by Brian Hodge
Chance wouldn’t comment if Albert showed up in a dress, and Maudlin had only eyes for herself. The change hung in the breeze and drifted over them all. Albert knew that they sensed it. If they didn’t the open bottle of seventy-five dollar cognac would have been the key. If everything had changed for Albert, everything had changed – period. They would know.
Chance had caught the scent of the cognac; he would catch the scent of the blood. Albert rocked forward and up in an easy motion, finding his balance and slipping up beside Chance.
“Money’s over-rated,” he said softly.
Chance took the bottle, holding the smooth glass neck in one hand, his harmonica resting in the other. He glanced from side to side, as if contemplating the contrast of sliver-chrome and amber gold cased in green. The thin, wraith-like man lifted the bottle and watched the moonlight filter down through the glass, then tipped it slowly. Maudlin danced nearer, anticipating her turn, and the white, whirling material of her patches-and-lace gown flickered beyond the lens of the bottle as Albert spun away and moved toward the edge of the roof, watching the empty street below.
“It isn’t just the money,” he said at last. He didn’t turn to face Chance; he knew by the silence that he was heard.
“I could have bought three bottles of anything for that.”
“Wine of the soul,” Chance muttered.
Albert nodded. He fingered the bit of bloody cloth in his pocket.
“It’s a wake,” he said, turning back.
Maudlin had struck a pose, toe pointed and head thrown back, long black hair dangling down to the middle of her back, eyes dramatically to the sky, and the bottle held high. She didn’t flinch at his words, but when she’d taken a long swallow of liquid fire, she turned, still arched and posed, tilting her eyes and catching Albert easily in a wickedly inquisitive smile.
Chance glanced up at that same time. His expression was vague, as if he heard something far, far away. The harmonica flickered in a brilliant arc of reflected moonlight, meeting his lips reverently. Albert stood very still, and lowered his head as if in prayer, before striding quickly to Maudlin’s side and snagging the cognac. Maudlin winked and whirled away, leaving him to stand and contemplate the soft, rising notes of Chance’s song.
A wake. An ending. Commemorating the deceased and closure for those left behind. Tears rolled slowly down Albert’s cheeks. He shook as Chance’s song filtered through him, bringing back images he thought he’d left bleeding in the alley. Albert clutched the bit of cloth tightly, but all he could feel was the cold hilt of the blade. He closed his eyes more tightly, gripping the tears and squeezing them from beneath his eyelids, but the brick-walled alley was as clear as the moment he’d slipped into its shadows one day and one lifetime in the past.
“No,” he whispered.
Air teased his hair, lifting it to dance in the wind, and that wind carried just the hint of perfume. Maudlin. She spun up close, pressing flat to Albert’s back, one hand sliding around to tease at the buttons of the unfamiliar, linen shirt, the other circling the other way to slide the cool glass neck of the cognac bottle into his hand. Albert gripped reflexively, and Maudlin released, teasing the tip of that finger up his chest. Before he could protest, she’d slid a single finger between his lips. He felt something – something small and dry – pressed between his gum and his lip, and her wet finger was tracing over his cheek as she laughed and spun away.
Albert reached to that spot with his tongue, trying to dislodge the object, but there was nothing. His lip and gum itched, but his tongue met only smooth skin and already the images reformed. He lifted the bottle, tipping it and letting the fire invade. Letting it wash down his throat and into his heart – his soul.
Wine of the soul.
Chance’s voice, cutting through the mist without disturbing the image – blending and becoming the backdrop.
Wine of the soul, good or bad. Pretty words, reality for a stage and only us to act it out. Money, blood, the future only as long as we allow, and the past forever.
Albert took another long swallow and let his hand, and the bottle, drop down to his side.
Someone removed the bottle on the second back swing of his arm, but Albert barely noticed. The soft sizzle of LSD had reached the roof of his mouth, and the lights of the city had taken on a pearlescent, shimmering glow.
Ask the Angel.
Albert stepped forward. Never mind that the roof ended, and the night began. He kept walking and embraced it. Never mind that the world was skewed, and every time he tried to bring it into focus the crackling in his too-dry throat scattered the image, cracking like ice under water.
The world shifted. Albert turned, pressing his back to the bricks of the wall. Familiar chill, shoulders tensed, and without thought he reached for the hilt of the blade.
Nothing. His hand closed on empty air and the sound of footsteps, slow-click rhythm from beyond the grave, pounded from the street beyond, too-close – too loud.
“Dead.” he whispered.
The mouth of the alley darkened, and Albert moved. His body acted out the motions of a reality he remembered in synaptic glimpses. Albert levered himself from the wall and moved stealthily toward the street, his own steps a perfect intersection with the rhythm of those he heard. Something was off-kilter in the way the shadows lengthened, and drew back against the walls. He moved quickly, and yet each step stretched eternally. Albert stretched the muscles of his legs. He reached out toward the mouth of the alley with one arm, still groping at his belt for the blade-that-would-not-be – and stumbled.
The ground rose so quickly it made a lie of the impossibly slow run Albert had been intent on. His legs, one moment pistoning stolidly to gain purchase now flailed helplessly in the air behind him. A shadow flickered across the alley, and then was gone, and Albert was falling. He tried to get his hands down to break the fall. He tried to close his eyes, but the alley’s floor rose swiftly, and his motions were caught in a time-warp loop as synapses crackled in the back of his mind.
Chance’s voice cut through, just before Albert’s chin crashed heavily to the ground.
Nothing matters but the moment. One moment, the world is solid, Bill Clinton is President, and Pat Robertson is chasing hurricanes after gay pride and the next the NRA is marching on Disneyland. Watch the moment, and define it – that or be defined, your choice.
The ground expanded to fill Albert’s sight, but he felt no impact. His thoughts washed backward, sizzling through his hair and when he opened his eyes, he saw nothing but stars. His hand rose to his chin, instinctively feeling for broken bones, or bruises. Nothing. He felt half a day’s growth of beard. The stars twinkled, and he settled back – then froze.
Arching his back, Albert swept his upward. Stars swirled and snapped, popping like breakfast cereal gone mad in his mind until she blotted out the night. The angel. His angel. Albert’s arms shot out to both sides, as if he might stop a fall that would have happened before he thought of the motion. He gripped the ground tightly, digging his fingers into the grave of a man he’d never met as his eyes searched the white-stone face above him.
Albert laid back and closed his eyes again. He thought about the rooftop. He sensed the voice of the harmonica, and pictured Maudlin’s taut pose against the skyline. He pictured the ground, far below and that final step, and he shivered, but he didn’t open his eyes. He still felt her at his back, stone legs spread just so far, and hard – unyielding against the weight of his body. All around him, other stones rose. Rectangular monuments, taller spires and dark mausoleums with wrought-iron pickets. Dead, all dead and buried and gone down the same red drain, but his angel sustained him, despite the whirling draw of memory. If he was dreaming, the dream wouldn’t fade.
Albert opened his eyes again and took stock of his situation. The sun should have long disappeared beyond the skyline, but it soaked up and over the edges, orange and glowing. Early evening – of what day? What night? The same night as the long step into darkness? The
night after? Something or someplace else? Albert stretched and spread his legs, levering himself from his stone support and standing, turning slowly.
There were no answers in the angel’s eyes. She stared out through the growing darkness, toward the city, and the streets. Toward the factory. Somehow, Albert knew the answers to his questions lay in that direction. A quick inventory showed his clothing none the worse for wear, despite the surreality of the moment. It was possible that he’d walked down from the roof, staggered through the streets to the graveyard without being arrested, mugged, or simply stepping into the path of a passing car, but that wasn’t how it felt. Albert knew the dry after-kiss of LSD, and that lover was not in the room. Gone without a trace.
Albert reached out, letting his palm press flat against the angel’s cheek. He leaned in close, exploring the chiseled depths of her eyes. They were intricate, detailed to perfection – devoid of emotion. Empty. He turned, following the track of her gaze, and with a shrug, he stepped away, letting his nails scrape lightly over her cheek, trailing one arm behind as he stepped off into the deeper shadows of the cemetery and on toward the gates. Albert straightened the collar on his white shirt, reached to his back pocket for the comb he’d purchased hours –days?– before. It was right where he expected it to be, and Albert almost smiled as he ran it through his normally unruly locks, straightening them carefully. If he was going to walk into Heaven, or Hell, he believed he should at least look his best.
Traffic was slow. A few lazy cars prowled the streets in search of the night Albert breathed so easily and comfortably. Headlights slipped from the shadows, striped the buildings, then disappeared, tinted windows giving away no secrets. Nothing different from a thousand other night. In the distance, sirens wailed. Neon blinked and sputtered down each side street, but Albert was headed for Sid’s. Cycles were important. Closure wasn’t limited to empty-headed yuppie bimbos and cheap therapy.
His path led directly back the way he’d come. He would have to pass the alley to reach Sid’s. Sucker Man’s white chalk outline wouldn’t have had time to fade. The blood should still be staining the ground. Albert searched his soul for the remorse the moment demanded and came up with snake eyes. Nothing. He could remember the moment clearly. He could see the man’s staggering, helpless retreat into deeper shadow, but all he felt was anger. Anger at the man’s stupidity. Give up the wallet. Give up the money that wasn’t even important to one who had too much of it. Give it the fuck UP and get on with your sad, sucker-man life. Crawl home to your white-bread wife and two point five kids, figure out how to explain losing your wallet.
But no. Press your dumb-assed too-soft neck into the blade. Be a thirty-second hero and bleed into the floor of a lonely alley that will assure your endless shame. Christ!
The alley mouth opened to his left, and Abner stopped, lurching to the side and pressing a hand to the brick of the wall. He didn’t look into the shadows. He let his forehead drop against his arm, closing his eyes tightly. The street didn’t feel right. The clothes fit too tightly, so different from his t-shirt and jeans. What had he been thinking? His mouth was dry, and for just a second he remembered the fiery swirl of the Cognac, sliding down his throat.
The moment passed, and he pulled away from the wall, turning toward Sid’s with a frown.
At that moment a slender arm shot out of the alley, slender but strong. Fingers gripped Albert’s shoulder, tearing the sleeve of his shirt and biting into his skin like talons as he was dragged off balance, staggering into the alley.
“Wha....”
The half-a-word coughed from his chest and faded into nothingness as Albert’s back smashed into the alley wall. He shook his head, tried to regain his balance by pushing off from the brick – and then stopped, heart suddenly slamming like a jackhammer in his chest. Cold steel. The sharp prick of a honed blade, scraping on his Adam’s apple with the passage of each breath, eyes glittering – too close to his own.
“Don’t do anything we’ll both regret.” The words slurred. Albert knew them too well, each inflection snapped and popped in his mind with synapse strength sparks.
“No...” he whispered, feeling the slight motion of his throat scraping his skin over the sharp blade. He stared into a hellish, impossible mirror.
Albert watched Sucker man squirm against the blade. A few more moments, and he’d be on his way, headed for the Factory, Maudlin, Chance, and the Night Train to oblivion.
“Give up the wallet, man,” Albert said softly. “Drop it behind you, and you walk.”
Albert leaned against the wall, his ears ringing with insanity and his heart slamming in his chest. He wanted to speak, to explain the absurdity of it all. The wall seemed to press into his back, offering him to the blade. Albert raised a hand quickly, reaching for the wrist - the hand – the blade.
The man moved. Albert flinched, nearly retracting the blade, too slow. He felt the bite of steel as Sucker man pushed off the wall, oblivious to the deep-cutting blade. Something flickered in the man’s eyes. Something that snaked into Albert’s mind and snapped into place, and then was gone, turning and staggering into the alley. Bright red blood splattered the man’s white shirt. The steps were too quick, then erratic, then slow – so slow he fell in a blurred arc to the pavement as Albert watched, gaze flickering to the blade, dripping with blood, to the body falling and back again in a slow motion wash of color and sound.
“No...” Albert staggered to the wall, letting his arm press to the brick and his head drop to his arm. “Shitshitshitshitshitshit..” His breath hissed past his lips and he had to force himself to push off that wall and move to the body. The wallet. The money. He had to get out of that alley and do it fast.
As he moved closer, he had to fight back the urge to kick the shit out of the body, bleeding to death at his feet.
He forced the emotion from heart slamming to dead and kneeled quickly. With the tip of the blade, he sliced at Sucker Man’s pants, careful not to touch, or leave prints. A roll of bills fell out of the right front pocket. Albert snagged it with the tip of his blade and rose, turning away. All he needed to see or know.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen,” he whispered, slipping onto the street and turning toward the graveyard.
The moon rose slowly, sending silver tendrils of light through the bare branches of the trees, groping, shadow fingers sliding across the cool white stone images and the leaf-coated ground. Albert watched, fingering the hilt of his knife idly and leaning back in the arms of a stone angel. His angel.
The blood on the knife was sticky, not quite fresh, and not quite dry. The angel watched in stoic silence, as always. She never judged. That was one reason Albert came to her when things didn’t go quite the way he’d planned. Like the blood. He hadn’t planned to stab anyone this night. He had planned to snatch a thick wallet from some guy with too much money to really care about the loss, get a bottle and sit with Chance and Maudlin at the factory. There would have been a fire, maybe someone with a guitar, or a harmonica. Maybe even a girl or two, if their own business was slow enough to drive them to the fire.
Something itched at his mind. Something about green bottles and a hint of a deep sizzle in the back of his throat. Albert let his gaze turn upward, but the angel watched, quietly vigilant. No help there, just the solid support of stone and memory. That is what she was. The angel of memory, a memorial to another life, another death. She supported Albert’s shoulders, but she wasn’t really his.
With a sigh, he rose, brushing the dust off his clothes and thinking about the wad of bills in his pocket. The world changes. Everything changes, in the blink of an eye. In a single moment. The sky seemed, suddenly, to fill with bisecting lines – white lines between moments. Defining moments.
Albert shook his head, turned for a final glance at his angel, and turned toward the cemetery gates. He needed to get a change of clothes, and prepare for the coming night. Chance and Maudlin would be waiting, and the money burning a hole in his pocket seemed to grope a
t his soul. For some reason, he was thinking of Cognac.
Chance had risen, coming to stand close behind Maudlin, who teetered on the edge of the roof. They leaned out, Chance anchoring Maudlin, who was fearlessly graceful in the arms of various chemicals, honed to new depths by the warm Cognac fire.
They couldn’t see the street below them. Only shadows cut softly by the pooling light of dim streetlights. Sliced by the beams of the headlights of passing cars. The darkness at the foot of the factory wall was complete.
“He’s gone.” Maudlin’s voice betrayed no emotion, but deep in the mascara-etched lines of her eyes, something cold and distant flickered. Something lonely.
“Only here for moments,” Chance whispered. He brought his harmonica quickly to his lips, turned away, and began to play. The notes started low, then soared, stretching out into the night and drawing in on pain.
Maudlin ignored the sound as long as she could. She brought her hand up to shield her eyes against a glare that was not there, staring into the shadows. Far away, a stone face returned her gaze. Maudlin winked, and spun, hands raised to the stars and limbs bending to the beck and call of the song.
On the fire escape...heavy footsteps echoed off into the night...defining the moment.
For These Things I Am Truly Thankful
It was late, and the hum of the neon sign outside the coffee shop was the only sound. Adam didn’t know why he stopped. Coffee was the stated purpose, but really, after eighteen hours and a pot and a half, it wasn’t likely to help much.
Sleep deprivation is an acquired skill, and he’d been out of practice since leaving college and final exams behind in a sort of post-adolescent haze. No late night cram sessions. No beer busts stretching out to meet the grasping fingers of dawn. If you asked his fiancé, Gail, she’d have told you “no spontaneity”.
