by Weston Ochse
Lenny frowned, his skin stretching deeply on his clammy face. A line of blood dripped from his forehead and across his eye. "I don't think my heart is beatin' anymore—and I'm not breathin'. When I realized this I got scared, man. What the hell am I gonna do? You gotta help me."
"No way. If I help you I can get in big trouble. They put Kevorkian into prison for this shit."
Lenny chuckled, his laughter the sound of glass scraping against concrete. "I'm already dead. How they gonna lock you up for killin' a dead man?"
"Obviously you're not dead, or you wouldn't be talkin' to me."
Lenny lifted his splattered hand up and pointed at a group of kitchen drawers. "The second drawer from the bottom. Get the mirror."
Sam sighed and stepped into the kitchen, his sneakers sticking into the gummy blood. He removed the mirror from the drawer and held it out to his friend.
The shock of being able to see the refrigerator through the hole in Lenny's head was the most unnerving thing that he had ever seen and he felt an involuntary shiver travel up the small of his back.
"Don't hand it to me, dumbass, put it to my mouth," Lenny said, spraying red spittle into Sam's white t-shirt. "What the hell you think I want to look at myself for?"
Sam put the mirror up to Lenny's mouth and waited for it to fog up. Nothing happened.
"Guess callin' an ambulance is kinda out of the question, eh?" Lenny said, smiling eerily.
"Lenny, this is way too weird, man."
"We need to finish the damn job."
"Fuck that 'we' shit. I ain't helpin' you do nuthin'. Maybe God wants you to stay here for a reason. Ever think of that?"
Lenny smiled widely, exposing his mouth—his tongue was cherry red. "You don't even believe in God."
"I ain't helpin' you kill yourself regardless of that fact. And the fact that you are standin' before me as a dead man makes me want to seriously reconsider my beliefs. If this ain't a fuckin' miracle, I don't know what the fuck is."
"Okay," Lenny said, grabbing the gun and putting it to the front of his face, wincing. "I'll have to keep tryin' 'til I do, then."
"LENNY—"
The gun went off explosively, sending the top half of Lenny's head hurling into the kitchen cabinet, splattering the wood with skull bits and brain matter.
Lenny looked up, his right eyebrow shaking back and forth convulsively from underneath the smoking maw in his forehead. "See? It doesn't even hurt."
Sam stood there silently, his breath shooting out of his throat in rapid heaves.
"You gotta help me, man," Lenny said, his hand feeling where the top of his head was supposed to be. "You gotta kill me, make sure I'm dead."
Sam tried to speak, but all that came from his mouth was a mouse-like squeak. He pulled a chair out from the blood-caked table and sat down, rubbing his temple to gain some form of sanity control.
After a few minutes, Sam found himself able to speak, but his voice had the tired edge of a battle worn soldier. "Lenny, I can't do this."
"Listen, Sam. I'm fuckin' scared here. For all I know, I won't be able to die. I can already feel my body decomposin', hardenin' as I speak. If you call the police, the media will be on me like vultures, man. I'm miserable. I want to die. If you were truly my friend, you would help me. Don't let the media turn me into a freak show."
"A true friend would have prevented you from committin' suicide."
"Well, it's a bit too late for that, don't ya think?"
"Don't you want to at least try to discover why you ain't dead? I mean this is weirdness of Biblical proportions, man. Maybe somebody upstairs doesn't want you to die just yet."
"I don't care about none of that. The way I figure is that God is just playin' one cruel trick on my ass."
"Maybe he's playin' this trick for a reason."
"Goddammit! You gonna help me, or not!"
"Do I have a choice here?" Sam asked. "Looks like you're my ghost and you're gonna haunt me 'till I help you rest in peace."
Lenny smiled. "I guess if you think of it that way, it works out better. Lenny the friendly ghost, I am."
Sam watched his friend speak—thinking of all the good times they had together. Although they had grown apart a bit over the last few years, Lenny had helped from quite a few scrapes. Hell, they had known each other since kindergarten. Lenny smiled then, somehow sensing what his friend was thinking.
Sam returned the smile, grinning like an idiot. "You ain't so friendly lookin' with the top of your head off like that. And I don't think that ugly-ass purple cowboy hat you always wear is gonna fit you too good anymore, either."
Lenny nodded. "You can have the hat if you want. And it's not purple, it's black. It just looks purple sometimes in the light."
"Ain't no way I want that purple hat. I can't even believe you offered."
"We need to figure out a way to kill me."
"What's this 'we' shit? I think it's high time you stopped using the word we. It's pissin' me off. How the hell you gonna help? Don't seem to me like you will be much help at all. If them bullets in your head don't work, I don't see what will."
One hour later, after much arguing, they were in basement, the dim lighting bestowing Lenny with the ghoulish appearance of a bad B-movie villain.
Sam had his bloody sneaker on the side of Lenny's ear and was standing over him with a hacksaw poised, teeth clenched, eyes lit up with fiery determination.
"You sure you ain't gonna feel this?" Sam asked, staring down at his friend.
"If I didn't feel them three bullets, I sure as hell ain't going to feel this, man."
Sam sighed. "It's been real, buddy," he said as he started to saw.
"OH MY GOD! FUCKIN' OW!" Lenny howled.
Sam shot backwards, dropping the hacksaw, his eyes wide as softballs. "Shit! I'm sorry! I told you it was gonna hurt! You bastard!"
Lenny was laughing from where he lay on the floor. "I was kiddin', you dumb fuck."
Sam was quiet for a moment, listening to the harsh sound of his own breathing and his friend's hollow laughter. "I hate you."
"Good! It will make it easier for you to saw me now."
Sam picked up the hacksaw and approached cautiously. "You pull that shit again, and I ain't doin' it. You can saw your own fuckin' head off! I mean it!"
"I'm sorry, man. I couldn't pass it up."
"Do it again and I stop. Remember that."
"I'm gonna miss you, man."
Sam began to saw.
It went into the neck easily, drawing very little blood. When he reached the bone he had a little more trouble, but after some grunting and extra muscle, he managed to get through.
The head rolled to the side, Lenny's eyes looking towards the ceiling. Sam stared down at the severed head and realized for the first time how far he had gone.
He could not believe what he had just done and wondered briefly if he lost his mind somehow, after all he had been awake for almost twenty-four hours. I've just severed my best friend's head, he thought. And we didn't even discuss what we were gonna do with the body!
"Shit," Lenny said.
"Oh this is fuckin' great," Sam said, his voice a low whisper. "Now what?"
"This sucks," Lenny said, his voice sounding like it was coming out of two wet speakers, all hollow and water logged, a dash of a nasal twang. His eyes looked down towards his body. "Fuck this is weird."
"Lenny, what the hell we gonna do here, man? You ain't dead." He stared at the grisly and mutilated body, swallowing hard. "And you don't look like you're gonna die in the near future."
Lenny stared upwards. "You're gonna hafta throw me in the river. Ain't no way, I'll survive that. I should have drowned myself in the first place."
"How you gonna drown, you dope? You ain't got no damn lungs. Hell, I don't even know how the fuck you're speakin'."
It was almost midnight by the time he got Lenny's body into the trunk of the car. It was wrapped heavily in plastic, weighted down with barbells, and was already starting
to smell as it decomposed.
Sam got into the car and looked down at his friend's head. "You're already startin' to stink man. Fuckin' disgustin'."
Lenny's voice sounded a little muffled as a result of where the neck sat on the car seat. "I think stinkin' is the least of my troubles. Sinkin' is what I gotta do. I just wanna die, man. I can't believe this shit is happenin'. Hopefully, the river will do me in."
Sam turned down one of the side roads, knowing it would be a good idea to avoid traffic. "You better hope the river does you in. Because my help stops here."
Cop lights flashed in his rearview mirror, causing Sam to squeal like a schoolgirl, his fingers gripping the steering wheel in heart attack inducing panic.
A quick look down at the speedometer told him he was speeding. "Fuck! A cop! Now what? You're gonna get me thrown in jail, goddammit! Fuckin' murder one! Murder one!"
Lenny laughed. "Oh, man, this is too rich. What the hell we gonna do?"
Sam looked around the car, wrestling with the sudden urge to stop and run into the woods screaming. Reaching his hands into the back seat, he poked around through fast food bags and soda cans until he came across a paper grocery bag full of garbage. He picked up Lenny's head by the hair and tossed it into the bag abruptly tossing burger wrappers and other trash over the grisly bullet ridden face.
"Well, this is an odd experience," Lenny said from the nearly inaudible confines of the bag.
"Shut the fuck up! I'm stoppin' now! Don't say a word or you'll fuck us both!"
The officer got out of the car and walked toward them, twirling a flashlight cockily, hiking up his pants by the belt with one finger until they came up to the belly button of his impressive girth. He reminded Sam of Jackie Gleason in Smokey and the Bandit. He ambled up to the window, spat into the road, and said, "You were speeding, sir."
"Yes, I know, Officer," Sam said, trying to control the shaking in his voice. "I didn't realize it. If you wanna give me a ticket, I'll understand."
The officer turned the flashlight on and shined it into Sam's face. "Have you been drinking and—uh, why is there blood splattered all over your face?"
"I hit a deer before," Sam said lamely, knowing full well that he was screwed.
The officer smirked. "Get out of the car please, sir."
Sam obliged him, wondering if now was the time to make a run for it.
"You want to tell me the real reason you have blood all over your face," the officer said, shining the flashlight over Sam. "And your clothes and hands too. Get down on the ground, sir. And put your hands behind your back."
"Officer, please, you have no idea what you're gettin' into."
The cop put his hand to his gun, his eyes almost daring Sam to make a move. "Sir, don't make me bring this out! Now get down!"
"Leave him alone, asshole!" Lenny shouted from the car.
The officer froze, staring at the car in bafflement, his eyes darting to the car and back to Sam again like pinballs.
Sam knew it was time to come clean, it was the only way. "Listen, officer, my friend Lenny there tried to kill himself tonight. He was havin' a bad time with stuff, recently losing his wife and all. Anyways, some weird shit happened and he wouldn't die, you see? He shot himself three times in the face and it did nothin', didn't even hurt. I tried to help him by cuttin' his head off, but that didn't work either. His body is in the trunk and his head is in that there grocery bag. He's still alive."
"Goddamn you, Sam! I told you I didn't want no one to know!" the bag shouted.
"You shut up, asshole!" Sam shouted, giving the bag the finger. "This shit has gone far enough!"
The policeman looked over at the bag on the car seat and then back to Sam, his finger tugging absently at his pencil thin mustache. He pulled the gun from its holster and aimed it at Sam, his eyes narrowing. "Reach into that car and get that bag, you ventriloquist motherfucker! Do it now!"
Sam nodded. "Damn straight, I'll get the bag, let you see for yourself."
He snatched the bag from the seat and emptied it into the grass. The head rolled out amongst soda cans and burger wrappers, coming to a stop with Lenny's nose in the air.
The police officer's mouth snapped open ridiculously wide and a rush of hot air fired from his mouth like a geyser of fear. "You sick bastard!" he said, backing up.
"Everything he said was true," Lenny said, smiling as he blew a wrapper from the side of his mouth.
The cop opened fire, rocking the severed head backwards with each hit. The head rolled over a bit—nose, back of the skull, nose, back of the skull, before coming to a stop.
"I already tried that, you fat fuck, it doesn't work," Lenny said, spitting out some gravel from his broken teeth.
The cop fell backwards in slow motion, hitting the ground so hard that it vibrated the earth. Sam put his fingers to the cop's neck, relieved to feel a pulse.
"Now look what you did, you happy?" Sam asked, sighing. He walked over and picked up Lenny's head, tossing it in the car.
Ten minutes later, Sam was standing over the abandoned bridge, Lenny's head held before his face in the moonlight. He had already tossed the body into the dark river below.
"This has been the most surreal night of my entire life, man," Sam said, smiling at the ghoulish head. "I'm seriously gonna miss you. You sure you don't wanna stay?"
"Well, okay, but you're going to have to go get my body then."
Sam gasped, almost dropping the head.
"I'm kiddin', asshole," Sam said, grinning through his broken teeth. The bullets the officer had fired had done quite a number on his mouth.
"I hate you."
"I know. I'm gonna miss you too, seriously. Thanks for doin' this for me. If this don't work, it won't matter, because I'm gonna be stuck down there in that water. I seriously wanna die. I wanna get off this planet, man. It's just not my place. There's a better world waitin' for me."
"I wonder how in the hell this happened?" Sam asked, enjoying the way the cool midnight breeze blew through his hair.
"Who knows? Makes you wonder if there really is a God, eh?"
Sam chuckled. "It does at that. You've been one of my friends since kindergarten, Lenny. And I'm honored to say that. When I get to heaven in like seventy years or so, you better have a cooler full of cold beer for me."
"I will. Thanks, Sam. You're a true friend. I'm sorry about the cop."
"Ah, that's okay. It's not like he's gonna say anything. Who will believe him?"
"Bye, Sam," Lenny said, the chilly wind whistling through the bullet holes in his head.
"Bye, Lenny," Sam said, letting go of the head and watching it plummet into the darkness below. It hit the water, splashed briefly, then bobbed back up like a top as it went sailing slowly down the river.
"Fuck...gurgle..." Lenny managed to say as he went bobbing away. "Fuck...gurgle...I ain't...gurgle...dyin'...shit...gurgle...I knew you should've...gurgle...used the wood shredder."
Sam turned and walked away. He had done his best. It was someone else's problem now.
Two months later, an old fisherman was gazing down at the obscene decomposed head at the end of his hook, his eyes wide in a sea of wrinkled flesh.
"Look up Sam Weber and tell him we have a major fuckin' problem here," Lenny said, his voice wet and soggy.
The Smell of Leaves Burning In Winter
I saw him hassling the other customers of the coffee shop before he ever came to me. Like an Egyptian beggar, he leaned in with supplicated hands, his clothes frayed, skin coated with a mosaic of dust and grime. Try as he may, he wasn't able to persuade the patrons to pause drinking their coffee, staring at the gathering throngs of people outside the large window or picking Beignet crumbs from their clothes. The man was background for the larger show, nothing more.
My head throbbed from yesterday's Lundi Gras celebration. Along with thousands of others, I had danced and cheered as Zulu and Rex arrived marking the official start of the Lenten Carnivale. Like a middle-aged Rave, we gyra
ted and consumed as if the spirit of Pan himself was within us. It had been too easy to lose myself in the large crowd. Too easy to forget my own demons and become an appendage of a greater namelessness.
But now, I was paying the price. Lightning cascaded and thunder shook by bones as my hangover multiplied the actions of my overworked synapses.
My turn now, the beggar headed towards me. I stared deep into the chicory blackness of my coffee and willed him to turn away. I had my own problems and wasn't feeling very qualified to help others until I had solved my own. His shadow crept over the white of the tablecloth until the coffee and my two ringless hands were embraced in his darkness.
"Do you know the smell of leaves burning in winter?" he asked.
The aroma of hot chocolate with marshmallows—steam drifting upwards, the heat warming shivering hands.
The crispness of cold air.
The earthy aroma of an old man in black galoshes, faded denim dungarees, green cap tending a pile of leaves with a long rake—earth burning.
The stench of death, a temporary stillness of the living, until the white blanket is lifted.
"Yes," I said.
We both inhaled, the gasp slicing conversation. Me because of the sight of his haunted, pain-filled blue eyes; him because of my response.
A tear slid through the grime upon his face as he grunted and pulled out the chair across from me. I glanced around, now the center of attention. Eyebrows were raised, mouths turned down in disgust. As soon as eye contact was made, it was averted, as if I had become as unclean as this beggar.
"Finally," he whispered.
He kept his head down, but stared longingly at my coffee, the steam laddering up, the aroma of Louisiana thick in the haze. With the back of my hand, I pushed the cup and saucer across the table towards him.
I watched as he grasped the cup in trembling hands, brought it up and inhaled deeply. His fingernails were black and the creases of his fingers were like roads on a busy map. The rest of his hand was covered by a half-glove, the original color a mystery. A jacket, once brown, was unwinding from the sleeves, long strings dangling. His once-blond hair was now streaked with earth and nearly black. His cheekbones were prominent, proof of feastless days and sleepless nights. And then there were his eyes...eyes that seemed to be forever brimming with tears, held back only by a surface tension of anger and self-revulsion.
