Fear is the Key:
An Introduction of Sorts
by
Gary A. Braunbeck
A very good friend of mine (and brilliant writer of award-winning poetry, as well as a Bram Stoker Award-winning editor) Christopher Conlon once pointed out to me the difference between a “literary collection” and a “genre collection” – and it has to do with things like Introductions. A Literary collection will have a single Introduction, usually written by someone not the author who is also a well-known name in the field – like, say, Paul Auster writing the Introduction to Amy Hempel’s next collection.
A Genre collection not only has said Introduction (usually written by the author him- or herself), but it will also have an Introduction to each story, or an Afterword, or something called “Story Notes” tacked on at the end – all this effort so that the reader will find the genesis of every single story in the book as endlessly fascinating as the author her- or himself finds it. It usually comes off as one of two things: rampant egotism/narcissism, or ponderous navel-gazing.
Personally, I like “Story Notes” or Introductions to each story, or an Afterward, because I am interested in how other writers’ thought processes work (I say “thought” and not “creative” because, let’s face it, before you can get creative, you first must have a thought which a solid piece of fiction can use as its base). I also like Literary Introductions, for the same reason; if the author of said Introduction is another author, it’s twice as interesting for me, because what you get is an interpretation of the pieces you’re about to read, only these are filtered through the sensibilities of someone who’s only read the stories, not the person who actually wrote the bloody things.
This is my way of telling you: if you’re looking for Introductions, Afterword, or “Story Notes” for the novellas in this collection, this Introduction is all you’re going to get. I am of the opinion that the stories speak well enough for themselves.
I did, however, want to comment on the title of this collection: Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys. It was the first thing that popped into my head when publisher Steve Price asked me for a “working” title. I almost hosed it because it seemed to me to be about as subtle as a jackhammer used for minor dental work. But the more I re-read the novellas contained herein, the more I realized that the title (a bit heavy in a Strum und Drang sort of way) was appropriate, because each novella, in one way or another, deals with individuals who have locked themselves in their own cages, pig-headedly thinking that no key exists to free them. But that key does exist, and each of them has it. It’s called Fear. For it is the things that has most trapped the characters in their cages, and it could also be the source of their release if they either embrace and overcome it, or surrender to it forever.
I know – makes this collection sound like buckets of chuckles, doesn’t it? I do promise you that each story contains its share of humor (well … my humor, anyway, which not everyone gets) but – and this is not meant as hyperbole – I would recommend that you not read them all back to back or over a short period of time; I’m told the cumulative effect of these pieces could be extremely upsetting for a lot of readers.
So there you have it, the Introduction to This Collection. Didn’t ramble too much, mostly stuck to the point, and now it’s time to unlock the door of my own cage and make a fast exit, Stage Left.
Yeah, I have my key; it’s always on my person; and it and I, a long time ago, came to terms with one another’s existence.
Thank you for purchasing this collection. I sincerely hope you find something in each story to keep close to you afterward.
Exit, Stage Left.
• Gary A. Braunbeck
• Still Lost in Ohio
• Feb. 7, 2011
Table of Contents
In the Midnight Museum
The Ballad of Road Mama and Daddy Bliss
Kiss of the Mudman
Tessellations
The Sisterhood of Plain-Faced Women
In the Midnight Museum
“Each thing we see hides something else we want to see.”
—René Magritte
1
Okay, technically, it was not so much the nuthouse as it was the pre-nuthouse holding facility.
Its official title—which was too much of a mouthful for most people to want to deal with—was: The Cedar Hill Mental Health Association Emergency Stabilization Center. It was attached to the nuthouse (actually, it was attached to Cedar Hill Memorial Hospital, the 7th floor of which housed the Psychiatric Unit, the accept-no-imitators official nuthouse) but served a different and more pressing function: to temporarily house and treat those individuals who were—as the admission literature phrased it— “... in a state of extreme psychological and emotional distress that has rendered them a danger to themselves and/or others.”
The staff referred to the place as simply “The Center”, but its nickname among clients (that’s what you were called here, a “client”, not a “patient”) was “Buzzland”—a moniker that even staffers would have admitted appropriate, considering how stoned most people were kept during their stay.
Some clients were transferred to the Psychiatric Unit once stabilized; some were released to the care of friends or family members; but the majority of them—most of whom had neither insurance nor much money to call their own—were simply shown the door, given a week’s worth of medications to keep them on an even keel, and sent on their way with well-wishes that never sounded as optimistic or heartfelt as the words themselves would lead you to believe.
In short: if you seriously cracked up, flipped out, or melted down, they put you in there for X-amount of days (no fewer than 2, no more than 10), snowed you with enough sedatives, tranquilizers, and anti-depressants to stop a charging rhino, then—once you were deemed stable—turned you loose; a treatment affectionately known as the Buzzland Shuffle, mental health’s equivalent of fast-food service, where everything went smoothly as long as you held fast and true to the rule of the 3Ds: Drag ‘em in, Dope ‘em up, Dump ‘em out.
Despite the system’s being far from perfect (not to mention looked down upon and criticized; after all, only the dregs of humanity wound up in Buzzland, everyone knew that), it had saved many lives over the years; and in the case of anyone who found him- or herself becoming a client, it was the only place they had to go when the darkest hour of their life got the upper hand and would have otherwise destroyed them, or those around them, or both.
It was not a place in which Martin Tyler ever expected to find himself; but, then, nothing about the past few years of his life had gone as expected, so it really didn’t come as all that much of a surprise, considering.
It happened like this:
At 9:45 p.m. three days before Hallowe’en, already partially shiny from ingesting the first batch of various prescription medications but deciding he didn’t want to finish the job at home (or, rather, the apartment where he lived; home was both a word and a concept now meaningless to him), Martin got into his car and drove downtown to the Marriott Hotel, intending to get a room, but discovered that none were available because of the Auto Show in town. (Maybe it was just his current state of mind, but it seemed the desk clerk was suspicious of his having only a brown paper grocery bag for his luggage, which made him wonder if she hadn’t maybe lied to him about there being no rooms, but he didn’t have the time or energy to argue.) He politely thanked the clerk, left, and drove toward 5th Street, intending to get on the freeway into Heath and try the Holiday Inn, but the downtown square was swarming with cars, some of which were driving so fast Martin was shocked there were no collisions—classic cars, modified roadsters, tricked-out lowriders, anti
que Tuckers, Model-Ts, Edsels, Stutz Bearcats, a Speed Six Bentley like that guy on The Avengers used to drive . . . he lost track of the number and makes of cars—so he was forced to drive around the square, which is how he found himself at the stoplight on all-but-deserted West Church Street.
This particular area of downtown Cedar Hill had once been the most thriving quarter of the shopping district, but after the last two recessions, several plant closings, and the opening of the Indian Mound Mall, more and more businesses were either closing their doors permanently or relocating to higher-traffic areas; as a result, this strip of buildings on West Church had very few active businesses remaining, save for a paint store, a bakery, a pawnshop, and a Tae Kwon Do studio that had replaced DeVito’s Books a few years back after John DeVito, the owner and proprietor, had died. A brass plaque in front of the Tae Kwon Do studio commemorated the site’s former owner.
Martin found himself looking at the place he’d always think of as the bookstore, remembering the hours he’d spent alone browsing inside, always finding an interesting book or three to purchase, picturing the way Mr. DeVito would wrap the book in brown butcher’s paper and tape it closed—an old-school bookseller, was Mr. D—and for the first time in months, felt a strangely comforting pang of nostalgia; hell, his parents used to bring him here as a child to buy his school supplies. This building had been an important part of his life for . . . well, most of his life.
Digging into his grocery bag, Martin removed a matted watercolor painting that he’d bought off some old street dude for fifty dollars a few years back. It was a painting of the front of this very building, only instead of the Tae Kwon Do studio, DeVito’s Books was still there. The artist had done a really good job of capturing not only the look of the bookstore and building, but the feeling you got about the place, as well; everything was very warm, very inviting: this was a place where you could relax and enjoy yourself, have a good conversation with Mr. D, find some terrific reading, put your troubles on hold for a while. The old dude who’d painted it had done dozens of similar watercolors for other businesses all over downtown—Martin had recognized the man’s work almost at once—and had told Martin that part of how he supported himself was by painting watercolors of local homes and businesses. Martin guessed the old guy was either homeless or lived in a grubby room in the Taft Hotel; he didn’t really ask. The guy was really grateful for the fifty bucks, and Martin had a terrific painting of the bookstore.
He’d decided that this watercolor was the thing he wanted to be looking at while he fell asleep for the very last time. Good books, good conversation, good memories, good-night.
He looked from the watercolor back to the building, just to compare the two one final—
—something moved on the roof.
Looking back to make sure none of the cruising cars had decided to come this way (the square proper seemed the only place anyone wanted to be), Martin rolled down his window and leaned out, craning his head for a better look.
Whatever was on the roof was moving again, albeit slowly and with a great deal of odd noise; metallic clicks and scrapes, underscored with something like a wet fluttering sound.
The light changed to green. Martin checked behind him again—still no cars coming—then decided he didn’t give a shit if anyone drove down this way or not; he had about half an hour before the second and more serious dose of meds needed to be ingested, so why not take a few minutes for a last little adventure?
Climbing out and leaving the door open, he walked around to the front of his car, then into the middle of the street to see if it afforded him a better view. At first he thought that he’d either moved too far toward the opposite side of the street or that whatever was up there had backed away from the edge of the roof, because all he saw was the front of the building—countless broken or boarded-up windows of the empty apartments, the upper floors of the building having been closed off several years ago.
Then something moved again above one of the windows near the rusted fire escape, this time stepping directly into the semi-foggy but nonetheless bright glow of a nearby streetlight.
Wow, thought Martin. I didn’t think I was this fractured yet.
At first he thought the thing was some kind of old-fashioned box camera, the kind used back at the turn of the last century; its head was box-shaped and shone with a deep, hand-rubbed rosewood finish, and that wasn’t really so odd—
—until you saw the long, sharp beak protruding from the place in front where the lens should have been; on each side of the of the box was a hand-sized half-sphere of brass that looked like the bulging eyes of a toad; a thin iron rod like a neck connected the box-head to a wider, longer box that looked like a small child’s coffin standing on end, held upright by a pair of thick, powerful, furry legs, each ending in a wide wolf’s paw, claws extended to give it purchase and balance.
So this is what going round the bend feels like. Somehow, I’d thought there’d be more screaming and drooling involved.
A set of membranous wings unfurled from the back of the lower box, and with another series of metallic clicks and scrapes the creature began to move back and forth across the roof, bending its legs at the knees and hopping forward while its wings fluttered with a furious speed to rival that of a moth’s.
As Martin let fly with one brief, barking laugh, the creature on the roof came to an abrupt halt, its beak opening and closing as if it were trying to either speak or snap a bug out of the air. Spatters of wet, dark blood spilled from the tip of its beak. Perhaps it had been snacking on a stray mouse, bird, or rat.
It bent forward, blood spattering against the fire escape railing and splashing down onto the sidewalk, its beak rapidly opening and closing with intense determination, and as Martin watched, mesmerized, he heard a child’s voice reciting a bit of Keats, one of his favorite poets:
“Darkling I listen; and for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful death,
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever it seems rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain . . .”
He shook his head, remembering what the suicide handbook had said about things like this (though the book never once used the term “suicide”, opting instead for the more overly-poetic “self-deliverance”; it was all tomato-tomahto as far as he was concerned): “Visual and aural hallucinations are not uncommon once you have begun the process of self-deliverance. Just accept that these are merely products of your subconscious mind clearing away the detritus. Do not be afraid. Do not doubt your eyes, your ears, or your sanity. Many of these phantasms are said to be lovely, sometimes even funny. Enjoy these last gifts your mind gives to your soul before the two part ways.”
Martin almost didn’t want to look away from the creature—how the hell had his brain come up with something like this, anyway?—but he had to stick to the schedule.
“Did I get it right?”
Startled, Martin spun around, but saw no one; it wasn’t until he felt a small hand tug on the bottom of his coat that he looked down and saw the little boy standing there.
“Did I get it right?” asked the boy. “The poem? You do remember that poem, right?”
“Uh . . . yeah . . . I remember that one . . . and, yes, you did get it right.” Martin stared at the child. “What’d you mean, did I remember that poem?—never mind, scratch that, moving on: Who are you?”
The child shook its head, giggling. “Dumb-bunny. You know.”
Of course he recognized the little boy—how couldn’t he? Even with the better part of four decades separating them, Martin at once knew he was looking at the six-year-old child he’d once been.
“So,” said the little boy, “you’re me, huh?”
Martin shrugged. “Not really, not so much . . . I guess I’m . . . what became of you.”
The boy tightened his lips and narrowed his eyes, considering it
, then said: “Same thing. Y’know, Mom and Dad are gonna be real mad at you.”
“They’re both dead.”
“Dumb bunny—I know that. But they’re still gonna be so mad.” Then, switching gears and the subject, as six-year-old boys are wont to do, he pointed toward the roof. “Do you think it can fly?”
Martin looked up. “I don’t know.”
“I think it’d be cool to be able to fly. I wanna be an astronaut.”
“You never really got over that.” Martin looked back down. The boy was gone.
Nice seeing you again, as well.
“Hey, you!”
The boy now stood on the roof, next to the camera creature, waving both his hands; the creature was hopping up and down, its wings fluttering—which, Martin supposed, might have been its way of waving.
Martin raised up a hand, bending the fingers down, then up again.
“I’m gonna learn to fly someday,” shouted the boy.
Martin whispered, “Sure you will.”
Time to go.
Oh, yeah . . . the first batch of pills was really starting to kick in, and if he wanted to do this right, if it was to be timed correctly so that he didn’t end up just puking his guts out or merely brain-dead, Martin knew he had to find a room and take the next batch before 10:30 rolled in and—had he remembered to bring the pudding cups? . . . the pudding cups were important. Did he remember? . . . Yes, yes he had. You had to grind the pills into powder and mix them in the pudding and then chow down. Coated your stomach so you didn’t throw up.
Ah . . . but did you bring a spoon?
Busy, busy, busy, so many details and other things to keep track of.
He opened his eyes, checked his coat pockets, found a bunch of plastic spoons he’d secured together with a rubber band, and smiled at his being so well-organized.
Cages & Those Who Hold the Keys Page 1
