-boom, shit for brains!”
Herbert seems to realize the insult that slipped from his tongue. By the look on his suddenly pale face, he half-expects to have his belly sliced open by one of Basil’s raptor-like talons.
Basil gives a slight smile and says, “We have a saying where I come from: Some days you eat steak, and others you eat shit. I guess both of us are eating shit today.”
* * *
Basil trails Herbert’s sedan, his newly refueled motorcycle rumbling beneath him. By the time they pull up to a drab single-story building, its stucco walls colored green with some sort of fungus, the sun is about to dip below the horizon.
Herbert parks his car and hurries to an apartment at the front of the building. He reaches through a screenless storm door and knocks on the brittle wood until the door creaks open.
Basil takes extra time getting settled, double-checking the placement of the kickstand and the tightness of the gas cap. He’s happy to have learned that motorcycles and other “go-go machines”—Herbert’s words—need fuel in order to function, but having to pay for the fuel to make the bike useful presents another worry. He makes a mental note to repay Herbert for having lent him the money, however grudgingly, needed to fill the tank.
As Basil looks up, he sees Herbert standing next to a short, fat, unsmiling man in ill-fitting pants, leather sandals and a button-down dress shirt, the fabric all white other than the cocoa-colored stain above the breast pocket.
“This is Anton,” Herbert says. “He’ll make sure you have a place to sleep tonight.”
As Herbert hurries off, Basil offers his appreciations for all of the help. Herbert either doesn’t hear or doesn’t acknowledge it. Basil watches his co-worker drive away. Tires screech as the car rounds a sharp corner.
Anton stands in front of Basil, mute as he takes in the sight.
Basil introduces himself, but Anton remains as still as a garden gnome.
“Mister Bulcavage tells me you have a room.”
“I have room, yes,” Anton says, his accent as thick as a milkshake. “Bulcavage, yes. You bet. You bet.”
“One thing, though: I don’t have any money. I can pay you, just not today.”
“Is okay. Is okay. You good for. You good for.”
“Another thing: I like windows.”
“Sure, sure. No meltdown. No meltdown. Same team, same team,” Anton says, slapping his chest. “You follow.”
Anton leads Basil to the back of the building, stopping in front of a maroon door bearing two figures—one of them brass—representing the number thirteen. In actuality, the first digit is missing, the ghost of the number one where the brass number should be. Anton turns the knob and puts his shoulder to the door. The door groans open.
“Bulcavage say you need apartment. Is yours, he tell me.”
Basil steps through the door and stands in the middle of a mostly empty room. It has a plaid couch with worn seat cushions and, in the far corner, a small television with an octopus of wires and cables dangling from its rear, coiling on the floor and snaking their way into holes in the nearest wall. He looks to his right and sees an all-glass back door. He smiles, knowing he will have daylight. The back door leads to a small patio, which amounts to little more than a concrete slab. A man lies motionless on the slab.
“Uh … is he okay?” Basil asks.
“Is Chester,” Anton says. “He live next door. Is neighbor.” Basil slides open the screen door and steps onto the slab. He lifts a hoof and nudges Chester’s ample belly. The man’s gut feels harder than expected.<
br />
The attention rouses Chester, and he sits up with a snort. He runs a hand through the shock of wavy gray hair above his age-spotted forehead and introduces himself, though the word comes out more like Chesser.
Anton begins, “Chester is—”
“I’m a monster and a madman, a saint and a whore,” Chester says. “I’m a maker, an artist, a minstrel, a conquering hero, a poet of the heart—”
“A poet!” Basil beams. “I, too, am a man of verse. We should gather together and regale each other with odes to our shared love of letters.”
Chester crinkles his nose, contorts his face into a sneer and utters a word from his dry mouth that sounds remotely like nah.
“Wan’ go to the bar?”
Basil recalls his introduction to bars—Beak Tavern—and the encounter that ended with blood on his claws and a bullet lodged in one of his horns. He declines the invitation.
“I’m not so well equipped for exploring anyway,” Chester says.
The crotch of Chester’s pants darkens. A moment later Basil smells the sharp, sobering trace of warm urine.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” Chester stutters.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Basil says. He slides the screen door back into place. Then he closes the sliding glass door and pulls the blinds tight, blocking out any signs of Chester. The room darkens. Through the glass he can hear Chester’s sobs. The sobs turn to laughter and then to silence.
Basil turns and looks at Anton, who offers a blank stare in return.
“No keys. Don’t lock door,” Anton says. “See you around.” Then he heads for the front door and closes it behind him, leaving Basil to himself.
Basil walks through the room, his hooves leaving shallow impressions in the dirty carpet. He knows he will adore the light pouring in through the glass of the back door, assuming Chester finds his way home. He perks his ears and registers only the drone of Chester’s snoring and a gentle hum emanating from something mechanical hiding in the walls. For the moment he has peace. He smiles at his good fortune.
Burn, Beautiful Soul Page 10
