Short Stories About You

by Jeffery Martin

  You’ve gone down Claudia Way and Tabitha Way. You are pulling into the cul-de-sac on Charlotte Way when you hear it. It’s faint, and at first you think it must be coming from one of the houses. Frank wheels the truck around and idles. You and Tommy jump down to collect the cans.

  Tommy is younger and faster, and he has half of his cans poured in the gullet of the truck before you get of your cans even pulled over to the truck. As you lift the first blue plastic container up, and a heavy one it is, too, you hear it again. You set the trash can back down on the street.

  You tap Tommy on the arm. “Did you hear that?”

  Tommy pulls the ear buds out of his ears. You can hear his rap music clearly now. It must be utterly deafening in his tiny head. “What?” he asks.

  “Listen,” you say. “Do you hear that?”

  “All I hear is you jabberin’, doo.”

  You raise your hand to shush Tommy. There it is again. You strain to pinpoint the direction, the source of the sound, but it is difficult to block out the rumble of the diesel engine.

  Tommy dumps another load of garbage into the truck.

  You glare at him. “Tommy, dammit! Stop for a second, okay? Just hold on.”

  He raises his hands and takes a step backwards. “It’s cool, doo. It’s cool. But I don’t hear nothin’. I’m just sayin’. I don’t hear nothin’, doo.”

  The birds are screaming. The sun is rising and the sky begins to burn orange. You hear the sound again, a little stronger this time. You instinctively turn towards it.

  Jesus.

  “Help me, Tommy,” you say. “Help me do this.”

  You start digging through the back of the truck, sifting through soda cans and foam containers. Used maxi-pads go flying.

  Tommy freaks out. “What the hell are you doing, doo?”

  “You’ve got to help me look, man! Help me!”

  But Tommy stands back from you, just letting you go insane by yourself. But you’re not insane. You heard what you heard.

  You’re tearing bags apart now. Coffee grounds and egg shells are sticking to your gloves. Unidentified juices are flying into your face, your eyes. Where is it? You’re becoming frantic.

  “What the hell’s going on back there?” Frank yells from the cab. Tommy, the little bastard, goes running to tell Frank what’s going on.

  You’ve only got a few seconds now. The sunlight is still weak, but still you search, squinting, peering into the refuse, tearing open any container you can find. Nothing. Nothing but food, paper and shit. Jesus, maybe you are crazy. You haven’t heard it since you started digging through all this crap. But you know you heard something. You know it wasn’t one of the damned birds.

  Tommy comes up behind you. “Doo, Frank says we got to go.”

  “Just another minute,” you say, throwing a pair of bowling shoes to the other side of the chute.

  “No, man, we got to go. Time is trash. I gotta pull it.”

  “Jesus, man. Please don’t. Give me just another minute, Tommy, please!”

  “Move your hands, doo.”

  Tommy pulls the switch. Inexorably, the packer blade comes down, smashing and crushing. You watch as aluminum crumples, paper tears and plastics rip open. You shake your head at the destruction. When the cycle is over, there’s nothing but grimy steel left.

  Tommy points at you. “Dump your cans, put ‘em back, and let’s roll, doo.”

  Except for the truck and the birds, the morning is silent. You stare at Tommy, incredulous.

  “Come on, doo,” Tommy says. “Do the job and let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  The job. The job, do the job, this is part of the job and it’s a terrible job but you have worries and considerations. You think briefly about ancient burial sites you’ve read about, pits, mass graves filled with the fossilized skeletons of children. You think about the landfills. You think about the garbage cans, everyone’s little File 13, where we put our mistakes and forget about them. You make those things go away. You have a role here, a place in the grand scheme of history. You are the eraser. You are The Great Absolver.

  You aren’t religious, but you genuflect briefly in front of the garbage truck, the eater of sins.

  You dump your cans. You put them back. Tommy pulls the switch.

  The two of you jump back onto the truck. The sun is growing brighter in the sky. You slap the side of the beast. Frank understands the signal and drives out of the cul-de-sac.

  At the stop sign, at the intersection of Charlotte Way and Jessica Way, you look up at one of the houses. There is a girl in an upstairs window, staring down at you. She seems nervous. She places her hand on the glass. You swear you can see blood on her hands. You look eyes for a second, and in the dawn of this new day, she knows you know. She puts her hand over her mouth and backs away slowly from the window.

  You silently absolve her. You have taken away her sins, literally and figuratively. You are the Father-Confessor of Terrace Pointe. Hail packer blade, full of grace. The truck noisily revs up, and you move onto the next street, bringing cleansing and forgiveness, taking away the sins of the world.

  Poor Skeleton

  BANG BANGBANG.

  You wake up. The digital clock glows green in the darkness. It’s four in the fucking morning.

  BANG BANGBANG.

  It’s the door. Someone is knocking on the door. At four in the fucking morning. Ridiculous. Outrageous! Uncivilized.

  BANG BANGBANG BUZZ BUZZ.

  Now the doorbell, too. This had better be good. You open your nightstand drawer and get your gun. You know it’s loaded. You check anyway. This is an extenuating circumstance.

  BANGBANGBANGBANG.

  “All right, goddammit,” you yell. “I’m coming.” Coming with a little surprise, too. If this is a trap, you’re not afraid to shoot your way out of it. You make your way through the dark hallway into the living room, managing to sidestep the couch corner you usually walk into.

  You look through the peephole. There’s a girl on your doorstep. Late teens, early twenties. She looks frantic. Long blonde hair matted, smudges of dirt on her face. A car wreck, maybe? A date gone wrong?

  You pull the door open as far as the chain lock will allow. The girl tries to squeeze through the crack. She’s gibbering, barely coherent, but you can make out what she’s saying.

  “Please let me in,” she says. “Please let me in. Call the police. Please let me in.”

  You tighten your grip on the gun. “What happened?” you ask.

  “Please let me in,” she says, her eyes bloodshot and desperate. “Call the police. Help us.”

  You watch movies. You’re fully aware this could be a set-up for a home invasion. But if that were the case, why would she be asking you to call the cops? That’s not standard criminal behavior. Unless she’s trying to lure you in with non-standard criminal behavior.

  “Please,” she says. “Help us. Please.”

  This is a bad idea. This is a horribly bad idea. This is a mistake.

  You unlatch the chain and let the girl in.

  She bolts past you and runs behind the couch, where she crouches. You can hear her breathing, almost wheezing.

  “Please. Police. Help us,” she says, her voice ragged.

  You close the door and lock it again, relatching the chain. “You want to tell me why I’m calling the police?” you ask. “And why you felt the need to just come into my house?”

  You get on the couch, on your knees, so you can see the girl but not be too threatening. Then again, you are still holding a gun. She’s going to have to deal with that until you figure out what’s going on here.

  The girl is curled up, fetal position, and now she is making a horrible sound, like a dry pump still running, a girl who has cried so much that there’s nothing left. If this is an act, it’s pretty damned good.

  “What’s your name?” you ask.

  She doesn’t answer right away.

  “Look, if I’m going to call the police, I need to
know who you are and what the problem is.”

  “Help us,” she says, her voice a dry whisper.

  “Who? Who needs help?” you ask.

  “Us.”

  Great. So glad progress is being made.

  “Okay,” you say, and your voice is conciliatory, soothing. “What people are you talking about? Who is ‘us?’”

  She looks up, and her eyes are wild. “Family! Sisters! Help us.”

  “Damn it, I need some straight answers, girl.”

  You get up from the couch and walk into the kitchen. You pour a tall glass of water and a short glass of whiskey. You approach the girl with both of them. “Come on,” you say. “Drink something.”

  She reaches for the whiskey first and knocks it back. She coughs a little, but holds it down. Then she takes the water and sips it. “Thank you,” she says.

  “Better?”

  She nods. “Please. Help us.”

  “Did you run away?” you ask.

  She nods again.

  “From your parents?” I ask.

  She starts trying to cry again, shaking her head violently. She points down the hallway, towards your bedroom. You roll your eyes. “What, you escaped from my bathroom?”

  She points again, wiggling her finger with deranged urgency.

  “Why?”

  The girl just makes noises, a high-pitched grunting, that take you by surprise. She sounds like an animal.

  Dammit. You should be asleep right now.

  “If it makes you feel better, fine. Then you’re gonna talk to me. With more than five words. You’re going to explain why you’re in my house at four in the fucking morning. Agreed?”

  The girl nods.

  You walk to the bedroom and gently nudge the curtain aside.

  The next door neighbors are out in their backyard. You’ve talked to them a few times. They seem like a sweet couple. He’s a big guy, affable, strong handshake. She comes across as Little Mary Housewife. Polite, demure, you imagine she smells like cobbler, all the time.

  They are in the backyard with flashlights, waving them about frantically. You can hear the sound of their voices, but you can’t make out what they’re saying. It’s not normal early morning behaviour, but there hasn’t been anything “normal” about the morning so far.

  A hand lands on your shoulder. You jump. Your strange houseguest has snuck up behind you. She peeks over your shoulder at the activity next door.

  “What the hell are they doing?” you ask. “Are they looking for you?”

  “Call the police now.”

  “No, seriously. Are they looking for you?”

  She nods. “Call the police.”

  “And say what?”

  “Tell them I got out.”

  That’s a new sentence. “Are you their daughter? Did you run away from home?”

  “Help us.”

  You look at her face, searching for a sign that she’s fucking with you somehow, that this is a bad practical joke. There has to be a tell, an eye twitch, a stifled laugh, something. There’s nothing like that. As far as you can tell, she’s terrified and telling you the truth. Not the whole truth, and not well. Not yet.

  “The phone is in the living room,” you say. “Come on.”

  She follows you out, hiding behind you, until you motion for her to sit on the couch. You grab your phone from the end table, unlock it and call the police. Not 911. You’re not sure if this is an emergency or just something weird. She isn’t going to hurt you. She physically can’t. She’s so skinny. Gaunt. You can practically count her ribs through her t-shirt.

  “When did you eat last?” you ask.

  The girl shrugs. She stares down at the carpet, afraid and embarrassed. You don’t know what this kid has been through, but she’s obviously fucked up in some bad ways. Abuse? Dementia? Both? Hard to tell, but you know the one thing you can do about it.

  You dial the police.

  One ring. Two rings. Three rings.

  “Police department,” says the tired voice on the phone.

  “Yeah, hey, look, I’ve got a girl in my house. She keeps telling me she got away? I honestly don’t know what she’s talking about, but she keeps saying she needs help.”

  You give the dispatcher your name and address.

  “She won’t tell me her name. And she seems really nervous about the people next door.”

  “I’ll send an officer out. Just be patient, and they’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  The police dispatcher hangs up, and you disconnect your side of the call, out of habit.

  Your houseguest holds up her whiskey glass and shakes it. The universal symbol for “more hooch.”You nod, and go to the kitchen to pour the girl another shot.

  “Five more,” she says suddenly from the couch.

  “Five more what? Shots?” you ask.

  You carry her drink back into the living room. She gulps it down without a flinch. “Girls,” she says. “Five more girls.”

  BANG BANGBANG.

  The girl jumps and whimpers a little. She stares at you, wide-eyed and confused.

  “It’s cool,” you say. “It’s just the cops.”

  You get up from the couch and walk to the door. You look through the peephole briefly, and step back.

  It’s not the cops.

  You point at the girl on your couch and stage whisper, “You. Go hide.”

  She stares at you with a cocked eyebrow.

  “Don’t ask questions. Just do it.”

  Already skittish, she rolls off the couch and hits the floor. She crawls down the hallway at a surprising speed, spider-fast, almost like she’s done that, as an adult, a lot.

  The gun is still in your bathrobe pocket. You wrap your fingers around the stock as you open the door.

  “Hello?”

  It’s your next door neighbor. You’re not even sure what his name is. “Hey, neighbor,” he says, out of breath and sweaty. “I know it’s late, or early, one of the two, but I was wondering, have you been up for a while?”

  You shrug. “I don’t sleep much.”

  “Look, I’m sorry to bother you with this but my, uh, wife’s cousin is missing. She was here visiting and I guess she got a wild hair, like girls do, and she took off.”

  “Yeah? That’s a shame. I haven’t seen anything.”

  “Really?”He asks the question nonchalantly. He’s a friendly neighbor. We’re all friendly around here, aren’t we?

  “Well, yeah,” you say. “It’s not like I sit up all night, staring out the window, waiting for someone to walk down the street.”

  “So, what do you do when you can’t sleep, neighbor?”

  “Watch infomercials until my brain melts.” It’s the truth. Some nights, you have to physically stop yourself from ordering kitchen gadgets.

  He isn’t looking at you. He is looking past you and around you. He’s scanning your house. He’s looking for clues.

  “I, uh… I don’t hear the TV on, neighbor.” His voice is deepening, and you feel him start to move in closer to you. Subtle, Alpha Male stuff.

  “It’s in the bedroom,” you say.

  Your neighbor puts his big dirty hand on your door and pushes. “What else is in your bedroom, neighbor?” You push back, shoving him back a couple inches onto your porch.

  “My bedroom is none of your business, friend,” you say.

  He pushes the door back at you. He smiles at you, and you can see all of his teeth. “You answered the door awfully quick, neighbor. It’s late. You act like you were expecting someone.”

  “I thought it was an emergency,” you say.

  “Yeah, it’s an emergency, all right,” he says. He pulls your front door towards him a little, then rams it forward, knocking you backwards onto the floor.

  And now he is in your house, a towering mass of nervous rage, eyes darting, feet shuffling like a football player, waiting for the snap. “Where is she, neighbor? Where is she?”

  “Who are you talking about?” you ask.<
br />
  He glares down at you and steps on your hand, grinding it against your hardwood floor. You can feel the small bones in your hand rubbing together in unnatural ways.

  “Allison!” he yells. “That girl. My girl.”

  He’s starting to stomp through your living room. “Get out here, you bitch! You fucking running bitch!”

  Then your friendly neighbor is in your kitchen. You hear the clatter as he flips over the table and scatters the chairs. Cabinets under the sink are thrown open and slammed shut. Mr. Friendly grunts with the effort, angry with the lack of results.

  Your hand still hurts like a bitch, but not enough to keep you from taking the gun out of your bathrobe pocket.

  The sight of the pistol in your hand stops the intruder in his tracks when he comes storming out of the kitchen. He holds his hand up and smiles, laughing.

  “Oh, come on now, buddy,” he says. “We don’t need to drag firepower in this, now, do we?”

  Oh, let’s see. Let’s think a minute. He broke into your house, physically assaulted you and is searching for a terrified teenaged girl, who can only say about seven words because she’s so frightened.

  “Yeah,” you say, “I think a gun is just the thing to drag into this situation.”

  He snorts. That Alpha Male thing again. He walks towards you slowly.

  “You won’t shoot. You haven’t even gotten up off the floor yet. You’re a scared sack of shit.”

  He advances on you, slowly, methodically. You can almost hear his heart rate increasing as he thinks about crushing your head beneath his incredibly heavy boot.

  There are times when you wish you had constant access to a camera. The moment when you shoot your next door neighbor in the ankle is one of those times. The look on his face is priceless. For a split second, you think he’s going to laugh, like this whole situation is ludicrous and hilarious. Then the pain sets in, and he realizes the shattered bone can no longer bear his weight. He crumples, falling to one knee, and his face becomes a mask of sadness.

  “Why?” he asks, like a child told he can’t stay up late to watch his favorite television show.

  In the bedroom, the girl, whose name seems to be Allison, screams at the sound of the shot. Your friendly neighborhood psycho boy reacts instantly. “Allison?” he growls. He begins crawling down the hallway after her. You get to your knees, stump over to him and shove two of your fingers into the jagged wound in his ankle. It’s gross, but his howls of pain and uncontrollable writhing make it worth it.