Factory Town

by Jon Bassoff

  I leaned forward. I’m sorry. What did you say?

  He blinked a few times and shook his head sadly. I said that it doesn’t matter. There isn’t a thing I can do…

  But there is, I said. There must be. Your promoter told me about the things you’ve done. Curing the blind, the lame…

  No. I’m through with all that. I’m through helping people.

  I stared into his eyes: empty, vacuous. I could feel the anger beginning to swell in my chest. This little girl, I said, is innocent. I know that there are a lot of terrible people in this town, in this world, but this girl is innocent. Are you just going to let her die?

  He shrugged his shoulders. I guess I will, he said. There’s nothing for me to do anymore. Just leave me be.

  So that’s it, huh? I said. That’s all I’m going to get out of you?

  Maybe if you come back another day…

  They were right. You are a fraud. You are a phony.

  He shook his head. Not a phony. I’m not pretending to be something I’m not. My promoter. He’s the one. He’s the phony.

  Please, please! You need to help me! This girl, Alana, she’s in great danger! And without her I can’t go on. I just can’t. And what about Charlie’s mother? She’s dying before our very eyes, withering into nothingness!

  But Miguel Romero, the Messiah, wasn’t listening to a thing I said. And soon he began to reminisce, talking about the good old days, tears rolling down his ink scarred cheeks. He said: Back in the good ol’ world, things were different. They came from near and far to witness my magic. And magic I performed. A boy suffered from polio. Both of his legs were withered. I placed my hands on his legs. I prayed to the father in heaven. And instantly he was healed. The polio, gone forever. An elderly woman, blind since birth, her eyes rolled back into her head. Imagine, imagine! Never having seen a sunrise. Never having seen the wheat fields sway in the breeze. Never having seen a loved one’s smile. Never having seen the stars or the moon or the sky. And I gave her vision. And it was my face that she saw first. But it was too much for her. She wanted me to make her blind again…

  But these miracles were only done to make people believe. To show them that I was the one. And I asked them to leave behind their lives of sin. To live holy lives. To leave behind worldly possessions and follow me. Nobody listened. Not a single person. They left me alone to rot in this cage. Just another freak show. It’s this town, you see. It’s the Cowboy. It’s hopeless, all hopeless.

  And now my anger was building, ready to spill over. No! I shouted. This is no time to give up! This is no time to abandon the world!

  But he only shook his head and stared at me with contempt. He said: Listen, mister, whoever you are. It might be easy for someone like you who hasn’t seen the full sickness of humanity to say, Don’t give up. But when you have seen millions of human beings living like swine, living in depravity, the result of manifest poverty, while the royalty of our society sip Armand de Brignac champagne and smoke Hoyo de Monterrey cigars; when you have seen children living in maggot-infested apartment buildings while their mother is out whoring her body to the highest bidder; when you’ve seen a black man tied up to the back of a truck and dragged through town until his skin is peeled off his chest and face, his right arm ripped right from his body; when you’ve seen a woman raped by sixteen men, each of them taking turns bashing her face in and tearing apart her pussy; when you’ve seen a man poisoned with Tetrachlorodibenzodioxin, his face disfigured (jaundiced, pockmarked, and bloated); when you’ve seen a mayor molest hundred of pre-pubescent boys, threaten to kill them if they come forward; when you’ve seen a trusted confidant and friend rape your sister and castrate your brother; when you’ve seen a young girl, no more than eight years old, performing humiliating and degrading sexual acts on a balding investment banker; when you’ve seen pedophiliac clergymen debase and sodomize a thousand children; when you’ve seen a woman murder each of her five children by drowning them in the bathtub one by one, ignoring their pleas for mercy; when you’ve seen another mother dump her newborn baby in the landfill and then meet her friends for a night of dancing; when you’ve seen a pair of men stalking the Virginia-Maryland beltway for 47 days, randomly firing at motorists, killing 16 at least; when you’ve seen a young man and his girlfriend promising to give a homeless man lodging for the evening and then, once back at their suburban house, gouge out his eyes, stab him in the stomach, and poke into his exposed brain with a screwdriver, laughing and joking all the while; when you’ve seen a baby boy discovered beneath a bridge inside of a bassinet’s box, his arms folded across the stomach, his fingernails trimmed neatly, his heart and liver and lungs removed—then you will understand, dear sir, why all is hopeless.

  I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. So I attacked him. Yes, I dove headfirst into the so-called Messiah and let loose with a torrent of blows to the body, to the face, a lifetime worth of anger and impotence and frustration manifesting itself into a single moment. At first he tried holding me off, but after a while, he stopped fighting, went limp, turned the other cheek. By the time I was done with him, his face was nothing more than a pulpy mess, and he lay on the ground, asking why had his father forsaken him.

  I rose to my feet, wiped off his blood on my pants. I’ll do it alone, I said, and walked toward the front of the cage.

  Hunter Timilli, the promoter, was waiting for me, yanking off the curtain and unlocking the door. And how was it? he asked. Were you satisfied with my product?

  I gave him a shove and he tripped over his feet, tumbling backwards. Now just wait one second, mister! he shouted, but I was already gone, walking back through the carnival, head blasted to pieces. As I walked, I could hear him cry out: Mon Dieu! What have you done to him? What have you done to my savior?

  * * *

  On the carnival grounds, pandemonium was ensuing. The freaks had escaped from their cages and were rebelling against their masters. It was a riot, the likes of which hadn’t been seen for some time, if ever.

  The dwarfs and the ogres, the deformed and the disabled, the insane and the imbecilic, were running or staggering or limping around the carnival, tearing down signs and crapping on the walls and banging their heads on the pavement and stabbing customers with sivs, and screaming and crying and shrieking.

  Throats were cut and blood was spilled, and I pushed my way through the crowd, stepping over bodies, negotiating with sideshow freaks. How’d you like a kiss? said a woman with a two-foot beard.

  What’ll you do after I eat your liver, eat your brain? said a man with wings and a bird’s beak.

  Nyaaaaa! Nyaaaaa! said another man with clubbed feet and a missing eye and baby arms.

  Great God has risen! I shouted and it was nighttime again, but the moon and the stars were missing as usual. Faces in the crowd were panicked; it was a terrible way to die, slaughtered by strangers and freaks, and people act like cowards when their lives are threatened, falling down on their knees and begging for mercy, using the meek as human shields, ratting out others.

  Hours passed, and I made it through the riot, a little worse for wear, clothes torn and tattered, temple bleeding again, a concussion a near certainty.

  And then something caught my eye. A woman, wearing a long flower dress, a dendrobium orchid in her ebony hair, a strand of costume pearls strangling her neck. She walked slowly past the abandoned Ferris wheel, as if in a dream. Somewhere a coyote was wounded, barking through the blood. And she kept walking, through the cold and mist, and the crows circled overhead. And it occurred to me that I knew who she was. Yes, it occurred to me that she was my long lost love.

  CHAPTER 11

  I followed her. She was alone and she was anxious. She walked hurriedly, pausing every so often to glance over her shoulder. And each time I would hold my breath, vanish into the shadows. Is somebody there? she said in a voice barely louder than a whisper. Nothing but stillness. She continued walking.

  What terror! Never before had the sky been so
dark; never before had the world been so lonely. A beer can tumbled down the street. Off in the distance, shrieks of laughter. The woman shivered, pulled her jacket tighter. A couple staggered down the middle of the street, both very drunk, he singing “Auld Lang Syne,” nearly knocking my love down. The man turned back around, said, Sorry lady. You got something to drink? Some hashish perhaps? Then he laughed and laughed.

  She continued walking and my exhaustion and hunger were becoming real liabilities. I felt lightheaded and was having trouble focusing. She walked along broken sidewalks and through darkened alleyways and across a rickety old bridge. And on the bridge she stopped and stared down at the water crashing below, and then she hung her head and began to cry, and it was heartbreaking and beautiful, and I wanted so badly to comfort her, to pull her close and kiss away the tears, but I couldn’t, not yet.

  This was the way of the world, and eventually she continued walking, and I knew that her heart was ruptured beyond repair, arteries and ventricles gushing blood. Before too long we were back in the town center, standing outside the same filthy hotel that the whore had dragged me to. And how long ago that seemed!

  Outside the hotel there were now a dozen or more tents, and a group of ragged-looking gypsies gathered around a makeshift bonfire, rubbing their hands in front of the fire. A large woman, 300 pounds at least, was nursing a man, her husband perhaps. A man wearing a stocking hat and nothing else was playing an oboe, haunting music. A sickly soothsayer was throwing down tarot cards, dooming everybody to damnation. The woman from my past dodged all of the people, all of the commotion, and made her way into the building. I waited a couple minutes and then tried to follow.

  Before I could enter, however, I felt a sturdy hand on my shoulder, and then a baritone voice saying: Factory Town still treating you fairly, Mr. Carver?

  I looked up and saw the square-jawed, Fu-Manchu wearing sheriff from the card game. He tipped his hat and gave me a big shit-eating grin. Good evening, Sheriff, I said. I can’t talk right now. Something very important has come up.

  Yes, yes. I’m sure it has. So tell me. Any luck in finding that girl? What was her name? Allison?

  Alana. No, I haven’t found her. But I think I’ve found somebody who might know where she is. That’s why I need to go. She just went into the hotel…

  Yes, mister, I’ve got my men hard at work, hitting the pavement, asking questions, searching for clues. Magnifying glasses out, pipes lit, you understand what I’m saying?

  Yes, but really Sheriff—

  You see, here in Factory Town, we take care of our own. A little girl missing— that won’t do. I’ve got all my men on the case. Every one of my resources. You think somebody took her, do you?

  I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out. That’s why I’d like to—

  I tell you something, we’ve got our share of suspects here in Factory Town, don’t you think? I mean, gawddaggit, every person here is capable of evil, real evil. Some of the things I’ve seen I wouldn’t want anybody else to see.

  And what have you done to stop it?

  At this the sheriff laughed a big hearty laugh. I don’t suppose I’ve done too much. Sometimes you gotta let the forest burn…

  Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming revulsion for this man and for this town.

  I need to go, I said and tried moving past the burly lawman.

  I don’t think that would be a good idea.

  The hell are you talking about?

  Christ, Carver, have you seen your temple? It looks pretty gruesome. That bandage is falling off, and I suspect you’ll become delusional within hours…

  No, just leave me alone. My head is fine. I need to talk to this woman.

  I can’t let you do that. You’re too sick. I’m gonna take you to the doctor. That’s the prudent thing to do, don’t you think?

  No, I—

  But before I could say anything else, two deputies smelling of cheap bourbon and whore perfume came up behind me and grabbed my arms. I shouted out to the gypsies and the rest of the freaks outside the hotel for help, but they just sighed and shook their heads.

  Take ’em to Dr. Byrd, the sheriff said. Get that wound taken care of.

  So that’s the way it was. They dragged me through the streets, stopping every so often to punch me in the solar plexus or elbow me in the jaw. And along the way, groups of people lined up like a parade, with their American flags and noisemakers and wind-chapped faces. They all smiled and waved, and the pretty ladies whispered behind their hands.

  Eventually, we came to an old brown brick building, three stories, with rusted catwalks and crooked antennas and boarded-up windows. Much of the outside walls were covered with strange graffiti art including a Stalin-like portrait of a man in full cowboy gear, his face fully shadowed by his hat. The Cowboy.

  I was taken inside to what must have once been a hospital. Now the place was in disrepair, dead leaves and broken glass and dead birds covering the filthy linoleum floor. The walls were white-tiled, smeared with grime and blood. A wheelchair was in the middle of the hallway, lying on its side as if it had been shot dead by a sniper.

  The waiting room is just down the hallway, one of the deputies said, his speech slurred from too many on-duty whiskies.

  We walked through a heavy wooden door hanging off its hinges, and entered the waiting room. Here the linoleum floor had been pulled out completely, leaving only gray cement. There was a large metal desk and a metal chair, empty. Behind the desk, an oversized filing cabinet left ajar, patients’ records spilling onto the floor. And other relics scattered: a child’s doll, its eyeless head dangling from its body; a toy truck, the wood badly rotted; several magazines from decades earlier. And sitting on the floor, leaning against the cold concrete wall, a dozen or more women, sobbing, fondling rosaries, praying, mumbling, cutting skin. From outside the room, in the corridor, echoed the screams of the maimed.

  The deputies told me to sit and I did so, in the corner away from the row of despairing women. I picked up one of the files that was lying on the floor and opened it up. On the top a date: July 11th, 1916. And the patient’s name: Pete Beverly. Entered Jan’y 29/10. Diagnosis on day of admittance: Homicidal Mania. Has never attempted to kill anyone here. Is kept in a separate cell at night. Speaks of two men whom he is said to have killed in the parish prison. Considers his deed as the most natural, and finest ever performed by any one. Is unable to keep up a conversation for five minutes. Jumps from one subject to another. Is to all appearances quiet and inoffensive. Always night and day, has a nail, bent in a special manner, in his mouth. In killing these men, he undoubtedly did so through an irresistible instinctive impulse. He is of a jovial, kind, well-disposed, serviceable and amiable disposition…

  I dropped the file on the ground, gazed up at the women. Many of them appeared to be pregnant, rubbing the protrusions in their bellies. There are no children in this town.

  Meanwhile, one of the deputies struck up a conversation with one of the women, a very attractive brunette, no bump yet but still caressing her stomach. So ya got knocked up again, did you? he said, a snarl on his face.

  She didn’t answer, just nodded her head slowly.

  Who fucked you this time?

  Still no answer.

  Who was it? Mike Pelfry? Gordan Thomas? Anthony Rider? Goddamn whore. And he slapped her on the face.

  All of the other women remained against the wall, staring straight ahead, expressionless.

  I tried rising to my feet, tried coming to her aid, but the other deputy shoved me against the wall, pulled out his .44 Special and pointed it at my forehead.

  The hell are you doing? I said. You’re a deputy! You’re supposed to be protecting!

  He grinned, revealing a mouthful of rotting teeth. Then, without warning, he slapped the barrel of the gun hard against my nose. Immediately blood gushed out, spilling into my mouth and onto my clothes. I was dazed and confused, disheartened and unable.

  Meanwhile, the first deputy,
the drunkard with the red hair and the dead eyes, moved on to the next girl and the one after that, berating and slapping, taunting and kicking. There was nothing I could do. Except…

  The deputy holding the pistol got distracted with the show his partner was putting on. He turned and watched, grinning the grin of a sociopath. I wasted no time. In a single movement, I rose to my feet and grabbed for his arm, twisting it back until the gun clattered to the floor. I kicked the gun away and started in on the deputy. Unarmed he wasn’t so tough. Just as I had done with the Messiah, I pounded and pounded until I felt my fist between his skin and bone. He was pleading for me to stop and his partner was just chuckling: spilled blood was good for a laugh or two, anyway. Meanwhile the women remained quiet and still, taking it all in, the violence, the meanness.

  And I might have gone on and on, I might have kept after him until he was nothing but a worthless corpse, but then a man appeared in the doorway, and it was the doctor from the party, and he clapped his hands two times, and for some reason I stopped, hid my bloody hands beneath my shirt. Such a commotion, he said in a thin voice. Ah, well, such is the way of the world. Mr. Carver, I presume? I’ll see you presently. Yes, yes, such is the way of the world.

  CHAPTER 12

  Dr. Byrd walked with a limp and breathed heavily as we made our way down the long corridor toward his office. He wore heavy platform shoes that echoed loudly in the hallway. There were no patients here, no nurses, no secretaries. I must apologize, he said, for the subpar conditions of my office building. Sanitation is certainly a concern. You see, I am terribly overworked and have little to no assistance. I had a custodian, nice fellow, Mexican, but he ended his life in the last puputan.