by Eric Beetner
The blue Moss Incinerator had been upgraded and computerized some few years back, so that now much of those environmental and regulatory standards were kept within limits by the computer. Fluid levels, air injection, HHV’s, airborne particulate. All of it was automated. But Mr. Landay had had the higher ups thinking that he alone was qualified to keep the fire breathing dragon in line. Job security. He called himself a specialist in the field of biomedical waste management, but in reality he was nothing more than a bumpkin with a pitch fork and burning barrel.
It had crossed his mind that if he ever got into a situation in which things got out of control—for whatever reason—then he would have an out. He would have a way to destroy the evidence. It was funny. Even though Mr. Landay understood that he was a diseased human being, he was still essentially human, and most people’s initial reactions were just like his when viewing the incinerator for the first time. They had the same thought that he’d had when he’d first seen it. Invariably they asked Mr. Landay if he thought the big blue steel Moss Incinerator could be used to destroy the evidence of a murder. And Mr. Landay always told them what old Mr. Kennestone had told him in his shaky old-man voice when he trained Mr. Landay on the pre-upgraded machine many years ago: It would cook you. Cook you down to bones.
Mr. Landay did not think it would ever come to that. Hoped not. He was not that kind of man.
Although there had been opportunities over the years, chances for quick and unseemly grope sessions, or even long cons to build parasitic relationships with ill or injured children and their parents (single mothers were prime opportunities, single mothers of sick children were begging for exploitation), Mr. Landay had not sought to indulge his peculiar proclivities via his position at the hospital. Don’t shit where you eat. Don’t get high on your own supply. Et cetera and so forth.
Play it safe. That was his motto. His parents were still alive. And the thought of his mother or father becoming aware that their son was a monster, well, that was just too much. Play it safe. And that’s what he had done. Until just recently.
He had seen an opportunity. A glorious opportunity.
Since there were times when orderlies and aides and the like in various departments throughout the hospital were tasked with gathering the red bag biohazard materials from their respective departments and delivering the infectious waste items to Mr. Landay for incineration, he was brought into contact with a wide range of low-level employees.
There was one young woman in particular, a little retarded girl who worked in the Children’s Cancer and Blood Disorder Clinic. A sweet thing. Retarded. A little short plump roly-poly of a thing. Amy. Her mind was as simple and clear as the sky over a Nebraska cornfield. Mr. L was drawn to her. To her innocence. To her childlike nature.
A friendship blossomed between them. She often came downstairs and ate lunch with Mr. L, scribbling in her diary while the two of them ate near the cardboard baler, their table a compressed cube of empty boxes. She just scribbled away in her hot pink Hello Kitty Dream Diary. That’s what she did. “I a writer,” is what she told him. Cute.
And he could tell she was sort of dressing up for him. Bright pink eyeshadow with sparkles in it. Pink sparkly polish on her nails. Stardust. That’s what she called it. Pink stardust. Poor thing. Looked garish. Clown-like. Stardust indeed. Billion-year-old carbon.
And it would have been a simple thing to capitalize on that friendship. To gain and then betray her trust. To convince her to do things for him in the name of their friendship. She would do anything to avoid offending him. To avoid hurting her friend’s feelings. Oh, the things he could make her do by manipulating her emotions. It would have been so easy. But, in the end, although she was innocent and like a child in so many ways, she simply was not a child. Physically, she was an adult woman. She did not smell like a child. She did not have a child’s body. A child’s mind, yes, but Mr. Landay required the whole package. He was not one to settle.
And so Mr. Landay was unable to perceive how his position at the hospital could help in that particular area of his life. Until last month. Something had happened when staffing was tight, and Mr. Landay was required to go up into the hospital and retrieve the red bag materials from the various floors.
He had been pushing his stainless steel cart through the Children’s Cancer Clinic, gathering red bags like a migrant field worker, plucking up a bumper crop of sharps boxes. He stopped and chatted with Amy. And he lingered. He lingered because the entire floor smelled of children. It was an olfactory overload. He could happily live his life out in such an environment.
And as he lingered and chatted and savored, Mr. Landay noticed something. Something caught his eye. He’d seen this thing many times before, but the ramifications of it had never struck fully home. Until now.
Mr. Landay noticed that inside this fortress of a hospital with its privacy and security measures firmly in place, inside a children’s ward in which a single adult male would be eyed with suspicion, would be asked countless times, May I help you, sir? Within all of this, there was a certain group of individuals who had free rein. There was a class of people on this floor who could come and go as they pleased, unchallenged. A type of person who had complete access to every child in the clinic—no ID or employee badge required. They were allowed to approach children and interact with them and build relationships and gain their trust. To forge alliances with children who were sick and completely dependent up adult intervention and guidance.
There was a way that Mr. Landay could walk onto this floor in complete and utter anonymity and never be questioned as to the nature of his presence here. And if by chance he ever was challenged, asked to provide ID, he could say that he left it in his street clothes, go out to retrieve it, and never come back.
It took him a month of carefully examining his plan from every possible angle before he actually accepted that it was as foolproof as he believed it to be. This was the opportunity of a lifetime, the stars had truly aligned, and Mr. Landay was damned if he was going to let it pass him by.
Once he was sure, he went out and purchased the necessary supplies. And he placed “emergency kits” in various hidey holes throughout the hospital. Just in case. Always have a plan B.
And if anyone ever did become suspicious, if there ever was any danger of detection, why he had an eye on the inside, didn’t he? He had Amy. She wouldn’t let him down.
Two
I a writer. Down sindome. I a writer. I a retarded. I work here. I Amy. I work here hospital little kids. I a retarded. I used work to the workshop with other retardeds. Put together piece metal make things. Miss Brooks-Lane she get me job hospital. I love the little kids. I love babies. I love Miss Brooks-Lane. Thank you Miss Brooks-Lane.
I love the babies the little children. They sick. My god they sick. The little children. They have the cancer. I a retarded. The little children they love me. They have the cancer. In they blood. In they brain. In they bones. Lukeemia. The little kids be bald no hair. I work here. I help them. They say I help them. They love me. I get paid. Paycheck. Twice week month. Mr. Crandell my supervisor. He nice. Funny. Make Amy laugh. He bald too no hair like children. But no cancer. He say his hair fall out. He say his hair saw his face got scared run away. He funny. I love Mr. Crandell too. He married man name Kip. Funny.
I get paid. Paycheck. No more workshop. I get paid. Sometime I hold the hand little children when they put the needle. Little children no like needle. Amy no like needle. Amy be brave little children. It hurt. It hurt bad. The little children cry. The Mommy Daddy cry too. They all cry. I hold they hand too. They feel better. I get paycheck. Paid. Twice week month. I have bank account. Checkcard. Visa.
Sometime no stop baby mommy daddy cry. I no stop. I take picture my phone. Everybody smile picture. That my secret. Everybody smile picture. Get it? Mr. Crandell say delete HIPAA. Privacy. No picture break rule privacy HIPAA. I say okay delete. But it work. Stop little children crying mommy daddy too. Smile.
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Mr. Crandell funny. Ha ha. Jokes. I love him. Bald.
The cancer everywhere. Little children. My god they sick. I sad. Cry at night alone sometime I think about it. No cry at work. I strong. Get paid.
The clown come to the cancer clinic. Lots of clown. Boy clown. Girl clown. Sometime I no tell boy or girl clown. Just clown. I no like the clown. Why clown? Sometime little children cry see clown. Scared clown. Why clown for cancer? No understand.
One clown come in. Bad clown. Man clown. No see his face. You no see his face. He be anybody. Nobody ask see his badge. Nobody ask see his picture card who he is. Nobody ask see band on wrist. No band. He could be anybody. Why nobody ask who that clown? I ask. Who that clown? Who that clown? I no like that clown.
The mommy and daddy and little baby go in tranfoosion room. Where they stick the needle good medicine that kill the cancer make hair fall out. Hurt make baby sick but kill the cancer. The mommy daddy they worried about they little baby no see they little child daughter go off. She go walk around. No want to see needle. They have video game all over place. Ms. Pac-man. Galaga. Free. No quarter. It free. And anybody can play for free and sometime I play Ms. Pac-man for free and Mr. Crandell say we no pay Amy to play video game. He say get back to work. But it okay for Amy to play video game with the little children. That why I here. Make friend. Make feel good. Make no think about cancer.
Sometime too I empty trash and take BIOHAZARD downstair Mr. Landay burn it up. Safe. He my friend too. He no funny but talk Amy make feel good. Important. He no treat retarded. And too I put toilet paper bathroom. Sometime rubber glove give nurse pee-pee cup left in bathroom. Rubber glove. Latex. But I hold people hand picture take make feel better. Smile. That my job. I get paid. Help people. Check. My name.
The little girl daughter she walk around. The mommy daddy worry about baby boy needle in his arm bag of likwid medicine take long time put all that medicine in little arm. Sad. I sad for them.
Daughter she play Ms. Pac-man like me. I play with her little bit. That okay. I be friend to her. I make people feel good welcome Mr. Crandell say okay.
Bad clown he watch us.
I have the down sindome. I say that already. Eyes slant look in mirror. Chinese. I a retarded. I know.
Mr. Crandell say go downstair get more special wipe they use to clean. BIOHAZARD. Mr. Crandell say get more. I get more.
Bad clown watch me get on elevator. He watch the daughter girl. Her mommy daddy no watch her. They no watch her. I no watch her. Elevator. She alone.
I come back. Special wipes. ANTIMICROBIAL. The clown he gone. The daughter girl she gone. Then Amy see daughter girl. She cry. She sad tears. The mommy daddy they think tears baby cancer. No baby cancer. No. Daughter girl cry clown. Daughter girl cry clown.
Bad clown gone.
Bad clown back. Another day. Bad clown back. He bad.
Nobody see clown. Notice. They think normal. I no think normal. I think bad. Amy notice. Amy see.
Boy with cancer. Brain. Bald head stitches. Boy head stitches like baseball. Clown friend boy. Galaga. No boy. Clown no friend.
I tell Mr. Crandell bad clown. I say Mr. Crandell that clown bad no good. Mr. Crandell think I scared clowns. I no scared clowns. He bad clown. I tell. I tell him. Mr. Crandell no understand retarded words. Amy not talk good. Some people scared clowns he say. It okay he say.
It not okay.
I spy clown. Amy watch. Follow.
He in bathroom with boy. Little metal door in bathroom wall. I know. Sometime Amy get pee pee cup for nurse. Rubber glove. Universe precaution. Use metal door. They leave pee pee cup in wall.
I go other side of metal door. Nurse area. I open little metal door. No pee pee cup. I no supposed open both door see inside bathroom. Wrong. Privacy. HIPAA.
I open both door. See inside. No see anything. I put my phone camera through. Stick arm through. All the way. Amy take picture.
I do wrong. Amy do bad wrong. Privacy. HIPAA. They told me privacy. Respect. I look at picture. Bad picture. Bad wrong. Nasty.
What do? What do? I break rule. No want get fire. Miss Brooks-Lane disappoint in me. She get me job. No want get fire. Amy love my job. Paycheck. Help people. I a writer.
Clown see me look at picture. I look at him. He look at me. He know. I know.
He try talk me. Say see pretty picture. He say he help little children feel good. Like me. He no like me. He say what your name. Amy. He say you pretty Amy. You want go get candy. He talk like I a retarded.
I scared. I think Mr. Landay.
Three
This was very, very, very bad. Likely the worse ever. Mr. Landay had been caught. Red handed. Caught by his friend, Amy. In flagrante delicto. Photographic evidence. In blazing offence. The retarded girl need only push the wrong button and that photograph would be bouncing around in outer space, circling the globe ten times over before Mr. Landay could draw even a single breath. Very bad indeed. Mr. Landay had never been in such a predicament.
Of course he recognized Amy’s sparkly nail polish (stardust) as soon as the hand holding the phone had emerged cobra-like through the sample pass-through door. The dual-access biological safety cabinet. The chart room, he knew, was on the other side. The pink iPhone with its sparkly skin. There was even time to see the phone display the captured image on its four-inch widescreen high resolution retina display. It was strikingly clear. A little off center. A bit tilted. But the focus was spot on, the clarity alarming. It was bad, very bad indeed.
He left the boy behind. No need to smooth the edges. No need to speak to him one last time of that special bond they shared. The need for secrecy. Of how his parents were already under unbearable strain worrying about the boy’s cancer, et cetera, et cetera, so forth and so on. No, no need for any of that refinery. The jig was up. What he needed was to get the hell out of here before sweet precious Amy started showing that photograph to anyone who was willing to indulge the demands of a little retarded woman.
The immediate task at hand was to get off this floor before he was stopped and questioned. He would never be back here again. This was a dead socket to him now. A black hole. The immediate task at hand was damage control. First get off the floor. And it might be that was all he needed. For, really, what did Amy have? She had a photograph of a boy and a clown. Engaged in inappropriate behavior. A clown and a boy. It had nothing to do with Mr. L. He still had his anonymity. He was pretty sure. It all depended on Amy.
He was an unidentified man in oversize floppy shoes, an orange shock wig, red bulbous nose, Liza Minnelli eyebrows, and heavy white greasepaint. Unrecognizable. Untraceable. Unless. Unless Amy had somehow recognized him. As he had recognized her sparkly fingernails. Unless there was a tell of some kind. But he didn’t think there was. He was a careful man.
She was retarded, but she was perceptive in her way. He had to know. Before he got off this floor, he had to know if she recognized him. And it wouldn’t be a bad idea to destroy that phone.
Mr. Landay walked past nurses and aides and phlebotomists and oncologists and hematologists and he took the time to toot his little plastic horn at some of the children. And even in his current state, he was aware of the fragrance they were giving off. Then he saw her. Ahead, in the elevator vestibule. Amy. Looking at that damn phone. She looked up at him. He looked at her. There was fear in her puffy, slanted eyes. Anger too, it looked like. And maybe recognition. Was that recognition? Did she recognize him? He had to know.
Mr. Landay knelt down beside Amy and asked if he could see the pretty picture. She shook her head in defiance. And Mr. Landay had a sense that this girl could be capable of violence. Amy. Violence. Not possible, he once would have thought.
“What’s your name, pretty girl?” Mr. Landay asked. Soothing.
“Amy.” It was a bark. A bark from a dog warning off a bigger predator.
“There’s a candy machine downstairs. Can I buy you a candy bar? I was only trying to help the sick boy. Like yo
u do.”
The control panel dinged and Mr. Landay and Amy both looked up to see the elevator doors whoosh open. Then, without realizing what had happened, Mr. Landay was flat on his back, sprawled across the floor. Amy had pushed him. Hard. She had, as they used to say back in school, knocked him on his ass.
He tilted his head to watch her walk into the elevator. Her Hello Kitty Dream Diary and pink-skinned iPhone clutched to her bosom. And those mongoloid eyes of hers were heavy lidded with defiance.
The doors closed and Mr. Landay picked himself up. There were people around, but no one seemed overly concerned with a fallen clown. He watched the lighted display cycle through the floor numbers as the elevator descended. Cycling lower and lower. But it did not stop at the first floor where Hospital administration was housed and Amy could have found any number of interested parties with whom to share her multi-media presentation. Nor did it stop at M where security officers and other Personnel milled about and the cafeteria drew all manner of people. And on past L it went, where once again the good people of the world would be anxious to hear her tale. The elevator ultimately stopped at the very last destination available. LL.
Lower Level. Landay Land.
And it finally dawned on him. As though God had intervened on Mr. Landay’s behalf. God loved all his children equally. Mr. L understood that now. A smile perched on his blood red lips. Not only did she not recognize him in the clown makeup, but Amy was actually going to the Lower Level to seek comfort and solace from her good friend, Mr. Landay.
