Bad Glass

by Richard E. Gropp

  We were a long way from the world I knew.

  I glanced up into the sky, expecting to see the face of the earth floating overhead—like maybe we’d been transported to the moon or to some alien asteroid hurtling through space—but there were only clouds up there, and the muffled outline of a moon packed in cotton.

  I wanted to get home. I wanted to get home to Taylor.

  When we reached the house, we found Taylor seated alone in the kitchen. There was a single candle burning on the table, and its steady flame etched shadows beneath her eyes. She looked tired. She looked like a haunted woman, drawn in heavy charcoal lines.

  Sabine grunted a halfhearted good night and retreated up the stairs to her bedroom. I don’t think she was trying to avoid Taylor and me or our upcoming encounter. I think she was just tired and disillusioned. I think she wanted to crawl into bed, where she could think about the Poet … and dwell and curse and seethe in peace.

  “I heard about Amanda and Mac,” Taylor said.

  “Yeah.”

  “That … that situation …” She paused and finally, at a loss for words, finished her statement with a cryptic shrug.

  “Yeah,” I agreed with a smile. “We’re on the same page there.”

  I sat down opposite her, and she gave me a blank, emotionless stare. “I’m sorry I left this morning. I had things I had to do … personal things, and I didn’t want to wake you.” She leaned back from the table and tilted her head, as if she were trying to see me from a different angle. “And I guess there were things I didn’t want to deal with, too … things between us. I just wanted to let them lie. I wanted to give myself time to think.”

  I nodded, feeling surprisingly calm, surprisingly focused. My visit with Cob Gilles and the Poet had changed things for me. Before, I’d been so angry at Taylor. And for what? For some perceived slight, some juvenile feeling of abandonment? Now, none of that seemed to matter. It just … didn’t matter.

  If Cob Gilles was right—if the world was crazy, if photography was shit—then what did that leave? What was he still clinging to? What was keeping him alive?

  The Poet.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “It’s fine, I—”

  “No, Dean, it’s not fine. It’s stupid. Us—” She raised her hand, flicking a finger back and forth between the two of us. “This, whatever it is … it’s stupid, monumentally stupid. I’m not going to be able to give you what you want. You’re not going to be happy. And I’m going to feel like shit just yanking you around.”

  “I’d be perfectly happy with a little yanking.”

  She was silent for a moment, and then her cold facade cracked and she let out an abrupt laugh. It was an odd, strangled laugh, having to fight its way past reluctant muscles. But it was a laugh. And she shook her head in surprised puzzlement, like she didn’t quite know what to make of me. “I suppose we could leave the yanking to Danny.”

  “See! There you go,” I said, raising my hands. “Problem solved. It’s not my natural inclination, mind you, but that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make. For you.”

  She continued to stare at me, those perplexed eyes jittering back and forth. And the smile faded from her lips. “What are you doing, Dean?” she asked. “I’m trying to give you an out here.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want out,” I said. “Maybe it’s not the sex that’s got me all smitten. Maybe it’s you. And everything else—every fucked-up feeling and unexplained horror—can take a giant fucking leap.”

  She smiled and reached across the table to grab my hand. Her touch was light, a trembling paintbrush drawing indistinct shapes across my palm. “I didn’t realize you were such a saint.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s me,” I said. “I’m all about the piety and the motherfucking goodness.”

  She continued to smile, and it was such a warm and genuine smile. Sitting right there, in its path, it felt like I’d found the most beautiful place in the world.

  “Then come along, Saint Dean,” she said. “It’s been a long day. We deserve some rest.”

  I took my antibiotics and a couple of Vicodin, and then we settled in for some sleep. Taylor wanted me in her bed. We lay side by side, perfectly chaste, holding hands in the dark.

  “Are you still concerned about Devon?” she asked as the Vicodin began to hit, lifting me about an inch above her queen-size mattress. “I think I know what it is. I think I know who he’s spying for.”

  I grunted. Devon and the radio. The underground tunnels. It seemed so long ago, separated from me by a gulf of time and weirdness—by Amanda and Mac, by Mama Cass, by the photographer and the Poet. I found it amazing, how all of that horror and confusion—so intense in the moment, so overwhelming—could just fade away. It’s some type of psychological defense, I figured, some type of coping mechanism. Somewhere along the line, I’d started living in the moment, letting everything just wash over me without fully taking it in, without dwelling.

  “I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure,” she said. “But maybe you should be there with me.” She squeezed my hand. There was caring and vulnerability in her voice, and I got the sense that she was offering me another gift here, that she was opening herself up, including me in her secrets. For someone with her issues, I imagined that this was a great act of intimacy.

  “Yeah, okay,” I said. And then, a moment later: “Wait … go where?”

  “Shhhh … tomorrow. I’ll show you tomorrow.”

  I grunted again. And then the Vicodin caught me. It grabbed hold like a warm wave, lifting me up high, then washing me back down, into a comfortable, dreamless sleep.

  Danny showed up in the morning. He was seated at the kitchen table with Charlie when I finally made it downstairs. Taylor was standing at the camp stove.

  “Good morning,” Taylor said, greeting me with a warm smile and a cup of coffee. She looked relaxed and happy. “You looked tired, so I let you sleep.”

  “Yeah, it’s—what?—ten-thirty?” Danny said, giving me a nod. “I’ve been up since five. And I swear, I’d kill everyone in the city just to keep your type of hours.” I blushed as soon as I saw him, suddenly struck by the memory of his stubbled head bobbing up and down in my lap. He, for his part, didn’t seem at all embarrassed, giving me that perfunctory nod as if there was nothing at all strange between us. Perhaps there wasn’t. Perhaps I was the queer one here, unsure of the protocol, unable to look him in the eye.

  I’ve never been accused of being a prude, but Danny’s utter nonchalance made me feel old-fashioned and out of step.

  “I got a fresh load of data,” he said, nodding toward Charlie, who was once again seated at his notebook computer. I could see the thumb drive jutting from the computer’s side.

  Charlie looked up and smiled, beaming with pride. “It worked. Your post … it posted. And you’ve already got comments.” He spun the computer around, gesturing me toward an empty seat.

  A flutter of nerves erupted in my chest.

  I immediately recognized the website: Chasing the S. As far as message boards go, this one was fairly standard; there were countless more just like it out there on the Net, all assembled from the same free software packages. The view on Charlie’s screen was a simplified version of the site. All the standard images were missing: there was no black-and-white banner at the top of the page, featuring the name of the site flanked by satellite imagery of Spokane itself, and there were no tiny avatars to the left of each posting. Charlie had streamlined his application. He had programmed it to pick up text and formatting information while leaving all the bulky pictures and ads behind. The resulting design was stark and no-nonsense, and more than a little disconcerting.

  I quickly scrolled through the topics on the front page. The title of my post—“Photos of Spokane: Views from Inside (week 1)”—was at the top of the list. According to the stats next to my entry, there were already seventy-six comments and over five thousand page views.

  “It was up for twelve hours before Danny
scraped the forum,” Charlie said, following my eyes on the page. “Right now it’s the only post getting any attention.”

  I hesitated before clicking through to my thread. I was more than a little nervous. What if they hated my pictures? What if those seventy-six replies were all negative, nothing but dismissive mockery?

  I braced myself and clicked through. Beneath my dismembered post—Charlie’s program had stripped away all the photos, leaving just a couple of sentences and a line of broken links—there was an avalanche of comments, a mad rush of words.

  –Is this for real??? Is this bullshit???

  –Please, can someone confirm?

  –It’s Spokane. That’s Riverfront Park, and I recognize that storefront with all the people. It was a Tully’s before they evacuated us.

  –It’s Photoshopped, you morons! They aren’t letting anyone in. You’ve seen the barricades and checkpoints!

  –But that’s not true! There are civies inside! They catch people going in and out all the time!

  –They’re real. According to the tags, someone used Photoshop (a student CS edition), but probably just to resize … It’s not so hard to believe, is it? We know there are people in there, and they can’t be in too good shape by now. Hell, even the weather matches. That’s Eastern Washington at the start of winter.

  –Where’s the ghosts?

  –Why aren’t we seeing this shit on the news? It’s a disaster area in the middle of America! It’s Katrina all over again!

  –It is _not_ Katrina. These morons can leave anytime they like. Hell, they’d get _paid_ to leave! Big fat government checks!

  –Where’s the ghosts???

  After a half hour of short, gut-level reactions, the postings started to get longer, and they started to address me directly.

  –Nice pictures, intheimage [this was the name I used on the forum, dating back to the summer months, when the first vague news stories had begun to escape Spokane]. Tell us more about the city, if you’ve got time. What are the conditions like? The people look destitute, how do they get along? And what is the military doing?

  –If you are, indeed, in there (and I have my doubts), how’d you do it? You’ve got a picture of soldiers there, did you have to bribe your way in? I’ve heard people talk about that, here, but I want some firsthand info. Are they willing? How much would it cost?

  –Your pictures are pretty mundane, considering the reports we’ve been reading. Are the stories overblown? Have you seen anything strange?

  –Cool! Post more!

  –Please, intheimage, I don’t know if you’ll get this, but I was wondering if you’ve met someone named Travis Paulson in the city? He’s thirty-two years old, brown eyes, brown hair (though he usually wears it shaved bald). He lived in a house on W. Garland, up north. Here’s a picture of him, from about a year ago. [Where the picture should have been, there was nothing but a small red x. Charlie’s program had left the picture behind.] We haven’t heard from him since they closed the city, and his family is terrified. Please, please, please email me with anything.

  There was more, but after that last message, I didn’t go on. I got the gist of the thread. There was healthy skepticism, doubt, and a lot of questions. But nothing damning. There was no derision or outright dismissal. And perhaps the most heartening thing here was the sheer number of replies and the number of eyeballs that had found my work. Over five thousand page views in the first twelve hours! That was good exposure. The thought of all of those people looking at my photographs got my heart racing.

  Now I needed to figure out my next move.

  Obviously, I had to post again, but what should I include? The spider with the human finger? The face in the wall? The underground tunnels? Should I continue to take it slow, or should I jump right into the strange heart of the city?

  “I don’t have anything ready to go out today,” I said, “but I might have something tomorrow or the next day. A new post. More pictures. Will that work?” I looked up at Charlie, then across the table at Danny. Danny was smiling.

  “Yeah,” Danny said. “I think we can make that work.”

  “But not now,” Taylor said. She was standing at the camp stove, scraping eggs out of a sizzling pan. She cast me a significant look as she carried over a plate of eggs and toasted bread. “You’re having breakfast, Dean, and then we’re going out. We’ve got errands to run and people to see.”

  My stomach growled at the sight and smell of food. I hadn’t had much appetite in the last couple of days. My stomach had been tied in knots of anxiety, confusion, and fear, not to mention the nausea caused by my wounds and infection. But after reading those replies, I felt suddenly ravenous.

  I was headed in the right direction, it seemed, and that did a lot to allay my fears.

  I downed my antibiotics with my last swallow of coffee. I didn’t bother with the Vicodin or oxycodone. My hand was feeling pretty good. Hell, I was feeling pretty good. Then Taylor and I hit the streets.

  It was surprisingly warm out, and almost all the snow had melted from the ground. The only remaining patches of white were hidden away in the shadows: circles around the trunks of trees, small drifts piled against houses. I watched Taylor as she walked beside me. She wasn’t watching the pavement in front of her feet. Instead, she was looking far into the distance. It made her look strong. She wasn’t squinting despite the bright sun overhead. Her skin was perfectly smooth, a beautiful tea-soaked ceramic. I wanted to touch her, to run my thumb across her smooth cheek. But I could imagine her pulling away in horror, recoiling from my touch, and the thought of that reaction was enough to hold me back. I didn’t want to cause her any type of distress.

  She glanced at me from the corner of her eye. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, a perplexed smile appearing on her lips. “You’re kinda freaking me out here, Dean.”

  “I’m just thinking about taking your picture,” I said. “I’m thinking about capturing the way the sun illuminates your skin and sets your eyes on fire. I’m thinking about the lens I’d use, the framing I’d try to get, the stuff I’d keep in the background.”

  We continued to walk, and I continued to study her face.

  When I didn’t move to unholster my camera, Taylor let out a warm laugh and shook her head. “Okay, Dean. Just keep thinking about that photograph.”

  “Always.”

  As we continued downtown, she kept glancing my way, a self-conscious smile on her lips. I watched as her cheeks blushed a gentle shade of red—a rosy, pinkish red—and my chest filled with warmth. There was a smile on my lips. It felt goofy—big and unrestrained—but I couldn’t dial it down. It had taken over my entire face and wouldn’t let go.

  Looking back now, this was by far my happiest time in Spokane. I was with Taylor, and I’d managed to make her happy; maybe I made her feel beautiful and loved.

  And maybe, for a time, she made me feel the same.

  “Let me do the talking,” Taylor said as we turned south on Monroe. “These guys are all right, but they can be pretty intense. They’re territorial and very touchy.”

  “Homestead?” I asked, guessing at our destination. I recognized the street from my first day in the city. Weasel had escorted me past these very buildings, bitching about the Homestead and all of its rules. I remembered people staring out at us distastefully, peering from doors and windows. But looking back, I realized that those disgusted looks might have had more to do with Weasel than with the stranger entering the city for the first time.

  “Yeah,” Taylor said. “They know me. I lived here for a while, before I found the house. They’ll let us in.”

  Taylor led me to a street-level door halfway between First and Second Avenue. The building itself was squat and unremarkable: a two-story structure sandwiched between a pair of taller neighbors. As soon as we got within a dozen feet, a man stepped from the shadows inside the building. He was big and thickly muscled, and he had a kinked black beard that masked most of his face. There was a baseb
all bat clenched in his hands, and he was holding it like he was getting ready to drop down a bunt: his right hand down on the knob, his left wrapped around its thick barrel. I could see an eagle tattooed on the back of his hand. I stopped dead on the sidewalk, but Taylor continued forward. As she approached, the man shifted the bat up against his shoulder and pulled himself to his full height.

  “What are you doing here?” the man growled. “I thought you’d left for greener pastures.”

  “I can’t pay the old man a visit?” Taylor said, her voice cold, confrontational. “Do you really think Terry’s going to turn me away?”

  The man grunted. “Maybe not, but that’s his weakness. In my opinion, the gone should stay gone. If they have nothing to offer, they have nothing to offer.”

  Taylor made a clucking sound at the back of her throat, and then she flashed the man a mocking grin. The grin looked out of place on her delicate lips. “Since when did you get so deep, Mickey? And since when do you guard doors?”

  The big man let out a frustrated sound—something between a grunt and a deep-throated growl—then he lifted his chin toward me. “If you go in, you leave your boy behind.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “We go in together. That’s what Terry would want.”

  The big man glowered, stone-faced, for a couple of seconds, then he flexed his fingers against the bat. It was a gesture of pure frustration, his fingers pulsing with pent-up energy. “Fine,” he said. “I don’t care! This place is going to hell. No rules. No fucking order!” With that, he turned and disappeared into the building. Taylor followed. I had to break into a trot in order to catch up.

  There was a second man standing just inside the doorway, and he stayed behind as Mickey led us back into the building. All the exterior windows had been boarded over with sheets of reinforced plywood. It looked like the Homestead had battened itself down for a hurricane. Or a military assault. Mickey produced a flashlight and waved us forward impatiently.