The Mind is a Razorblade

by Max Booth III

  My life force.

  Our breaths heavy and reassuring, my eyes locked into hers and her eyes locked into mine, she smiles and says, “I’m Molly, honey.”

  (memoria ii)

  molly—formally known as the redheaded stripper—brings her lips back against mine and i close my eyes, losing myself in her intoxicating scent, feeling her tongue slyly slip into my mouth while my tongue does the same to hers. a minute or two passes in complete bliss, the cold wind encouraging us forward into each other’s arms.

  and then i no longer feel the wind, the coldness, the lips—it’s all gone. panicking, i open my eyes to find not only the girl out of sight, but also the alley in which we’d previously been standing in.

  everything is just so...dark.

  it takes me a moment to realize i recognize this place. this is the same darkness i had succumbed to earlier, back in lamb’s office. i don’t know how it is possible, but this space—whatever it is—it feels a hundred times vaster than the last time i was floating in it.

  the darkness evaporates from vision, recycling nothingness into real material, and i’m indoors, resting on a closed toilet. bright lights seep through the cracks of the stall trapping me. not yet fully comprehending the sudden change in my surroundings, i do what i assume any reasonable person would do in such a situation: i scream and fall off the toilet, my face landing next to a mechanism of pipes and splashing in a puddle of ancient piss.

  i yank my head away, grimacing. the odor is repulsive. it programs the urge to vomit inside of me, but when i try to welcome its release, i can’t even manage to gag properly.

  surprisingly, neither my face nor hair are the slightest bit damp. one would think falling face first into a puddle would qualify for a little wetness—not that i’m complaining.

  temporarily distracted by this supernatural event of urine, i slowly stretch my arm out and probe my finger in the puddle. it doesn’t feel like how a normal puddle should feel. it’s warm, almost hot, and amazingly thick, reminding me of wet cement. i can only twirl my finger around it for a moment and then the task becomes too difficult and i have to give up.

  and still, my finger remains dry.

  i stand up, using the toilet for balance, and wonder why i was just playing in a puddle of piss.

  the pain in my head seems to have subsided for the time being. in fact, i don’t feel a damn thing. i am numb. comfortably numb.

  turning toward the closed door, i spot crude graffiti overwhelming the back of the stall, most of it faded away to near incomprehensible markings. in the dead center, however, there is a poem written in black permanent marker. it appears to be the freshest piece of artwork contributed to this dubious collage:

  as I sit

  I contemplate

  should I shit

  or masturbate?

  ‘where the hell am i?’

  below that graffiti, it says conundrae will rise.

  of course he fucking will.

  desperate for answers, i attempt to open the door and instead walk straight through it, as if it really isn’t even there.

  i’m in a public bathroom. a line of stalls identical to the one i’ve just exited wait behind me, a series of urinals mimicking its formation on another wall of the room.

  directly across from the stalls, a sink hangs below a mirror, and in front of this sink stands a man hunched over, washing his hands. he wears dirty blue jeans and a white t-shirt.

  ‘hey!’ i shout, approaching the stranger. ‘where am—’

  i pause as i spot the man’s reflection in the mirror and realize there is no one standing behind him. he is the only person in the bathroom.

  yet i’m here, i know i am, so why can’t anyone grasp this?

  i suddenly understand something else, too. this man, he’s the same one from that hallway, the one named brother bob.

  the man is me.

  his hair is black, about medium length, a little wild. somewhere in his early twenties (although i don’t think the funny bunny version of me is still this young). my grimly edge hasn’t seemed to have caught up to him yet.

  all in all, he looks happy.

  i want to be like him, i think.

  then i remind myself that i am him. but it doesn’t matter who i once was if i can’t return to it, now does it?

  i want to be him again.

  he twists the faucet to OFF and turns around, coming face-to-face with me. it’s almost as if he stares straight into my eyes, but it still doesn’t seem to faze him at all—not how it does me. he just continues along and walks out the door, leaving me standing in front of a mirror that refuses to acknowledge my existence.

  i don’t know what this is but if it’s anything like the session back at the hallway, then i am bound to return to the alley sooner or later. might as well go with the flow and learn what i can before my time here expires.

  i follow the man out of the bathroom, entering a room that i automatically recognize as a bar. it’s not as developed as the risqué cabaret, but it is a bar nonetheless. i see the pool tables i already knew would be there, the jukebox, the stools, the booze. i see people drinking, laughing, yelling. it’s a bar. i know bars. bars can be fun.

  i attempt to push my way past the crowd, but quickly learn that when no one can see or feel you, you are going to have one hell of a time trying to get them to move. but the only other choice i have is to turn around and head back into the bathroom. they’re basically surrounding me. i feel so trapped, so doomed. i reach my arms out and use all of the strength that my ghost can muster and push against the masses.

  at first there is no progress whatsoever. it is a very frustrating feeling, trying your absolute best at something only to fail miserably every time. there is no backing out, i tell myself, and concentrate all of my energy on creating a path ahead of me.

  shoving myself against some random girl, i suddenly lose my grip and go flying forward into her, and then i go flying out of her into the next person in line, stumbling through their hologram as well. i stop myself, trying to calm my heartbeat, and i realize that the heartbeat is just my imagination. i don’t even have a heart anymore.

  no one with an actual heart is able to just walk straight through someone.

  holy shit, did that really just happen?

  yes, yes it did. although now i’m not really so sure it’s any stranger than the rest of the stuff that’s been happening to me tonight. but still...holy shit.

  just to test it out again, i jump through an incredibly large breasted girl to my right and land on the other side of her, struggling to stay on my feet.

  all right, i can work with this.

  i look around, trying to determine where my other self has gone off to, but come up empty. everyone looks the same to me. just a bunch of drunken nobodies socializing with a bunch of other drunken nobodies.

  so i decide the hell with it and start walking through random people in hopes of stumbling upon him by chance.

  i am able to shuffle through them without the slightest hint of awareness. i am not even a cold chill brushing the back of their necks. i am nothing more than a mere component of light generated from the fluorescent bulbs hanging over our heads.

  they all give off this ominous aura that singles myself out from the rest of them. it’s a small detail, but still noticeable. they’re like these thin layers edged around each person, as if someone with a very paranormal permanent marker came along and traced the outlines of everyone. the colors differ from one another, but the majority seems to range between shades of blue and red. i can’t help but wonder what mine would be if i were in a normal human being’s body, instead of...whatever it is that i am.

  everyone gives off this stale, unfathomable scent that i take to mean everything and nothing is a threat. even though no one here has the ability to see me, i am still a little timid with each person who i soul-molest. this impassive sensation is too much for my confused state to handle, making me feel like a small puppy far away from home, los
t in a strange city full of people who are just aching to stomp on my poor little tail. no one will dare pet me, but instead only swerve their cars in my direction in hopes of creating road kill for others to admire.

  it’s terrifying.

  fortunately, it does not take long to find myself again, especially with his (mine?) loud, insolent mouth guiding me along. i find me #2 standing beside one of the pool tables, twirling a pool stick in his hand like a cane. there’s this certain smug smirk across his face that makes him stick out from the others. a growing crowd circles him and his friends, applauding as the game progresses.

  ‘ten bucks says i get that 7 in the corner pocket there,’ me #2 says.

  ‘i’m in.’

  ‘yeah, me too.’

  me #2 cracks his neck, bends down, aims, and fires. he clears the table, save for the cue ball. another eruption of cheers bursts around us.

  ‘i’m out.’

  ‘yeah, me too...’

  ‘i can’t believe you made that shot, man.’

  ‘what can i say? i have skill.’

  ‘nah, it’s just the luck of the irish, plain and simple.’

  me #2’s smile brightens. ‘yeah, maybe so. now pay up, you cheapskate bastards. i gots me some more drinkin’ to attend to.’

  i stand there idly by watching as the ‘cheapskate bastards’ pay my other self, and then skulk off out of sight, cursing under sour breaths. a man with an abnormally tall green mohawk stays with us and collects some of the pay.

  ‘they get dumber everyday, don’t they, bob-o?’ he laughs, a slight touch of an accent detectable in his speech.

  ‘you think they’d learn,’ me #2 says.

  ‘nah, too much fuckin’ booze, mate. us, we can drink all night and still play like the best of ‘em. these fucktards, on the other hand, you give ‘em two shots and they’re done for. they’ll wake up tomorrow totally broke, telling themselves they’ll never drink again. we’re like civil fuckin’ servants, man, i kid you not. we’re saving lives while making them look like complete twats. that’s what makes this game so fun.’

  ‘really?’ me #2 says, as they travel toward the bar. ‘and all this time, i thought it was because of all the money we make.’

  ‘i couldn’t give two shits about the money and you know it,’ the mohawk guy snaps. ‘that’s just a bonus.’

  his ribcage is clearly visible under his white tank top. the lack of fat on his body nauseates me.

  ‘yeah, yeah, you free spirit you.’

  ‘hey, fuck you, bobby.’

  ‘relax, i’m just screwing with you.’ me #2 laughs and claps mohawk on the back. ‘c’mon, this round’s on me.’

  the two men progress into a long session of drinking, which is then followed by even more drinking. they sit down at the bar, sharing incoherent ramblings of various brawls they’d participated in over the years. it is all surprisingly boring and hard to keep up with.

  as the patrons go on about their business, i discover something very strange, something i figure i should have noticed right off the bat. some of their faces...they’re not how faces are supposed to look. sure, some are easy to make out—their expressions detailed to the bone—while others, on the other hand, are nothing more than blurry, pixelated beings sculpted into the shame of generic humans. a small minority are mere orbs hooked on the train of passerby, dragging against the rails of vulgarity.

  i briefly entertain the idea that there’s a chance these orbs are just like me—maybe this is what i look like. is it possible there are others trapped in this nostalgic film of my past? do they see me? what are they doing here?

  what am i doing here?

  ‘hold that thought, mate,’ mohawk says, downing the rest of his beer and stabbing his cigarette butt out into an astray in one swift motion. ‘gotta see a man about a mule.’

  ‘why do you say that?’ me #2 asks. ‘don’t say that. it is a stupid thing to say.’

  ‘just tryin’ to adapt to your american lingo, mate.’

  ‘you’ve never been out of the states in your entire life.’

  ‘yeah, but me old man visited london on a business trip once.’

  ‘get out of here.’

  ‘no, i’m serious, he really did.’

  me #2 shakes his head. ‘i mean, get out of here.’

  ‘oh,’ mohawk says. ‘right.’

  ‘and check out the verse i wrote in the middle stall,’ me #2 adds. ‘you’ll get a kick out of it.’

  he turns and walks away. me #2 remains hunched over the bar, utterly oblivious to his doppelganger two stools away from him. he orders another beer, seemingly unfazed by the sheer amount of mystery floating among us. maybe he has the right idea.

  what’s the point of speculating over what is possible and what isn’t? either way, this...whatever this is...this is real. i am here. i’m stuck right in the middle of it, with or without my mind.

  my other self dives deeper into his alcohol. just when i am beginning to think this is just some sort purgatorial time warp—a cruel trick pulled by the devil himself—a familiar looking redhead collapses down on the stool between us and shouts for a whiskey.

  the barkeep pours her a shot and she flings the warm liquor down her throat and is motioning for another one before he even has a chance to attend to the next customer. she looks very troubled.

  ‘you look troubled,’ me #2 agrees.

  ‘thanks,’ molly says, soaking another fiery shot of whiskey into her liver.

  ‘what’s wrong?’

  ‘nothing.’

  ‘so there is no reason why you look so troubled?’

  ‘i’m not. piss off.’

  ‘but then why did you thank me?’

  ‘i did?’

  ‘yup.’

  ‘right.’ molly nods. ‘now leave me alone.’

  ‘someone’s pretty feisty tonight.’

  ‘i am through with men. i swear to god i am turning lesbian.’

  ‘that...that’s cool.’

  ‘why are you still talking?’

  ‘oh, um, sorry,’ me #2 says, and goes back to sipping his beer in silence.

  i sit there for a few moments, not believing what i’m seeing. is he seriously just going to sit there and not say anything?

  but he doesn’t make any other attempt to speak, only continuing his journey into the blurry world of booze. i am so relieved when the girl finally breaks their sad little silence.

  she slams yet another shot glass down on the bar and turns toward my other drunken self, saying, ‘i mean, what’s their problem? is there a sign pinned to my ass i am not aware of that says PINCH HERE?’

  ‘uh...’

  i am amused by the fact that we both (me and myself, i guess) lean back and check out her ass at the same time, nodding in approval. i can understand how someone would imagine such a sign pinned in that particular area.

  ‘um, who is doing this?’ me #2 timidly asks. ‘i’ll go pinch them in the ass, if you’d like. see how they like that.’

  ignoring his (my) nice gesture, molly smacks her palm down on the bar and exclaims, ‘it’s like one of the only rules, but can they follow it? huh? can their simple little dicks behave themselves? no, they just have to touch. always with the touching! god! i just don’t get it. why?’

  ‘well, i can’t blame them.’

  she looks at him unbelievably. ‘i can’t tell if you’re trying to be sweet or you’re just stupid.’

  me #2 shrugs. ‘can’t it be both?’

  molly eyes him for a minute and finally says, ‘look, i may be a stripper, but don’t go expecting any of my work life to mix with my social life. got it?’

  ‘hey, we all gotta make a living somehow, right?’ me #2 says. ‘hell, i transport illegally harvested human organs. so trust me, i understand.’

  the expression on her face is very queer. either she’s about to burst out laughing, or she’s going to get up and run away from us as quickly as possible.

  luckily, my other self manages t
o break the tension before it has a chance to escalate: ‘ha ha, relax, that was a joke. i was joking. i, uh, don’t really do that. i am also a stripper, in fact. and i was just thinking how rude it is for all those women to be pinching my ass, too. i mean, really, a little common courtesy would be nice, am i right?’

  ‘uh huh.’

  ‘really, i’m telling you the truth here. i work over at the, uh, you know, the male strip club. whatever it’s called.’

  ‘studs n’ muffins?’

  ‘uh, yeah, that’s the place.’

  ‘they have the greatest muffins...’

  i watch the two converse. it doesn’t take me long to figure out that none of this is important, and whatever it is that i am supposed to be learning isn’t going to happen here. i’m just being bullshitted around, plain and simple. it’s almost sickening, watching my other self flirt with this girl—they’re just so obvious.

  just as i am starting to think this mind numbing flirting is never going to end, the man with the tall mohawk springs out from the blurry faces surrounding us and leaps in between them, a wide smile spread across his face.

  ‘yo, bob-o, new fish, six o’clock,’ he says, gesturing behind them in the general pool table area. ‘c’mon man, let’s get to ‘em before some other bloke does.’

  ‘dammit, rev!’ me #2 says, struggling not to drop his drink. ‘you almost made me spill my beer.’

  ‘yeah, yeah, whatever,’ he says, prancing back and forth like a child with a secret. ‘did you not hear what i said? new fish, bob-o, new fish!’

  ‘yeah, i heard you,’ me #2 says, gritting through his teeth. ‘can’t you see that i am in the middle of talking to someone?’ he pushes mohawk back a foot or two and nods to the redhead.

  mohwak lays one eye on her and nearly drops his jaw, to which she blushes immensely. me and myself are immediate victims of envy. why isn’t she blushing at us, dammit?

  ‘why, ‘ello there, darlin’,’ mohawk says, looking as suave as someone with such ridiculous hair can possibly look. he gently picks up her limp hand and delivers a kiss to her knuckles.