The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

by Charlie Huston

  Gabe offered me the tape.

  —Do it yourself, or need a hand?

  I got taped up and hooded and Gabe showed me how to fit the goggled filter mask over my mouth and nose and I followed him into the hotel, Po Sin trailing behind us, glancing back at his vandalized van.

  —Motherfucker.

  The roaches swarmed me. The first bag I shifted disturbed their routine and they swarmed me, simultaneously revealing what my feet had been crunching on when I walked into the dark apartment, and what the constant background rustling sound was caused by.

  So I freaked a little.

  A couple hundred cockroaches come spilling out of the shit-encrusted nooks and crannies of a dead shut-in's festering den and start racing each other up your legs to see which can be the first to crawl in your facial orifices and see if you don't freak.

  Po Sin watched the freaking. Stood there with his arms folded, framed by towers of piled trash and bundled newspapers and plastic gallon milk jugs filled with urine, and watched all the cockroaches in creation crawling on me trying to find holes they could climb into.

  —Can't handle this, you can't handle the job.

  He stood in front of me, his torso being populated by swarms of roaches combining into continents, pieces breaking off and drifting and forming with other masses. The geophysical history of the earth enacted by roaches on a globe of a man.

  He extended an arm and elegantly brushed a few from the sleeve of his Tyvek.

  —Worse things to be covered in, man. Let me tell you.

  Gabe walked past me, edging down the open corridor between the piles of refuse, making for the dim light at the back of the place where they'd excavated a couple windows the day before.

  —Lots worse things.

  He disappeared, lost in bugs and towering waste.

  Po Sin watched me.

  And, not wanting to at all, I thought about worse things.

  Po Sin crunched over.

  —OK?

  The legs of one of the roaches tickled the exposed rim of skin running between my filter mask and the edge of the Tyvek hood. I flicked it to the floor and stomped on it. And, incidentally, about a dozen more.

  —Yeah, I'm fine. You're a dick, but I'm fine.

  He nodded and pointed toward the back of the apartment.

  —Then head back there. Gabe is bagging the shit. Start hauling it down to the service elevator.

  I started down the hall, the smell of rancid crap already seeping through the mask.

  —You suck, Po Sin!

  Appearing in front of me, Gabe shook his head.

  —Here's the thing. You don't want to yell like that. It will break the seal of your mask around your chin and jaw. They'll get in. You take off the mask to get them off and they'll be all over your face. Be in your nostrils.

  Roaches in your nostrils. Pretty bad. But still, like I say there are worse things.

  So I got to work.

  I hauled shitbags. A lot of them. The shut-in who lived in the place, he must have shit like a dozen times a day. He must have eaten nothing but beans and broccoli and topped it off with Müeslix.

  Hauling the big black garbage bags filled with little bags filled with shit between the teetering masses of putrefying garbage, the smell of fermenting waste in my nose hairs, I tried to do some math. I tried to figure out how many years the guy must have been shitting in bags to create this kind of poundage.

  I took another load of the bags down in the service elevator and out the back to the bin Po Sin had rented for the job and had parked in the alley. My face itched under the mask and I wanted to take it off, but I knew the reek coming off the bags would kill me without some kind of protection. I started taking bags from the dolly I had piled them on and began flinging them over the side of the bin.

  I tried to remember how much Chev said a new cellphone was gonna cost. Almost two hundred. At least twenty hours of shit-flinging to pay that off.

  Crap.

  One of the bags snagged a flange of steel at the top of the bin and tore open and little ziplocks of shit spilled down onto the asphalt.

  —Crap!

  I bent and started picking them up.

  Three hours in, and my back and knees and arms and shoulders were killing me. I remembered my dad and his cronies sitting out on the porch behind the Laurel Canyon house, sipping bourbon and water and playing Worst Job Ever. All trying to one-up the others.

  Gas-pump jockey.

  Bellhop.

  Stable boy.

  Cabby.

  Janitor.

  Cow inseminator.

  Night watchman.

  High school teacher.

  That last one from my dad. The trump that beat everyone and ended the game in laughter. Nearly all of them having been public school teachers at some time or other before they got involved with the movie business.

  Wish I could get a round of that game going. Put some money on it. I'd clean up.

  Shitbag flinger.

  —Ho, who's that on shitbag duty?

  I looked up at the guy coming down the alley tying himself into a Tyvek.

  —Who's the man behind the mask?

  He came close, tugging at the shoulder seams of the Tyvek, trying to get the garment to give some breathing room to the thick muscle wadded around his neck and arms and torso.

  He stopped.

  —Hey. Who? Who the fuck are you?

  I tossed a bag of shit into the bin.

  —Who the fuck are you ?

  He ducked his head back.

  —What?

  I pointed at my face.

  —Sorry, I got this mask on, it must have garbled my use of the spoken word. Allow me to employ sign language.

  I crooked my index finger into a question mark.

  —Who.

  I held up my middle finger.

  —The fuck.

  I pointed at him.

  —Are you?

  He pushed his head forward.

  —The fuck you think you are?

  I shook my head.

  —No, see, we're still having communication problems here. It must be because I'm speaking English and you're speaking Dickanese.

  He grabbed the finger I had aimed at him and pulled up on it.

  —What?

  Pain shot up my arm and my knees started to fold. I quickly calculated how much harder it would be to fling shit with one of my index fingers snapped off, and how much longer it would take to pay off Chev's new cellphone, and made a strategic decision about how to handle the situation.

  —Whoa, whoa, man! Whoa, my bad! Just foolin' around! That hurts, man. Easy big guy, my bad. Uncle. Uncle!

  He gave my finger a twist and let go.

  —That's right you call uncle. Fuck with me, smart ass.

  I flexed the finger, making sure it would still fling shit.

  —Yeah, that's me, smart ass. It's a habit.

  He tilted his head as far as his neck would allow.

  —You still trying to be funny?

  I shook my head.

  —No, man, I'm not. Seriously. I mean, I wasn't trying to be funny in the first place, I was just trying to communicate on your level. Sincerely.

  He grabbed my finger again and I went to my knees in the little bags of shit, many of them popping open under me. From the corner of my eye I saw several roaches that had been clinging to me bailing off, abandoning the ship that was clearly going down.

  He added torque to the back pressure on the finger and I fell to my side in the shitbags.

  He stood over me, straddling my body and the crap piled beneath me.

  —Man, you are funny. You are so fucking funny, you know what I did, you're so funny?

  I writhed, trying to take some of the tension off my finger.

  He gave it a jerk.

  —I said, You know what I did, you're so funny?

  —No, no, man, I don't. Please, please tell me.

  He leaned down, putting his pocked face in mine, hi
s breath fogging the lenses of my goggles.

  —I forgot to laugh, that's how funny you are.

  —Knock that shit off.

  The guy looked at Po Sin, coming out the service exit at the back of the hotel, pushing a hand truck stacked with rotting cardboard boxes.

  —Uncle, who the fuck is this?

  Po Sin pointed.

  —Let go his finger, Dingbang.

  He let go of my finger and turned.

  —Man, Uncle, don't call me that. Told you my handle's Bang. Just Bang.

  Po Sin lifted the mask from his face, flicking a couple roaches from the exposed skin.

  —OK, Just Bang.

  —No. Just. Bang. Not Just Bang. Man.

  Po Sin looked at me.

  —Just Bang Man. It's like he's asking for trouble.

  I laughed.

  Bang turned.

  —What you laughing at, shitbag? Lying in a pile of shit. What's so fucking funny about that?

  Po Sin came over and offered his hand to me, looking at Bang.

  —Go home, Nephew.

  —What the fuck, man. I'm here. I'm ready to work.

  Po Sin gave my arm a tug and it almost came clear of its socket as he hauled me up.

  —Job started three hours ago.

  —Told you I was gonna be late.

  —No you didn't.

  —I did. I called Aunt Lei and she said she'd tell you.

  —No you didn't. And don't bring your aunt into it.

  Po Sin pointed at the bags scattered at our feet and looked at me.

  —Get these in the bin and change into a Tyvek with no shit on it, Web.

  Bang pointed at me.

  —Who the fuck is he?

  Po Sin put a hand on his shoulder and turned him toward the end of the alley.

  —He's the guy who got here on time this morning.

  Bang stood his ground.

  —Bullshit, man. That's bullshit. This is my job.

  Po Sin leaned slightly, putting his weight behind his hand, and moved Bang off his ground and down the alley.

  —That was your job, until you didn't spend last night at the shop like you were supposed to. That was your job until the van got plastered with paint because no one was there keeping an eye on things.

  —I was in court yesterday. I told you. I had a violation. Fucking cop pulled me over because I'm Asian. Total profiling.

  —He give you a DUI because you're Asian?

  —Fuck does that matter? That's not the point. He had no reason to pull me over in the first place. I was driving fine. He wasn't profiling for Asians, he never would have known I had an open container. And that's not the fucking point anyway. I had court. I told you I had court.

  Po Sin propelled him farther down the alley.

  —You didn't tell me.

  —I did! I did! I called! And after court I had to go explain it to my mom and she got upset and didn't want me to drive because she didn't understand that it was OK, that I hadn't been suspended and I called to tell you I couldn't be at the shop, man.

  —No you didn't.

  Bang dug in his heels and shrugged off his uncle's hand.

  —Fuck your hand off me anyway. I do all the shit work! All of it! You, that fucking round-eye Gabe, you never pull your weight. Not that anyone could pull your weight.

  —Nephew.

  —No, fuck you! Fuck you and this shit job. I fucking quit! See how long that scrawny fucker lasts doing the heavy lifting for you. See how long he lasts when there's trouble. Fuck you and fuck your fucking wife who can't take a fucking phone message and.

  Whoever else was meant to be fucked had their name deleted by Po Sin's hand wrapping around his nephew's throat and shoving him into the graffitied brick wall of the hotel.

  Po Sin held him there. Bang turned red.

  I took a couple steps.

  —Po Sin.

  He looked at me. Looked at his nephew. And let go.

  Bang slumped, gagged and wheezed. Po Sin put a hand on his chest.

  —Dingbang? I. Dingbang.

  Bang knocked the hand away.

  —Don't call me that!

  He pushed from the wall and ran to the end of the alley.

  —Gonna pay for touching me, man! No one touches Bang!

  He took a step, stopped, and pointed at me.

  —You too, shitbag, you're dead!

  And he rounded the corner of the alley and was gone.

  Po Sin stood there for a second, turned and walked toward me.

  —Sorry. He's my nephew. But. He.

  —He's a dick, Po Sin.

  He pulled the end of his moustache.

  —Well. Yes. Like father like son. Nothing like working with family to bring out the best in a man.

  —Or to make him want to strangle them.

  He smiled.

  —Don't know about you, but some of my family, I don't need to be anywhere near them to want to strangle ’em.

  —I find it helps that my mom lives out of state.

  —Never had a problem with my mother. My dad I could have throttled a couple times.

  —My dad spends all his time in a bar out in Santa Monica. That far west, may as well be another state. He's safe from me.

  —Yeah, distance makes the heart grow fonder.

  —I didn't say that.

  He started for the service entrance.

  —My mother and father are both permanently out of reach. And my brother. Well. We're out of touch. Last thing I need at this point is less family.

  He stopped and stared at the end of the alley where Bang had disappeared.

  I bent and picked up a shitbag and tossed it in the bin.

  —He was asking for it, Po Sin.

  He kept looking down the alley.

  —He's a boy I'm a man.

  He turned his head to me.

  —A man should be able to retain his composure.

  I looked at the shit at my feet.

  He made for the entrance.

  —It's about lunch. Finish up with that and we'll go grab a bite.

  —Where?

  He waved a hand over his shoulder.

  —Doesn't matter. With a job like this, wherever we eat it's gonna taste like shit.

  I watched him go inside. I massaged my finger and rotated my wrist and swung my arm around, making sure it all worked. Then I started. Putting more shit in the bin.

  He was right about lunch.

  What with the smell of well-marinated crap in our hair and on our clothes and up our noses and down our throats, lunch didn't have much appeal for me. Not so, for the more experienced hands. I watched Po Sin tear into his third cheeseburger, and Gabe scrape the last of his chili from the bottom of the bowl.

  Po Sin washed down a bite of burger with chocolate milkshake.

  —Different things bother different people.

  I picked up one of my fries and took a bite of it. It still tasted like shit.

  —So you're saying I shouldn't be disturbed by the fact that having my nasal passages smelling like dung ruins my appetite? What relief. I was worried it was me, I was worried I might be some kind of deviant not wanting to eat when all I can smell is ass butter. What a load off, knowing that I'm not alone and everyone has their own problems.

  Po Sin wiped his mouth.

  —Thought that'd make you feel better.

  I dropped the fry and pushed the unfinished bulk of my meal to the middle of the table.

  —So what bothers you?

  Po Sin grabbed some of my fries and shoved them in his mouth.

  —Me? Nothing.

  Gabe rubbed his nose.

  —Nothing but kids.

  Po Sin looked at me.

  —Kids are hard. No one likes kids.

  I looked away from Po Sin, watched some teenagers at the Fatburger counter shove each other around, laughing, and chose to ignore whatever the fuck point he was trying to make.

  —I like kids. Kids are OK.

  Gabe drain
ed the last of his ice tea.

  —Dead kids. No one likes dead kids.

  Po Sin threw me another look, I refused to catch it, and he ate another fry.

  —On a trauma job. When it's a kid. That's rough.

  Gabe leaned back, the table warped in the lenses of the sunglasses he hadn't taken off since coming out of the hotel.

  —Doesn't really count anyway. Kids bother everyone. None of the other stuff bothers you.

  Po Sin shrugged.

  —Do the job long enough, you see it all.

  He dipped his head at Gabe.

  —Gabe can't stand the smell of mold.

  —Mildew.

  —Right, mildew. Water damage. Doesn't like it.

  I looked at Gabe.

  —Mildew?

  He didn't look at me.

  —Yeah.

  —Rancid mounds of feces are cool, but mildew freaks you out.

  He scratched a scar that ran down the top of his left forearm.

  —I don't like it much. That's all.

  Po Sin's phone rang. He looked at it and answered.

  —Clean Team. Uh-huh.

  He felt his back pocket, found a notepad, and reached behind his ear for his stub of pencil.

  —Sorry to hear that. Uh-huh. I'm sorry. Yes. Yes we do. Uh-huh. Well, we're on a job right now, but we could be there tonight. Or tomorrow morning. Uh-huh. I'm sorry to hear that. Yes it is. Yes it is. I'll. Yes. Well, I'd like to ask a few questions if I may. Well, it gives us an idea of what's involved. How many of us might be needed and such. Uh-huh. Well, most important is, have the police and the coroner released the scene? Good. OK. And can you tell me what room it happened in?

  I watched him write bedroom on the notepad.

  —Sure. And if I may, can I ask how? Right. I know.

  Gunshot.

  —And if I may, the type of weapon?

  Handgun.

  —Do you happen to know the caliber of the weapon?

  9mm.

  —I know. I know.

  He took the phone from his ear and rolled his neck around. I could hear crying, cut off as he put it back at his ear.