The Canal

by Daniel Morris

  THE CANAL

  By Daniel Morris

  http://www.DanielMorris.info

  Copyright © 2008 by Daniel Morris.

  All rights reserved worldwide.

  No part of this e-book may be copied or sold.

  Thanks!

  >> CHAPTER ONE <<

  The things Paul did no longer seemed strange to him. He was past all that, past the point of strange. Like now, being in the backyard, aiming water from the hose at the blood on his lawn. Most people in their life, at some point, will water a lawn. The trick was to get the crumbs of bone and gristle -- use the water to push them back towards the fence, so the runoff could drain into the canal.

  It was work he'd almost enjoy if he hadn't been feeling so sick. It must be the heat. It must be the sun. Or the air, dense and empty of oxygen. He could barely breathe. The hose felt too heavy, as if packed with lead. This wasn't like the usual flu's, fever's and rheumatism's that normally plagued him. This felt much more final. Much more definitive.

  He couldn't remember it ever being this hot. Part of him though, the old Paul, the Paul of happier days, he seemed to remember a day as hot as this one. In fact, the old Paul recalled that he'd been standing here in this very same yard, doing almost exactly the same thing. Watering. He recalled that he'd gotten thirsty and had tried drinking from the hose. Paul's wife Teresa, she had been tending to the small garden that was set alongside the fence. When she saw him there, his lips out to that stream of water like he was kissing it, she started screaming. Outdoor water wasn't clean, she said, waving a pruning shear, thrusting it menacingly in his direction. There were bugs, she said...and debris and filth and germs and particulate. But mainly, her concern was the bugs.

  Paul didn't argue. He wasn't the arguing type. But he didn't see why bugs couldn't be living in other places, like the kitchen tap for example, from which Teresa drank deeply and often. Or even bugs on your skin. Hadn't he read that in the National Geographic? Bugs crawling all over you, all the time? So small you can't even see?

  Really though, Paul wasn't feeling well enough to be following all these meandering, switchback thoughts. Which was why he'd gone to so much trouble in the first place, the trouble of freeing himself from the past -- or more specifically, of freeing himself from himself, his old self, the old Paul. Yes, these days he was the vastly improved New Paul. And at this moment the only thing that mattered, the only thing worth mattering, wasn't Old Paul's memories, but that there was still plenty of lawn to clean. And blood could be stubborn, if not devious -- despite Paul's best efforts with the hose, the blood was doing better than before, reviving in strength, increasing in wattage, and showing thick like cherry filling across half the yard.

  All that, and Paul still had the porch to rinse.

  And then the living room.

  Paul resumed spraying near his feet, until he finally uncovered the saffron layer of dead grass beneath. He pointed the hose towards the heart of the whole mess, to a lead pipe planted in the ground. Paul briefly rinsed it with a flick of water. The pipe stood about shin high. You could tie things to it.

  *

  In most places there wasn't even grass, just dirt. This was hardly a lawn, more a vegetative hall of shame -- nothing but stink weed, crab grass, wank wood, bummer berry. Teresa's garden was now a bunker of aggressive foxtails, tangled in the chain-link fence. And even the fence was doing poorly, all rust and brittle steel, holding together purely out of habit, some parts leaning flat to the ground, some parts missing entirely. Nothing in the yard was fresh or new. It had done a lot of dying since Teresa's day.

  He knew she wouldn't have approved. Teresa loved plants and anything else that could be grown. Kids, pets too. As long as it wasn't a bug. In Teresa's eyes, bugs didn't really grow, not like more palatable life forms. They just sort of coagulated, materializing in baths of slime, to emerge from places they had no right being, like hoses, or her tomatoes.

  Or the canal, mused New Paul.

  Yes, Teresa was definitely the growing kind. A life giver, a nurturer. She had a green thumb, as they say. Paul however, he wasn't even close to being a plant man. As it turns out, his thumb ran a rather different color -- more of a red than a green.

  *

  The old him, Old Paul, he used to have a fair understanding of where he, as a person, started and stopped. It was rather simple -- there was a man named Paul. Paul had done all the things that most men of his era and age did, whether they wanted to or not: school, job, girl, marry, war, work, house, kids, live, eat. Maybe it didn't seem too impressive in retrospect, maybe a bit ordinary, but Paul didn't mind. You just did what you did. We all do. No shame in that.

  But then everything got changed around. First, his daughters died. Then his wife. Then the yard.

  *

  The old Paul had heard stories about ancient couples who, after one partner dies, the other follows suit within hours, or even minutes (apparently they time these things, some guy bedside, dressed in somber black, with a clipboard and a stopwatch). The prognosis was simple: broken heart. These were senile sweethearts who couldn't remember their own names, but they never forgot the important thing -- that they loved someone. Take the point of that love away and what else was there?

  There was nothing, in Paul's opinion. Certainly nothing worth living for. And after his wife passed he figured he was as broken hearted as a man could get. There was no reason for him to continue on without her. What he wanted was to be like those old couples -- he would have set a new world record if he'd been able to, he'd have died within seconds, no, he'd do better than that, a tenth of a second. Actually, it would be instant. Simultaneous. Last breath on three. Paul was ready.

  But his body wasn't.

  This part of his life involved extended periods of motionlessness. When it became apparent that Paul wasn't going to die immediately, he decided that he would lie on his couch, arms folded across his chest, without food or drink -- or breathing, if he could help it -- until his body expired from disuse. He'd act dead until he was dead. Or, until death forgot he was there and casually passed by, at which point Paul would pounce. Whichever came first. It seemed to make sense at the time -- if he was already doing all the work, surely death would see him as a bargain.

  It was during these bouts of immobility, and despite his best efforts to the contrary, that Paul began to do some thinking. Mainly, he thought about how temporary everything was. It seemed that given long enough the things you cared about either changed irrevocably, disappeared, were replaced, or died, and that this process never ended. For all the life Paul had lived, and the experiences he had gathered, their sum importance would die when he did. And so it began to seem to Paul that if nothing ever lasted, then by design nothing ever mattered. Eventually sins and good deeds alike all got swept under the rug. So why bother caring about any of it?

  The old Paul, he had bothered. He'd been a worrier. There was one's personal well-being to consider, not to mention money, friendships, the playoffs, personal politics, and world affairs. It had always felt to Paul like things were at stake, vital things, even if he wasn't always sure what those things were, or what exactly was hanging in the balance. But what mattered was that something mattered. There was urgency.

  Until eventually, as Paul lay inert, disappointingly still very much alive, his body following its own selfish, shadowy agenda -- as he thought about how much he'd lost, and how much he would continue to lose, he realized that he could no longer agree with any of that, with all the mattering. And so instead of dying, Paul was reborn.

  There was no grand epiphany, no profound moment of transformation. It was simple: one minute there was Paul, in the darkness of grief, drowning in himself (he made for strange water -- thick, a gravy, foul -- and if he'd thought about it he
might have imagined that this water actually existed, maybe just down behind his yard, in the canal that the old Paul used to ignore, repulsed as he was by its back alley ambience of towing yards and mattress dumps and the barnyard swelter of raw sewage) and the next minute, a hand, rough and strong and unsympathetic grabbed him by the neck and was yanking him free. This hand belonged to a new Paul. And this new Paul was immune to the water, he moved atop it as if it were sidewalk.

  New Paul was different from Old Paul in that he no longer cared. He didn't care about his wife or his health or his bills or his daughters or the time or the date or his past or his future. To the casual observer there wouldn't seem to be much difference -- after all, Paul still looked like Paul. He still slept very little, still paced the upstairs hallway at three in the morning. He still ate while standing over the sink and rubbed his back against the bedroom doorjamb for a scratch. But inside his head, there was little to recognize. It was silent, barren. The evenings came sooner and more often, the shadows lingered for longer, and never quite disappeared completely. There was no worry, no concern. For Paul, peace had come at last. And, as he soon discovered, now that he no longer cared about anything, he was capable of anything.

  *

  As New Paul watered, feeling like the weight of the sky had touched down on his shoulders, pressing him flat, the old Paul spoke up with a complaint: She would not have approved.

  Meaning Teresa. In these last intervening years, Old Paul had proven himself to be somewhat tenacious. He'd been replaced, yet still he rattled around on the fringes, like a party guest who had yet to leave, even after the hints had been made, after the others had gone, after the lights had been put out.

  She would not have approved.

  New Paul tolerated these outbursts for the most part. He at least acknowledged that a lifelong personality was a tough habit to break.

  "I thought you'd be happy," said New Paul. "I recall you wanting this... It feels like I'm dying." And it did. Each time Paul made another sweep with the hose it felt as if he were borrowing against reserves of strength that he didn't have. And the new Paul wasn't as keen on death as his old self had been. New Paul wasn't so naïve as to think that dying actually solved anything. Why should death be so generous as to offer relief? Death didn't owe anyone anything.

  Although tonight, Paul could rest. There would be no need to prepare dinner for his good, dear friend, the twilight visitor. Tonight Paul would recover, at ease in his home, with the flies and dust. He'd take a nap, he'd feel better.

  When the girls were younger..., insisted Old Paul.

  "I'm becoming bored," said New.

  When the girls were younger Paul used to cook for them during the summer, nearly every night. He had bought a barbecue, which he still had. Paul cooked average foods with mediocre results, hamburgers and hot dogs, the kind of food you felt comfortable with, that reminded you of childhoods and easy afternoons spent outdoors. But when the girls got older they didn't want to eat outdoors so much. They wanted little to do with barbecues. Salads, they said. Of all things, they wanted salads. And then when they had boyfriends (one of which, in all truthfulness, worked at the crouton factory) they wanted little to do with their mother and father as well. They had their own lives then. They had moved on. Adulthood had taken them from him, his two little girls. Later they'd be taken again, forever this time, prey to a careless driver, traveling at irresponsible speed. It was Teresa who took this the hardest. But it was Paul who began to change.

  New Paul stopped paying attention. The old Paul had become increasingly sentimental recently. All those stories that had nothing to do with anything anymore, he'd been digging them all up. Maybe he sensed what new Paul sensed -- the looming end. Or maybe he felt a final inventory was in order, one last tally. Or, most likely, he was searching out Paul's sympathies, making a rather pathetic, final attempt to remind Paul of his former compassion and humanity.

  But ha ha to all that. There was no sympathy, compassion, or humanity left. That was the point of New Paul. That was what had made the years tolerable...

  And then it occurred to New Paul that if nothing mattered, in the grand scheme, then why was he bothering with the lawn? Especially since this was nothing to be ashamed of, nothing that shouldn't be on display for others to marvel at. In fact, he was rather pleased with the whole mess. So, why bother?

  Old habits, he sighed. He dropped the hose, and left it where it lay.

  Tomorrow his strength would be back. And he'd need it, because tomorrow there would be dinner...although he still wasn't sure how he could match last night's meal--

  She would not have approved, whined the old self. If only she knew...

  Paul limped back to the waiting shade of his home, following the trail of blood that squirmed across the patio. It was true, Teresa would not have approved. Nobody would have.

  But Paul, he was no longer one to care.

  >> CHAPTER TWO <<

  Detective Joe Lombardi turned up the collar of his trench coat and waited to begin. His coat was the kind usually preferred by peep show creeps and playground flashers, and he had found it months ago, lying in the street among accumulated trash, waiting to be found, to be tentatively examined -- he didn't look for blemishes or scars but rather holes, because there could be no drafts, none at all -- to be tried on, to be admired, and to be kept. Joe had yet to wash this coat. And he rarely took it off -- even now, with humidity that made you stick to yourself in your pits and joints, even then the coat stayed on.

  He sucked on his cigarette, letting the smoke sit in his nose and throat. The aroma of tobacco was far preferable to the alternative -- the canal was in painful strut tonight, its stench having achieved a frightening intensity after seven days and counting of unrelenting summer heat. As usual the river was refusing to give up on the memory of all those pollution-spewing coal yards and factories that had once marked its shores (back when shipping needed water, before eighteen wheelers and superhighways), and was reviving their heyday with an olfactory salute that soured your stomach and assailed your hope. There was almost an art, a mad genius, to the canal's awfulness -- it combined raw sewage, runoff, and garbage to a very specific and proprietary blend, in exact concentration, under an expert control that could only come from decades of experience, from hatefully soaking in industrial and human waste. This was beyond mere sewer water. This was blight, it was ruin, it was complete and utter failure, distilled and then energized in the swirling schools of hepatitis and typhoid that played beneath the water's milt-speckled surface. Yes, bad days like today got the canal brewing a stronger than average melody.

  "Tick tock, Joe. You've been out here half an hour."

  Startled, Joe turned to find Alan, his partner, behind him.

  Alan stepped closer. "Time to get off your ass Detective."

  Joe studied him a moment, taking in the man's overall mis-en-scene. Then he calmly blew a ball of rancid cigarette smoke straight into his eyes.

  "You should be more nice," said Joe, matter-of-factly, as he watched the smoke coil around Alan's head.

  To his credit, Alan took it rather well. No combustion, no detonation, his eyes and mouth merely narrowing to their bitter minimums. Joe often wondered how people like his partner managed to exist. It was the hottest night on record and Joe, like every other human being, was thoroughly sponged with sweat, absolutely absorbed...but not Alan. Alan was as dry as Joe was drenched. Nary a stray drop, or the slightest, glistening sheen adorned that man's waterless face.

  Alan was always this distracting. And clean. Distractingly clean. If he got a smudge on his shirt, be it a spot of ink, a granule of dust, or a lousy subatomic particle, the shirt would be immediately removed and replaced. Crooked hair: straightened. Piece of litter: removed. Mispronounced vowel: corrected. Frankly, it was a disgusting habit.

  Joe ground his cigarette into the bottom of his loafer and flicked it in the water. He and Alan were standing at the end of a bridge, a small one about the length of five
cars. Instead of drawing up like most bridges did, this one, the whole thing, got pulled on tracks via a pulley system, into a clearing along the side of the road. It was the last and oldest of its kind -- so old you half expected a horse and buggy to come rolling across, snuffing you under its parasol-sized wheels.

  Joe and Alan weren't alone. Groups of police were waiting at the bridge's other end. They were all looking at Joe expectantly. The sooner he got started, the sooner they could finish and get out of the heat.

  By this point, Alan had managed to weather the last remnants of cigarette smoke. He stood quietly for a moment, and then managed to fix Joe with a calm smile.

  "You are a disease," he said, almost pleasantly.

  "...I might say the same about you."

  "No more bullshit, Lombardi. Quit wasting time and start your little magic act. You know, where you fool everyone into thinking you're actually a cop."

  "Grow a pair, Alan. It's been all of five minutes."

  "It's been more. It's been more minutes than I can possibly believe."

  Joe turned back toward the water. Alan was maybe right.

  "Tell me then," Joe said. "What exactly is the problem?"

  Alan frowned. "The problem? You've been fucking standing on it."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Barge crew, coming upriver -- they spotted a body dangling from the bridge, from a crossbeam. It's underneath us."

  While Joe processed this, Alan impatiently clicked into motion. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully placed it on the bridge railing, so he wouldn't have to touch the rail directly, then he threw a leg over and got his foot on the metal ladder that led down to the riverbank. "Are we going to do this?" he asked.

  "That depends," said Joe. "Is there anything you're not telling me?"

  Alan, still straddling the rail, quickly proceeded to tell Joe a great number of things: how Joe was pathetic, a disgrace, and an embarrassment to the badge. It was the same thing Alan had been saying, in one form or another, and at every possible opportunity, for a couple of years now. And Joe had yet to grow any less tired of hearing it.