by Eric Beetner
He punched the wall button with his white-gloved finger to call the elevator up. He had to hurry. He wasn’t even sure where the stairs were. He wasn’t a young man anymore, in any case. A little Mexican girl and her family wandered up and waited for the elevator with him. Probably going downstairs for a bite to eat. The little girl was pushing a rolling IV stand. Her chemotherapy. The elevator arrived, but he didn’t want them witnessing his destination. As he pushed the girl out of his way, the IV tubing popped free from the venous catheter in her arm, spraying little droplets of poison. She started crying.
Mr. L’s eyes twinkled with genuine delight under his arc de triumph eyebrows as the elevator descended. He got off on seven, where he had stashed a bag of necessities in the acoustic tiled ceiling of a seldom-used bathroom just outside Bariatrics.
He was already feeling better. The situation could be contained. He thought of the swirling stars, the universe expanding, and he knew that in very real sense the outcome had already been decided. Poor Amy. This had already happened and would happen again. Faulkner was right. The past isn’t dead. It’s not even past. Van Gogh knew it too. And so did Mr. Landay.
Poor Amy. Maybe she knew it too.
Four
I think Mr. Landay. He help Amy.
It cold down here. Amy scared. Nervous.
Mr. Landay help me. He my friend. Mr. Landay listen Amy. Where Mr. Landay? He no here. I sit. I write. I look picture on phone. Bad picture. I put it Facebook? No. Nasty. I wait Mr. Landay. He help Amy.
I get lonely. Scared. Where Mr. Landay? Me leave. Show Mr. Crandell. Mr. Crandell mad about HIPAA. Patient privacy. No picture. I tell. I better not show Mr. Crandell nasty. I write. I wait. Long time. Need help.
Somebody come. I hear. I see. Mr. Landay. Everything be ok. Amy feel better.
“Amy! How you doing, sunshine?”
Mr. Landay call me sunshine. I like. “Mr. Landay, I got trouble. Big trouble.”
Mr. Landay understand retarded words. Some people no understand Amy.
“Big trouble? Oh no! Maybe I can help. I bet I can. You just sit right here at my desk.”
Mr. Landay desk piece wood two block. He funny sometime. Sometime no. He burn trash. BIOHAZARD. I give Mr. Landay phone. He look see.
“Bad clown touch boy.”
“Bad clown, indeed. Although I don’t think he’s actually touching him. No, it looks to me more like he just wants to be close. Yes, I think that’s all it is. He just wants—now, Amy, did you get permission to take this photograph?”
“No sir, no permission. Bad clown hurt boy.”
“No, no, I really don’t think he’s hurting the boy. Are you sure the clown wasn’t just a doctor dressed up like that?”
“Doctor?”
“Yes, they do that sometimes. Dress up like clowns. I thought you knew. Did you show this to anyone?”
Mr. Landay hand me back phone. “No. I no show.”
“Not even Mr. Crandell?”
“No. He get mad. HIPAA.”
“There’s something wrong with his hip? He hurt himself? I hope he and that, uhm, Kip fellow, didn’t overdo it.”
“No. Not hip. Hip-ah. Private. HIPAA.”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes. Health Information Privacy something something. I’d forgotten about that. I’m afraid this photograph is a clear violation of HIPAA policy. A clear violation. I hate to say this, Amy, but you could lose your job.”
“Love job. Paycheck. Help people. Love job.”
“I know dear, but if anybody ever found out you took this photograph, it would mean automatic termination. You just can’t take pictures of people using the bathroom.”
“Termnation?”
“Dismissal—you’d be fired. No job.”
Amy grab Mr. Landay. Hold him. I cry. I cry. Can’t help. I cry. Say, “Please no tell, Mr. Landay. Please no tell. I do anything. No tell. Amy do anything.”
Mr. Landay push Amy back. Look in Amy eye. He say Amy I no tell. He say Amy I no tell but we break phone camera be sure.
“You see the wisdom, don’t you? If we destroy the phone, no one will ever know.”
Delete, I say. Delete. Easy. Show how.
“No, I’m afraid that’s just not good enough. These things hold onto information. You just can’t trust them. Believe me, I know, Amy.”
Mr. Landay walk across room. He push button on big metal fire maker. Loud buzz. It whoosh. Rumble. Fire.
“I’m afraid we have to burn it, Amy. It’s the only way to be sure.”
“No want to.”
“You want to keep your job?”
“Yes. Job keep.”
“You want Mr. Crandell to call the HIPAA authorities?”
“No.”
“Because if he does, and they confiscate your phone and find that photograph, you could end up behind bars.”
“Bars? Amy?”
“What I’m saying is Amy go jail.”
Burn phone I say and give phone. No want phone. Want everything be okay again. Be over. Bad day. Bad clown. Over.
Mr. Landay throw phone in fire. Metal door bang shut it scare Amy.
“That’s it, Amy. It’s all over. Like it never happened. Everything normal. Never speak of this again. If you pretend that it never happened, then it never did. Okay?”
Okay okay okay I say okay grab hold Mr. Landay love him happy he help Amy no trouble gone. Give big hug. I squeeze. He no like touch. It okay. I give big hug. I see white paint behind Mr. Landay ear. I touch. I show white finger Mr. Landay. Oh my he say. He say oh my.
I say white like clown. Bad clown. Mr. Landay?
Oh Amy Mr. Landay say. He sad. I see he sad. I no wish you do that he say. I say sorry white paint like clown face.
Then I no breath. Amy no breath. Mr. Landay he choke Amy. Hands hurt. No breath. Hurt. Why? I no understand. Amy a retarded. Why? He squeeze. Amy no breath. Face hot. Tired. Sleepy. No breath. I look. I see Mr. Landay eyes. They dark. Amy sleepy. Eyes like night. So dark. I get lost. Mr. Landay eyes. Dark. Swallow Amy up. Amy lost in the dark. See specks light. Dots light in the dark. They stars. Amy see the stars. They swurl turn. The stars. My god the stars.
Five
Mr. Landay was crying. It was just so unutterably sad. Poor Amy. Poor dead thing. He never thought any of it would ever come to this. Yet on some level, he must have, because he had planned for it, hadn’t he? He planned for everything. Plan B. Plan C. Plan D. So forth and so on. But even though he’d planned for it, given it thought, he’d never considered himself capable. He in fact had no idea if he was capable of that kind of violence until right this minute. But he was. He was. Poor Amy. A sweet soul.
Mr. Landay cracked the torpedo-hatch door on the big blue Moss. It was still hot inside. He set about cleaning off some carbon deposits clinging to the walls of the combustion chamber. He wanted Amy to have a clean burn. Carbon. That’s all we are. Stardust.
He set the solution level to the hottest burn possible. Everything looked good. The Old Blue Lady, that’s what he called her. She could handle a lot. But she couldn’t handle a whole adult body just tossed in there. No. He would have to feed it smaller pieces. Break the load down and send it in inside the stainless steel cart. He put on his surgical mask and gown as was correct protocol when dealing with bio-medical waste. In the toolbox he found a hacksaw and a hammer that would be good for the bones. That should do it. Whatever was left after incineration he could run through the sharps shredder.
It was just that his parents were still alive. Mr. Landay simply couldn’t risk getting caught. Bringing shame to them. He was sorry for Amy. So sorry. But it wasn’t like killing a regular human being. Amy was Amy. Maybe they would meet again. Out there in the universe. Their carbon mingling.
He went to check the solution levels and air feed to the secondary chamber one last time before he set about the task of reducing Amy.
Six
I wake up. Floor cold. Dirty. I mi
ss the stars. Stars wake me up. Stars make me sleep. Swurling. I alive. I Amy. Throat hurt. Bad. Mr. Landay stand over fire door. Buzzing. Whoosh. Loud. He bad. Kill Amy. Choke hurt. No breathe. Dark eyes. See stars. Touch boy. Touch girl. Bad clown. Kill Amy. Burn me up. I know. He burn Amy. Gone.
I get up. Amy get up. Amy not scared. Amy mad. Mad. I mad. Little children. Cancer. Throat hurt. Swallow. Hurt. See Mr. Landay. Mr. Landay stand front fire. Senterator. I run. Push. I push. Push hard. Mr. Landay look at Amy. He surprise. Eyes big. Dark. No stars. Him fingers grab hold edge door. Hold on. I push again. Harder. Mr. Landay hold on. He scared. He say Amy. No Amy. Amy stop. Please Amy stop. I hurt. He say I hurt. Mr. Landay hurt. Please Amy. Sweet girl. He call Amy sweet girl. I let go help Mr. Landay. He my friend. He kick Amy. Trick. Kick Amy private part no man touch tell Mama. It hurt. Hurt bad. Amy private part no man touch tell Mama hurt bad. Mr. Landay smile. He say word Amy no understand. Ugly word. He come at Amy. Hit kick punch swing. Mean. Crazy.
I see hammer floor. Amy pick up hammer. Amy swing. Hit. Right between the eyes. Hit hard. Blood. Bone break. Mr. Landay fall backward. He fall. Fall into metal door. Senterator. Fire. Mr. Landay fire scream. Shut door. Amy shut door. But Mr. Landay loud. Scream. Clown scream. Burn him up. HIPAA okay. I tell Mr. Crandell. He funny.
Amy sad. Amy happy. Amy tired. What happen? Amy sit down. Tired. Throat hurt. Finger hurt. Finger broke. Fingernail broke. Broke off. Stardust. Burn up.
I Amy. I a retarded. Down Sindome. I Amy. I a writer.
Back to TOC
COPPER
Keith Rawson
You know what I find most interesting about you, Cole?
What’s that?
Fear of failure. You’re afraid that no matter what you do in life, you’ll fall on your face and humiliate yourself.
Is that right?
Don’t get me wrong, it’s just not you. Most people suffer the same. That’s why America is nothing but a nation of slaves. A people so afraid of failure that they scramble their entire lives to make billions of dollars for people who weren’t afraid to fail. Do you know how sad it makes me to say that, Cole?
This is the third time I’ve heard this speech. The first time, I was in awe. His words were cryptic, but relevant, near prophetic. The second time, I gave a low snort. I’m not the type of person who needs to hear the same thing twice, it sticks, even if it’s something simple like wipe the shit off your shoes before you come inside, or remember to hold your pinkie up when drinking tea with your great aunt Bertha. I’m good at orders. I don’t forget, ever.
With this third time, I’ve finally figured it out, this is his version of a pep talk. A way to get my blood pumping. The thing is, Bob doesn’t have a fucking clue.
There ain’t nothing in there.
Sure there is, you just don’t know where to look.
Fuck…Fuck, man, there ain’t nothing but skeletons. Fuckin’ nothing but raw wood.
I’ve never liked Jerry all that much. I mean, he’s my brother and all, but he’s a know it all little shit. Been that way since we were kids. I’d be trying to tell him something…you know, nothing important, just little kid bullshit about superheroes or baseball players, something, and he would start in: No, that ain’t right. That’s wrong! You’re wrong, Cole! And then he’d give me his explanation. Back then, he was usually wrong. Usually he was doing nothing but blowing smoke and trying to one up me.
The best part of spending time with Jerry when we were kids was getting to go home at the end of the day. Knowing that I didn’t have to put up with his bullshit, and that he got to stay with his Ma, and I got to stay with mine, and I wouldn’t have to see him again for a whole month. It’s still that way, except he goes home to his wife, and I still go back to Ma’s house. Difference being I have to see him the very next day. The only thing that makes life bearable with him is every morning he has a cup of coffee and he lets me bum smokes out of his pack. Soon as he opens his mouth, though, my day’s ruined.
He’s right about this place. It’s nothing but bare frames; rotting timber. There ain’t gonna be no copper here, but we drove all the way the hell out here, so I’m not leaving until I’ve had a look around. Plus, I ain’t willing to admit that he’s right.
What the fuck are you doing?
I get out of the car, grab my crowbar and hammer out of the backseat.
You can stay in the car if you want to, I’m taking a look around.
I’m gone two hours. When I come back, he’s sleeping.
Thank God for small favors.
I decided a while back that I needed to get on with my life.
The problem is I don’t have anyone around to tell me what my life should be. That’s the problem with life in the Army, you get used to people telling you what to do: When to eat, sleep, shit, piss, run, walk, work, blah, blah, blah. I know the best way to move on is find myself a wife, maybe have a couple of kids so it’ll motivate me to find regular work with a boss staring over my shoulder letting me know when I’m doing something wrong. I figure the wife and kids will serve the same purpose: To tell me I’m wrong. To shame the shit out of me, make me feel small, less than a man. Only praising me when they’ve seen that I’ve sunk too low, and my work is suffering for it.
As sad as that sounds, it’s what the Army taught me, and I miss it. But I ain’t quite ready to find its replacement yet, I just need something other than what I’ve got.
Anything.
It’s real power. The way it makes you feel, like there’s electricity coursing through you. Have you ever experienced anything like that?
I shrug. He knows I have, but I ain’t going to give him the satisfaction of my words. He wants my words more than anything. They’re power to him, real power. He wants his words to be coming out of my mouth. He can’t have them, because his words are pointless.
Of course you have. You felt it the moment I met you.
It was Mom who talked me into the service.
Mom wasn’t much for the government. She’d bitch about it every chance she got even though she got all her money from them. It was in her blood, her dad was a union copper miner who had lived through more than his fair share of strikes and his fair share of being forced back to work government men who always sided with the bosses. Which is what made it such a surprise when she handed me the brochure she picked up at the Camp Verde recruitment center.
Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea, you know. Go travel, make some money, maybe go to school after you’re done.
Her hands were shaking when she handed the papers over to me and left without her turning her back to me. I didn’t blame her, I was a bad fucking kid, and I knew the real reason she wanted me in the Army was so she wouldn’t have to lock her door when she went to sleep at night.
I dream of fire.
It’s been that way most of my life. When I was six or seven, or maybe a little older or a little younger, but still just a baby to this world, the house we lived in went up in flames. I remember the fire as a cold sweat, my body dripping from head to toe, my hair matted against my scalp, my lungs filled with soot, hitching, trying to catch my breath. I remember it as darkness suddenly filled with flickering yellow light and the roar of some huge animal. Outside of the sensations, the only thing I remember seeing is Ma filling my eyes. Her lips were broken, split, blood ringing her teeth. She was screaming, telling me to get up, but I was stiff as a board, holding my breath. She finally yanked me out of bed, rushed me out into the front yard.
I remember she laid me down in the gravel, and turned to stare at all the yellow roaring and heat, her tears streaming tiny rivers down her ash covered cheeks. The old house belonged to my great grandfather and had been passed down from generation-to-generation. My mother and I were the last to sleep under its roof. The land was still ours. Three acres that used to be fifty of barren orange Arizona. I never asked what happen to the other forty-seven the family used to own?
It don�
��t matter.
A few years after the fire, Ma put the first of three trailers that we’d live in until I went into the service. Most nights, I think about building a house out here make it like the one before. I picture myself working under the sun, pouring the foundation, hammering out the frame, hanging the roof. I see it all right before sleep snatches me away.
I forget about it in the morning and tell myself none of it was my fault.
When Ma handed me the brochures, I knew she wasn’t making a suggestion. I needed to go and the sooner the better. It hurt some, but I did what I usually did with hurt: Buried it and waited for what the seeds of it would flower.
Ma gave me two brochures, one for the Army, one for the Marines. Ma was convinced I should be a Marine. The way I saw it, the government sent the Marines in first. They sent Marines to die. I didn’t want no part of dying. I wanted to fuck around, shoot a badass gun once in a while, but stay in the back. Maybe learn how to fix diesel engines in the motor pool, work in the kitchen. I knew I’d have to take some shit in basic training, but the way figured it, the Army was my best bet for just fucking; my best chance to be a hump.
Of course, there ain’t no difference between the Army or the Marines. The Army didn’t want humps, they didn’t want to teach you how to be a mechanic, or cook food. They wanted meat. They wanted meat creeping through the sand, waiting on turbans and beards to pop up with guns folded in their robes, grenades strapped to their chest, a shitty homemade donator sweat stained in their palms. That’s all the Army was, what Iraq was, meat vs. meat.
Bob lets me bum his smokes like Jerry does. I think that’s mostly why I keep hanging out with him, so I can keep pretending I’m a non-smoker just because I don’t ever spend money on them. Bob’s name really ain’t Bob, just like my name ain’t Cole. Bob’s real name is Michael Jerkins. He goes by Mike and works as a car salesman at a Prescott Valley Mercedes dealership. He’s hot fucking shit over there and has his picture up with three little brass plaques attached to the frame. All of them read: Salesman of the Year followed by the years he was awarded: 2010, 2011, 2013. I don’t know what the fuck happened in 2012?
