So there Nicolai perched, squatting and staring into a frequently empty room. He named his eyeful Mina after a Scandinavian woman he’d once admired. Twice a day, sometimes three, she would shower and then he was in Valhalla. Other times he satisfied himself with the viewing of pretty female primping and basic toilet functions. Initially, he would turn away from her diurnal defecations, but later, when each glimpse of palatial carnality achieved particular value, even those he would relish. And that is how Nicolai spent his second week in America. The desires of the body (other than those satisfied by his room of choice distraction) did drive him to find a local delicatessen, but other than those trips mandated by hunger, he did not leave the apartment. Besides which, he had spent a great deal of his cash reserves on frivolity in his first week and until certain things were finalized it was best to conserve. He kept his watch and like an ill, old man refusing care, let the cancerous growth of desire build in him, wrap itself around his organs, work its way into the blood and like that obstinate fool who finally succumbs to the call of the CAT scan, Nicolai too desired to examine more closely the cause of his pains. He needed a looking glass; no, wrong word, binoculars (desperately).
The Spruce Ridge House sat on the southwest corner of Tenth street and First avenue. It formed a strangely placed magnet leaning south from years of pulling on a duplicate of itself a block away. The exit was on Tenth. From there his quest took him west. It was only a short walk to a somewhat local pawn shop he had noticed on a pre-Minan voyage, the window of which was filled with delight. Small treasures from his youth presented themselves: technical achievements on display, forgotten friends, like that loved, torn teddy bear replaced by an antiseptic, soulless one, and then that loved and worn and replaced, &c. Nicolai forgot for a moment (only a moment) his purpose and then entered Toime’s Secondhand. The magnifiers (damn: binoculars, why so difficult?) were on a shelf behind the counter, inaccessible. Nicolai peered at them. “How much for that one there?”
“Seventy-five.” Seventy-five! Nicolai was angered. Bargaining, he thought, I shall bargain.
“I’ll give you thirty.”
“Seventy-five.” OK. Different tactic.
“That one then, there.” He indicated a smaller pair.
“Seventy-five. All seventy-five.”
“I was thinking of spending less. Do you have anything for less than that? Something good.”
“Good, no. But this. This is less.” Nicolai tested the item he’d been handed. It was a small silver rod about six inches long. He looked through it. It worked. He bought it.
Nicolai positioned himself as usualthe fit was a bit tighter due to his exuberanceand prepared his gadget. He was lucky today: an early shower. Must have a date, he thought, but muffled his jealously. Clack. Clack. Clack. Damn. The telescope would not extend. The space was not large enough and all it would do was clack, half opened, against the pane. Soon that dirty bird would be as clean as she wanted to be. Just outside was a small fire-escape; it was impossible to reach since the window would not open. But (life’s little word of salvation) another in the kitchen would, and if some adventurous soul wished to exit there, crawl along a thin ledge, and hop the rail onto the fire escape, well there were no peeping eyes to see; at least if the peeper himself was the creeper.
Nicolai lifted the kitchen window and it slammed itself shut. I must prop it up with something. He grabbed his valise and shoved it between window and sill, but it was far too large and one loose buckle later the contents spilled out onto the kitchen floor. Good excuse to unpack, but to the matter at hand. He searched all of the cabinets and drawers. Old fork? Too small. There was absolutely nothing. He returned to the bathroom to see if she was still there (she was) and noticed that the pipes in the shower were multisectional. He unscrewed a section of one, bearing in his passion the electrical shock. The second bolt would not come undone. He pulled and it broke off, loosing cold water from the open end of the pipe. He took the piece he had freed, shoved it under the window (perfect) and crawled out onto the ledge. “Fear be damned!” he said aloud and crawled toward the fire-escape. “Memory, be damned!” He’d forgotten the scope. Nicolai turned around and saw it resting on the radiator, just inside the apartment. He extended a hand and was able to reach it, but upon retracting his arm, he knocked the pipe-prop loose and the window crashed down, crushing his Spy’s Eyes (brand name) as the pipe tumbled seven stories and silently landed in a pile of like lengths. Nicolai froze in the wake of fatuity. Self-defenestration was not a fate desired. From his position on the ledge, he could neither open nor break the window. Only one way to go. He carefully stood up and edged his way over, made it and climbed onto the fire escape (ahhh). Through his bathroom window he noticed water overflowing the tub and running onto the floor and past the door and probably soiling his clothes in the kitchen. Mina had finished her shower and Nicolai was in a most unusual situation. Two ways to go now, options are expanding: up or down. Going down would entail climbing past six sets of windows (twelve peering eyes) and up would mean the roof. Certainly there must be a stairwell there, and Nicolai remembered an orange exit sign; up it is.
The roof was barren. Several black pipes grew from the tar mat and a large wooden structure loomed over the whole; an abandoned watch tower in a stripped forest. Nicolai stood on the edge of a lake on the edge of those woods. A second glance revealed the tower to be just that, but of the water variety not the watch, and from it a lazy drool of water flowed into the pool. He splashed around some, making for a large structure at the hub of the building and tripped, suddenly finding himself submerged in deep, deep, much too deep water. Buoyancy left him and he sank quickly to the bottom. That’s curious, he thought, eyeing a small pink blob gyrating slightly near an eddy of spinning water. He grabbed it and was again on the surface. Water, he thought, is beginning to play too present a role in my life. What had he tripped on? He looked and saw a pink mass near his feet. It was some child’s long lost toy and missing several pieces of urgent anatomy. A chill struck him. Why? The water was draining. Hare in the drain, he laughed and stood. The water was quickly disappearing and the air was filled with a piercing scream. What? Where? A glint of color dashed across his peripheral vision followed by a slam a slam a slam. Someone had been watching him. He left the pool of swirling water and found the door, still swinging on its sole hinge, banging against the frame. Next to it sat a box with several dials and two twisted antennae leading upwards to a wire which stretched across opposing poles. A loud whoosh knocked Nicolai off of his feet. The roof had started to fall in, piece by piece, where before the muddy lake bottom had been. Nicolai, panicking, ran down the stairs and closed the door to his apartment just as his neighbors opened theirs and were pushed into the hall by the force of an unseasonable tidal wave.
Somehow the first flood he’d unleashed had avoided his belongings and miraculously, unwittingly perhaps, by his own doing, the bubbling of his now missing pipe had ceased.
Structural integrity, he complained. Malfeasance in the greatest degree. Fortunate that his apartment suffered only minor damage. The precaution of retaining a lawyer (if only he could find him). All these things and more he tossed at the landlord, making a good show for the other tenants. They patted him on the back and shook his hand, there, gathered in the hallway in the aftermath. Only one, a pretty oriental girl, viewed him with doubt, winking and turning on her (bare) heel, eyes Valhalla-ward. The repairs were made in short timeby the Friday of that week, just in time for the approaching holiday (can’t have little kiddies getting drowned now, can we?)and Nicolai noted only two new developments, one curious, the other unfortunate. Respectively, the lump of pipes in the courtyard had reduced in size, and hot water once again, perhaps for the first time, flowed throughout the building, forever scrimming those with things to hide from wandering, wicked, roving eyes.
One thing, however, still haunted Nicolai’s waking hours (far more terrifying than those spent asleep): an image of a large mechanical i
nsect with numerical eyes. For days after The Chicken Little Incident, as it came to be called (others wished to call it the Nebuchadnezzar Incident, but a poet in residence argued effectively that that would ruin all of his rhymes) the roof was locked. A new door had been constructed on the suggestion of a city official, but when that HUDini disappeared so, mysteriously, did the door, and on the day all of the (two really) repairmen completed their work, Nicolai sneaked back up to the roof.
Once more a lake had formed and at its center that same torpid doll. On the shore now, like abandoned mollusk attire, a slew of cigarette butts had accumulated. The contraption with the antennae was gone and resisting a foolish desire to save again that drowning dunce, Nicolai abandoned the roof to its own devices (or lack thereof).
He returned to his diversion (sounds like?) of choice. It was no use; A fat ghost with misty gray hair sat in front of him, enjoying a closer view of the rear-projected image than Nicolai ever would again. So naughty pastimes ever lost, caution to the wind he tossed and into raindrop sprinkled skies Nicolai wandered out.
“Autumn in New York,” began the song and Nicolai finished, “Is nothing like it is in the songs.” A cold wind blew up First avenue carrying with it the stink (Pee-ew!) of spilled...something. Children prowled, like wolves in some once visited woods, in the shadows drinking, Nicolai thought, more expensive wine than I can afford. Was that a Chardonnay ‘91 he saw in a grubbing, begging hand? Real gold in the nose of that child to whom he gave a loose coin (nickel)? He paused briefly to let a waft of bakery steam clean his nostrils and across the street saw a sign, The Inn Stead. Instead of what?, he questioned and entered determined to find out.
It was a small establishment with only three prominent retail artifacts. Along the wall on his right was a long wooden bar at the far end of which several men and a woman played cards. In the center of the room sat a six-foot pool table, darkened; and to the left of the door was a video game at which a woman (a second glance showed her to be a fat man in a dress) feverishly toiled. Nicolai didn’t particularly want anything to drink, but his curiosity (and the cold) bade him stay. A female bartender, interesting. He ordered an Irish beer. As she was drawing it the card game erupted into shouting and an intense counting of fingers. The melee was in a language he could not understand, but did identify: Russian.
“Drooga.” A hand landed on his shoulder and Nicolai’s deceptive eyes flashed bright white and a rainstorm deluged in his head, fading to a drizzle as his vision returned and he discovered a new arrival standing before him. “Pool, friend?” The man flashed two quarters, twirled them in his fingers, and dropped them on the floor. Two dirty knees later the rack was set.
“I’m not familiar with American billiards.” Nicolai felt impelled to inform the drunkard. A cheer rose up from the card players as they threw back a shot of viscosity.
“Do not worry. I am the master of this game and I will show you. You see those balls? I will put all of the zebras into the holes and you will shoot no-zebras, OK? I go first.” He shot the break and knocked the first ball loose. Nicolai took the proffered pole and sized up his opportunities. “No good, friend. Come here.” He secreted Nicolai to a corner. “Who am I?”
“I’m Nicolai.”
“No. I am nobody. I am not here. There is only you and them.” He indicated the balls. “I am your deadliest enemy. You must try to crush me. That I will do to you when I go.”
“If you are not here, how can you be my enemy?” The man stared at him blankly. “Ahhh...,” said Nicolai, “I see.”
“Good. My turn.” The man stumbled and then took a shot, missing everything. One of Nicolai’s no-zebras was sitting close to a pocket. As he prepared to knock it in, a ruckus from behind disturbed him. The video ace was violently shaking his machine. He banged it, adjusted his bosom, unplugged the machine, and left.
Nicolai’s opponent (who was not there) began to jabber in Russian. One word, recognizable from Nicolai’s youth, was being repeated over and over again. “Arm? My arm? What of it?”
“mubba-wubbaski drooga mubbuski arm arm arm arm arm.”
“Alexia!” The shout came from the female tapper. She yelled at the drunk, telling him (Nicolai only supposed) to stop acting the fool. “Your beer sir.” He’d forgotten. Receiving it, he noticed, for the first time, the woman’s interesting face. She was an older woman. A not too obscene estimate might put her at fifty-five or sixty. There was an untelling quality about her, something that masked the less-than-taught skin on her face, something that shaped (as an invisible force field might) her unshapely breasts and turnip-like buttocks. Her face was stern and bold, and yet amongst all of her masculine qualities survived, and even reigned, an air of supreme femininity. She maintained complete control of her patrons. They cowed to her commands and dared not bark any but the slightest rebuke. Between duties she sipped delicately on a drink similar to what the others swallowed, but in her grasp it was a liqueur, in theirs only booze. Nicolai kept eye-contact with her until his shyness pulled him back to the game, she blushing slightly (a planned matronly blush only) saying, “Thank you.”
Alexia had cleared several of his zebras off of the table in the interim. Nicolai aimed his next shot and made it. Before he could double the feat his opponent walked over and gently switched off the light above the table. Nicolai reversed the action immediately, but seconds later it was off again. He could not concentrate and missed his shot. During Nicolai’s turn at invisibility he watched the woman closely. How perfectly you pour that liquid. Pick up the sloppily thrown coins. OOPS, you missed one. There it is. Slobs. His interest grew with the darkness. Peek-a-boo I see you. His turn again and as his visibility returned, she noticed him and smiled. “What is her name, old man?” Once again the intricate rules of their relationship were explained. “Her name. Her, what is it?
“You are no good for this game. My turn now.”
“Fine, fine, you may go again, but what is her name?”
“You like her?” Nicolai gave up and sat at a table. He paused for a second to light a filtered cigarette (Camels, a happy staple of American existence) and when he looked up the unthinkable was occurring. The man and Nicolai’s woman were commiserating at the bar. She looked over and giggled, a different sort of blush reveling in her cheeks. The room became uncomfortable for him. He could no longer breath; every puff of air paused on his tongue and would only go downstairs after an obscene click in his throat cleared some tiny homunculus which sometimes vacationed there. His eyes began to twitch and his skin began to itch and the drunk won the game. “Once again?”
“No. No.”
“Bah! You stink anyway.” Alexia took his money to the juke box and chose a song. It was a polka to which general reaction was extremely negative. Only Alexia enjoyed it, dancing (hopping really) and singing along. The lyrics were as follows:
In Heaven there is no beer
That’s why we drink it here
And when we’re gone from here
Our friends will be drinking
all the beer.
The song soon wound down and Alexia followed suit, accosting a stool and passing out on the bar. Nicolai tried to contain himself in his chair, but when his angel queried, “Another?” he excused himself to the bathroom.
The commode was small and dirty. Nicolai squeezed in and after some trouble finding the light filled the bowl with bad humor. He knew that he could not face her again. I shall exit the bathroom, walk head down toward the floor, and make my way straight out the door. Ready, set, go! Falter, breath, again: Ready, set, go! He broke from the gate in a fury.
“The light, please. Close the door.” It was she who had spoken. Nicolai turned around and switched it off, starting again for the exit. There, in his way, stood the large woman (man) who had left before. He tried to edge past him, but there was absolutely no room. When he stepped left, so did the hulk. When he stepped right, she was there. In the end, he was forced to back up and let it pass before he could finally escape ont
o the street.
The energy begins in the calves. Its presence is greatest where the meat is fattest: about four inches below the knee, in the rear. The sensation is somewhat like a small chick trying to birth long before the shell has grown brittle enough to crack. The flesh itself does not bubble, but the muscle underneath contorts and twists in its efforts to accommodate the growth. Another, more precise, way to look at it is not as a growth, but a cyclone of electricity, caught in a Möbius loop of tissue, undulating and flowing, accelerating as it swirls. The discomfort (more than that really) is not greater in either limb, but the left has a more difficult time coping because the muscles in that leg are less responsive to the will of the body. The sensation has two principal effects on the mind: frustration and pain. The frustration arises from the fact that the energy does not move. It remains in the calf and never, ever shifts up or down. It will not suffer to be ignored and is not subject to disposal. Pain enters the picture as a palliative, for this excess of energy begs to be used and if the muscles of the calf and foot are writhed in response, sudden sharp spears of pain replace, momentarily, the discomfort of the moment. As the muscles again relax, serenity follows, then the energy builds once more and the organic capacitor continues its cycle of rise and decay.
The attack struck Nicolai as he stepped out onto the sidewalk and he buckled under it. They came sporadically and he’d never gone more than a year without one. He knew now that it came, it would be with him, at the minimum, for a week. Climbing the flights to his room was impossible. By the third landing, walking was no longer an option and he needed to edge himself up backwards, using his arms for lift. While the fit was upon him, sleep would not arrive until exhaustion had robbed his body of the power to embrace consciousness and it drifted unwillingly out of a waking state. This was on Saturday. He was able to sleep from early evening that day until afternoon on Sunday. On Monday, he was able to walk and took the opportunity to buy some food, but later that night he collapsed in the shower and had to flop himself across the floor and into the bed leaving a trail of soap-slime in his stead. The mattress did not dry until Wednesday and he was not mobile again until Friday morning.
I Thought My Uncle Was A Vampire, But He Was Just A Creep Page 4
