The Canal

by Daniel Morris

  The new Paul had a respect for the canal that Old never had. He saw the canal as honest, a place without pretense or artifice or disguise. It embodied the world's true form, as it existed beneath the tended lawns and the swept streets and the billboard lined avenues -- where it was all the time rotting. Collapse, and nothing else, was the natural state to which all things tended. And the canal, it embodied that perfectly.

  Paul turned to stare at the back of his property, towards the dead foliage that shielded his yard from the river. He heard more noise. A crunching this time. The snapping of dry twigs.

  The weeds along the fringe of his yard began to shake slightly. The wind? Or a stray, perhaps. And then the weeds parted, ever so hesitantly, and out slithered something pale, child-like. Delicate arms that were as long and thin as a fishing poles. And then came the rest, sliding on its stomach.

  It was like no kind of insect that Paul had ever seen. The larger cousin to the sort that crawls into your mouth while you sleep and then lays eggs in your brain. And it was coming towards him. Shimmying with a blind urgency that Paul found fascinating. It didn't use its limbs to crawl; it just slid on them like skis. Its skin was the color of cottage cheese and it was slick with canal water. The nose was an electrical socket positioned exactly between the eyes. It stopped to smell the air -- it would seem that Paul's dinner had attracted attention.

  Paul began to regret that he'd never gotten around to fixing the fence. The bug's head was already sliding through a large breach in the chain link. Paul wasn't comfortable with that. He looked for a weapon, just in case...then remembered the meat fork, hanging from the grill's handle.

  The insect wriggled across Teresa's wild-grown herb patch. In its wake the foliage curled and turned black. The bug's eyes were blind, white as its own skin, like two small balloons filled to bursting with milk. A tongue, purple, at least a foot long, emerged from the mouth to moisten herpe'd lips. Growths and pustules laced its skin, a whole skyline of tumors racing up and down its spine.

  As it got closer the insect managed to appear vaguely human, albeit melted, like a Jonas who'd eaten his way free from the whale's belly, to emerge half digested, the bile still sizzling away.

  And now Paul could feel the heat. Peals of it radiated from the creature, blasts of furnace air hotter even than the barbecue fuming at Paul's stomach. He discreetly moved to unhook the fork...and as quickly as it was in his grasp, it spun out of his fingers and fell, clanging on the cement.

  The creature immediately bolted sideways, a blur of mandibles and convulsions. It snuggled along the base of the nearby wall and then -- and this caused Paul's heartbeat to veer dangerously up-tempo -- then its mouth snapped open to tremendous size, a bear-trap filled with glass-edged needles, poking out of its gums like thorns -- rows of them (three? ten? a hundred?) descending down its throat. Paul realized that this creature could have just as quickly scrabbled up his legs and taken him by the jugular. The thought was frightening, yes. But also, it was exciting. He wanted to see more.

  Paul carefully bent down, never taking his eyes of the insect, and picked up the meat fork. The bug gurgled in warning, its mouth spreading impossibly wider, almost folding back on itself. Paul quickly impaled the steak and flung it at the creature's open face.

  He was rewarded with something truly wonderful. The insect expertly snatched the meat from the air and mowed it to slurry with waves of silver teeth. The steak was gone in seconds. The ulcerous tongue then reemerged to mop juice from the creatures face. New Paul was in awe. It's terrible, he thought. And yet he'd never seen anything quite so beautiful. To a man who had rejected everything, this was a revelation.

  The bug hissed, demanding more. It began to slither closer. Paul watched its conveyor belt of teeth and wondered what would happen when it reached him.

  Paul pointed the fork at the canal. "Go!" he shouted. His voice sent the bug into a panic. Louder this time: "GO!" It scrambled backward, and then through the fence, leaving a trail of shriveled and smoking vegetation. It paused once, to stare back at him with boiled eyes, and then it disappeared into the brush. Seconds later Paul heard it fall into the water.

  *

  Paul still lay on the floor. But he was smiling now, and feeling slightly better. Happy thoughts: that was the key. So he started again at the beginning. Him cooking at the barbecue. The sun nearing the horizon...

  He'd lay here for a while to recuperate. Until twilight, if he had to.

  But then, God willing, it would be feeding time.

  >> CHAPTER SEVEN <<

  Joe hurried along near empty sidewalks as the day's temperature began to gain momentum. Those with any sense were already safely indoors, huddling at the mouths of moaning air conditioners. But not Joe. He was out tempting the sun on the hottest day of the year. Chasing his memory, following it to the last place he had seen his wife alive.

  The buildings were getting uglier. The streets more bleak. He passed the roofless shell of a derelict work mill, sprouting conveyor belts that dropped off to nowhere at 40 feet. He was getting closer.

  There was a corner created by the canal where it made an almost 90 degree southerly turn in its search for the sea, where a large maze of old warehouses stood. Most were empty. Some were not. He eventually came to a building located at the exact crux where the river changed direction. It got as much exposure to the canal as a building could get, which was probably why it was the biggest turd on the block. Five stories of bricks stacked in mockery. The doorways had been walled over; the windows too, save for a few on the top floor. The building's entrance hovered four feet above the ground, the wall beneath showing white where cement steps had once been. A dangerous looking fire escape paced back and forth across the building's face.

  Emerging from the root of this building, like a useless toe, was a loading dock that fronted a small lot covered with pubic patches of weeds. It was fenced in by a gate wound shut with heavy chain, the lock frozen beneath a scab of rust. The canal was just out of sight, in its channel. Joe didn't need to look to know it was there; he was practically magnetized to the place, like a compass needle always homed in its direction.

  The building had looked just as destitute 20 years ago, back when Rose had climbed over the gate and disappeared from the world. People lived here, although you wouldn't know it. These same people were the only ones who could now explain why Rose had shown up at the canal.

  All those years ago, Joe hadn't tried to stop his wife. At least not convincingly. But that wasn't his fault, or hers -- it had been a raw deal all around.

  Luckily for Joe, the bottom of the building's gate was now crushed inward. He was hoping he could, sort of, roll in. The gate clawed at his coat as he wriggled under. There was a bit of embarrassment though at the loading dock, lots of grunting and animal noises, as he pulled his sagging body up onto the chest high ledge. Two large loading bays, long since cemented shut, flanked a central, gray door.

  The door opened without struggle. He carefully slipped through and emerged into a dim, half light. The heat was worse indoors, trapped, backed into a corner, unpredictable. The floor was scarred with soot and piles of rubble. There were some needles here. Broken glass. He smelled urine.

  "I don't know you, Charlie."

  A man's voice, deep, like it came from the knees. Off to Joe's left.

  "You're gonna come in here, all, uh, nonchalant? When you ain't even on the schedule?"

  Tonk.

  The sound came from Joe's own skull as something small detonated against the left side of his face. He didn't understand this until afterward, when he was already kneeling on the floor, one hand touching the welt on his head, the other grasping a powdery, squarish object -- a piece of brick. A body fell on top of him, jamming an elbow in his back.

  "Appointment only, motherfucker. This is a place of some serious business!"

  Joe's head was yanked back. He felt something cold and thin against his throat. A knife.

  "What now, gingerbread?"

>   Joe gasped: "Let...go..."

  "I'll cut you to the bone."

  But Joe's attacker was surprisingly weak, no stronger than a soft cheese. Joe easily pulled the knife away from his neck. He reached behind and gripped the terrain of the man's face. His pinkie slipped inside a mouth. The man tried biting him, but didn't have any teeth, the buttery gums gnawing and sucking. Joe worked his thumb into a divot, against something forgiving. Eye. He pushed hard.

  The man shrieked. Joe clumsily spun on his knees and grabbed the man by the waist. He got lucky, managed to throw the guy to the floor. Joe felt acutely embarrassed by how this must look, him painfully winded, huffing like an asthmatic donkey, his attacker, barely a man, more a rind.

  With his best effort, Joe aimed his fist at the man's face. He went wide, smacking his knuckles on the concrete floor instead. Joe cried out.

  The man shouted, "We ain't open to the public, motherfu--"

  Joe beaned him in the mouth, with his other hand.

  "You, you fucking hit me!"

  Joe panted: "I'm the police."

  "Ah ha ha, a police motherfuck--"

  Bean.

  Joe got a look at the man's face. Blood from his nose was mixed with sweat and beard. Heavy scars toured the ridges of his cheeks. He wore a wool cap, surprisingly white, miraculously clean, that was pulled low over his ears. The eye Joe had jabbed was already starting to swell. Pasty, gaunt, the guy was a fugitive in his own skin.

  "Oh please, Charlie," said the man. "I'm just an employee. Ah, please, I got a salary."

  "If I let you go..." Joe had to stop for a moment, for some air. "...You gonna come at me again?"

  "Have mercy on a minimum wage motherfucker!"

  Joe slammed his fist into the man's gut. His hand came to rest somewhere far in, against the spine. The man grimaced and curled into a ball. Joe stood over him, a little unstable, chest lunging, and slid his hand inside his pocket, resting it on Alan's gun.

  "Get up."

  "Piece of shit..." groaned the man. "If you got business here, cop, state your piece!"

  "You gonna cooperate?"

  "What the fuck!" The man tried to kick him. "My time is money, sir! So either make me an offer or take your business elsewhere!"

  "I want you tell me...I want you to tell me if you've ever seen anyone else around here. Some others. Other people. ...A woman."

  "Aw..." The man started laughing. "Aw shit, sir. Aw, I get it. I shoulda known. Charlie, all you had to do was call ahead."

  The man rolled onto his hands and knees, clutching his stomach. He got up slowly.

  "I want that knife," said Joe.

  "No, you want something else. You want upstairs. You want the executive privilege." The man wiped blood from his lips. When he smiled, all Joe could see was purple.

  "I shoulda known you," said the man as he limped into the gloom, dragging one foot behind him. Joe followed the trailing glow of the man's bouncing, white cap. In the darkness, Joe thought he could see the outline of a large door. As they got closer, it was actually a freight elevator. He helped the man push a metal drum out of the way.

  "Well, c'mon," grunted the man as he split open the mouth of the elevator door. "I'll put you on the schedule, special, seeing as you're a new account and all."

  Joe looked inside. It was a condemned latrine in there, a snuff film paradise. Damp as an armpit and the walls were hairy with dust.

  "This better not be a joke," said Joe.

  The man chuckled. "I look like I'm laughing?"

  "Yeah, actually. Like you think this whole thing is funny. Like I'm stupid enough to get in there."

  "Aw, c'mon Charlie..."

  "That's not my name, mister."

  "Oh. Oh sorry then. Motherfucker it is, then. Look -- all what happened between you and I, that was, uh, a miscommunication. There's rules, sir. There's business hours. But we're friends now, baby. You and I, we're both paying customers."

  "I'm not anything, you hear me. I just want answers. And you can start by telling me who the hell you are."

  "Well, every going concern needs a secretary. Someone's gotta answer calls, take appointments, welcome guests. My resume runs long, believe me."

  Joe figured...he didn't figure anything. Nothing for it. No point anymore. He took a step toward the shallow cave of the car. He wondered if this same man had been waiting for Rose all those years ago.

  The secretary moved in front, blocking him.

  "Tut-tut, gingerbread. This trip ain't free, see. We got maintenance and salary, expenses and fees, habits and thirsts. We got needs, motherfucker, NEEDS. You want to ride, you got to give. And don't go cheap on me, Charlie."

  Joe reluctantly dug into his pocket and withdrew a dollar bill. He threw in some cigarettes.

  "That's real good. Give it all, don't be mean!"

  Joe pushed his way inside the car, settling in a chow-smelling corner.

  "This better not be some shit," said Joe.

  "Oh, this is some shit, let me tell you..."

  The halves of the freight door rumbled shut, taking the remaining light with them. In the dark, Joe put his hand back on the gun. The elevator lurched alive with a startled screech, an oh-my-god whoop from the attending pulley works as the small closet began fizzling upward, a junkyard rocket gagging into the five-story atmosphere.

  "Can you hear it?" came the man's whisper. "Klank klank... Hear it in the walls?"

  Joe heard it. The rattling of the elevator. The klank klank. And strangely, it reminded Joe of being underwater, in the canal. It had been dark there too. He had been searching, grasping at floating nightmare shapes that were slick and cold. While the mud below kept sucking on his feet, tasting him...

  The elevator collided with, possibly, the roof. The door opened and in breathed a skeletal wind, a gust of expired air and dying mortar. And there was something else, overpowering -- the smell of canal water.

  "C'mon, lawman. Last stop."

  The entire floor was a single large room, crowded with a grid of pillars that flowered into crude arches. Joe followed the secretary and they passed a bank of windows that would have overlooked the canal, but they were covered with newspaper, the sunlight diffused to a whisky hue. One of the windows had been removed completely, the bricks at the edges chipped away and the opening of a large metal cylinder had been mounted in its place. Faint wisps of acrid vapor wafted from the opening, it emitted a steady, audible static. The secretary stopped here and smiled.

  "Fresh supplies," he said.

  As he watched, Joe realized that this opening was actually the start of a pipeline. It must have run the length of the entire building. It looked cobbled together from the industrial-sized air and exhaust ducts that branched through these old factories like veins. The secretary leaned almost entirely inside and, using a mechanical winch, brought up a rusted, leaking bucket. This pipeline, it ran straight into the river.

  The secretary carried the bucket toward the center of the room. They came into a camp of sorts. With campers. Residents. Spaced around an enormous, four-legged bathtub. Everyone was scattered about in a loose circle, as if tossed there by a bomb, snarled up in their own arms and legs. The dopes of the round table. They all looked like Rose, pale and wasted, prisoners of war.

  No real furniture, only punished mattresses, rat piles, milk crate settees, beer carton beds, a makeshift kitchen with a propane stove, stains of ill discharge everywhere. Retching was the soundtrack here, fever the culture. All eyes were closed, all concentration went inward, all brains danced on hot coals.

  The fact of it was, these people were sick. And what they, and Joe, and anyone else who came too close to that cursed canal had discovered, was that sickness contained an essential truth. That it was a form of self-awareness. Memory. It was the mind made to concentrate on the bodily condition. And the bodily condition is one of place and time, of space occupied, of an object. Pain, being an unedited experience -- an excruciating mode of moment to moment where seconds come together
jarringly, fitting roughly like poorly matched puzzle pieces -- serves to remind us of exactly how long the days really are, and most humbling of all, how the world is solid, lasting, and heavy, but yet we are soft, vulnerable, and finite. So sickness was remembering. Remembering that which we would rather not.

  And if sickness was memory, then health was forgetting. Health was a cushion between the bodily condition and the brain. A cushion that allowed the mind to play its games of abstraction and device, so that existence becomes selective, it becomes a construction, ideas as opposed to actualities. Life becomes a dream, the dream of personality. So to be healthy is to forget, or at the very least, to ignore. It was escape. And nobody here wanted that. Rose hadn't wanted that. They all wanted to remember. Either the past, or a past yet to be -- anything was possible.

  "Meetings in session," said the secretary. "Make your proposal."

  "There was somebody here..." croaked Joe, speaking in the general direction of the group. She was, her name... Rose, she--"

  "Yo, Charlie. Might I suggest, before you negotiate, that you assume the, uh, proper frame of mind..."

  Joe knew he meant the tub. The secretary poured the contents of the bucket inside. Buckets, everyone in the room had them. Kept either close at hand, or hunched over, held tightly like it were an inner, secret part of themselves. Because when it came to remembering, one sickness outdid them all.

  The tub was nearly full. A rumpled, oily crust had hardened on the water's surface, resembling the terrain of a monstrous and charred mole. The whole thing emitted a moist heat.

  "Jump on in, boy," urged the secretary. "Be all that you can be."

  "I'm not... That's not why I'm here," said Joe.

  The man snorted. "It was you who wanted top floor. And you paid the fee, so you get to see. What did you think was gonna happen? We all, uh, unionized in here."

  "Just give me what I'm looking for," said Joe. "Start, start with Rose."

  "Okay then, Charlie. But if you don't mind..." The secretary sat on the edge of the tub, daintily crossing his legs, suddenly straight from the society pages. He rolled up his sleeve and then plunged his fist through the water's crust, into the wet insides. A smile slowly formed on his shining face.