Lurk

by Adam Vine

  Coke. Hash. Acid. He put something on that bowl. It has to be drugs. It has to...

  But part of me knew it wasn’t. I was one of Them now – one of the broken pieces. They had been reaching for me, calling to me for weeks, and They knew I had finally figured Them out. They saw me, and They wanted me to see Them, too. It was time.

  Risking permanent deafness, I grabbed the old brass knob of the Hobbit door and pulled, a hundred tormented voices howling in my ears.

  I stepped through, onto a beach drenched in sun. Salt vapor and the hollow cries of seagulls permeated the air. The sand was warm between my toes, but the breeze had a chilling bite to it, and there were high, thick clouds that covered the sun at regular intervals.

  I was walking along the crest of a dune overgrown by swathes of ice plant. I was barefoot. Half a mile ahead of me fell a slender crescent of golden beach, framed by a distant wall of gaunt sandstone cliffs. To my left was the Pacific Ocean, guarded by a marching procession of natural bridges. To my right there was a snaking line of wooden planks that stretched for what seemed like miles to the distant, towering arcade of the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk.

  I was walking north along Main Beach. But it was different. This wasn’t the Santa Cruz I’d left behind.

  I looked left again, to the sandstone arches. There were many more than I was used to seeing. The coast extended farther out than usual, and the bluffs and their labial sandstone drips were less shorn by rain and time. There were fewer houses on the cliffs, and they were huge and far between, the old Victorian mansions Santa Cruz had been famous for at the turn of the previous century.

  The boardwalk looked different, too. The gaudy poor-man’s carnival was gone, replaced by old-fashioned red and white striped tents. The popcorn machines had brass wheels. The air stank of fried fish and beer. A single, whitewashed wooden roller coaster howled and rattled as it flew by, full of men in waistcoats and women in full-bodied white lace.

  The Giant Dipper – the first roller coaster ever built west of the Mississippi, way back in 1924 – was the only ride on the boardwalk. The Giant Dipper I knew was so old it was practically falling apart, but this one looked brand new, its construction finished yesterday.

  As I walked further up the boardwalk toward the arcade, my jaw dropped at the prices I saw. Popcorn cost a penny and was made with real butter. Corndogs and beers cost five cents a pop. An orange from one of the snack carts cost a penny. Admittance to ride the Giant Dipper was fifty cents, which I realized was probably expensive for the time, but justifiable to the people waiting in line, since to them, it was one-of-a-kind.

  A familiar voice spoke over my shoulder. “Hey kid, do you like magic tricks?”

  A knot clenched in my gut. I turned around and found myself face-to-face with Scudds Gurney. He was standing in the shadows between a corndog stand and a concrete wall, holding his accordion in his arms. There was a strange rectangular object on the display table next to him, hidden under a black cloth. The poster pinned to the table read: “Travel Through Time With Dr. Midnight’s World-Famous Magic Mirror Box!”

  Scudds’ teeth were no longer mirrors. The flashbulbs in his eyes were gone as well, replaced by a tired red creeping towards the china blue of his irises. He wore a striped white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, half-tucked under a corduroy waistcoat complete with a battered brass pocket watch, and a tall beaver hat. There was an old puke stain on the collar of his shirt. It was painfully obvious he was hung over.

  Scudds smiled at me and winked. “C’mon, don’tcha like magic, Jim? Open the box.”

  I shook my head. “N-no thanks. I’m good.”

  Scudds chuckled and extended his hand. I shook it. He was flesh and blood. There was nothing threatening in his touch. The Scudds I was speaking to was a different man than the one who fell in the Hole, younger, and still in possession of his sanity – most of it, anyway.

  “Good? Why, of course you are, Jimbo. You’re a good old boy, and that’s why you’ll love my magic mirror show. Because magic is bad, and all good boys love bad things. My machine will let you see into the future. Ain’tcha ever wanted to see the future, Jim? C’mon, give it the old American try! Only costs one nickel a view. C’mon, Jimbo, right over here, just put your head under this cloth.”

  Why does he keep calling me Jimbo? Oh. That’s what he calls everyone. What a friendly guy.

  I pulled back. I didn’t want to see what was in Doctor Midnight’s Magic Mirror Box. His smile fell in disappointment. “No thanks,” I said again, and quickly walked away, continuing on towards the arcade.

  I heard Scudds call after me with desperation in his voice, “Well, you’ll come back and try it later, won’tcha, Jim? You’re a good old boy, and it’s a good old show. Only a penny a view…”

  I held my breath and quickened my pace until I could no longer hear his plaintive cries. Scudds Fucking Gurney just begged me to look in his mirrors. This isn’t like the party, where he knew who I was. He’s only an image here, a memory. I’m seeing someone’s memory. But it isn’t his. I already had a suspicion whose it was.

  I saw her leaning against the wall of the grand arcade, smoking. She looked more like Mr. DeLucio’s colored pencil portrait than the dead girl I’d seen lose a foot dancing under Sunny Hill. She was pretty, and had shiny, chestnut-brown hair that fell almost to her waist. Her nose, cheeks, and the tops of her breasts were pink from the sun. She didn’t look a day over thirteen.

  Annabelle Leigh saw me staring at her and flashed me a smile; tired, flirtatious and well-rehearsed all at once. She was waiting for someone, I realized, working her corner to find a john. Seeing her made my heart hurt. I wanted to hug her, tell her everything was going to be all right. I wanted to take her somewhere warm, light, and safe, away from here. The voice in my head disagreed. Just another whore, it said, another one, like Bea, who burns anyone who gets close. Better to keep walking.

  I gave her the slightest nod before continuing down the boardwalk. Maybe it wasn’t my place to interact, only to watch, like a film. They were showing me this memory. Whatever was going to happen was something I had the feeling I couldn’t change.

  I didn’t stop until my feet touched wet sand, far past where the boardwalk ended. The crowded beachside hills, which in my time were full of two-star hotels, liquor stores and overpriced restaurants, now held nothing but patches of glaive-like ice plant and the occasional stand of coastal acacia or dwarf pine.

  The memory shifted. I was on the same beach, with my toes dug into the same sand, but it suddenly felt cold. It was getting dark. The Boardwalk was empty except for flies floating lazily in their death circles beneath the ruddy gas lamps, and, of course, Annabelle Leigh. She was with a boy. The boy was a few years older than she was. He was handsome, with the earliest shade of stubble on his chin, and long, skinny arms. But like Annabelle Leigh, he was poor. The boy’s hair was stiff with salt from bathing in the sea. His clothes were streaked with grease and his skin was oily, shining in the cake-yellow glow of the lamp.

  Annabelle Leigh propped one foot up on the wall behind her as they kissed and ruffled his hair. The boy’s hand was under her dress. I could tell he wasn’t a customer from the way they looked at each other. They were in love.

  The two teenagers heard something, and the boy broke their embrace and ran, then quickly hid around the corner. Annabelle forced a smile as a large man appeared down the boardwalk, strolling slowly towards her with his hands in the pockets of his torn wool trousers.

  The man was huge, at least seven feet tall, and had eyes red as a sunset. His skin was covered in blue tattoos so old the lines were blurring together. When the man smiled at Annabelle Leigh, his teeth were dead, as brown and brittle as his skin.

  Annabelle Leigh tapped nervously on the wall next to her butt. I could tell the man scared her. When he spoke, he kept his voice low. He had a foreign accent. It was maybe German or Dutch, but I’ve never been good with accents. He was high on something, and his words slurre
d and rasping. His lower jaw and neck were concealed by the shadow of his face, cast by the lamp behind him.

  “How much?” the man said.

  Annabelle Leigh pretended to think. “Hmm. One dollar.”

  The man spat over his shoulder. “I asked how much.”

  “And I told ya, mister. It’s one dollar.”

  “Seems a bit high, love.”

  “Fifty cents.”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “You can go ta hell, mister.”

  The man looked around, eyes darting to both ends of the Boardwalk.

  “No one’s comin’,” Annabelle Leigh said. “If you ain’t gonna gimme the money, you can get lost. I don’t like strange men botherin’ me.”

  “I didn’t realize I was being a bother. I only wish to make an agreement with you. But you’re a bit young for my taste, and you’ve got a mouth on you.”

  Annabelle eyed him up and down. “No I ain’t.”

  He snorted. “No. You ain’t.”

  “Two quarters. Twenny minutes.”

  “And what do I get at two quarters for twenty minutes?”

  Annabelle Leigh glanced over her shoulder in the direction of her hiding boyfriend. From where I was standing, I could see the boy leaning on a wall on the other side of the Arcade, out of sight, but not out of earshot. Annabelle Leigh couldn’t.

  She's just a little girl. She's probably thinking about how she’s going to spend that money to buy her and her boyfriend ice cream to eat while they sit with their feet dangling off the edge of the pier. She has no idea what she's doing, or what’s about to happen to her. That poor, lost child. I wish I could help her, save her… I wish I could...

  But my feet didn't move.

  “You know what you can get for two quarters and twenny minutes,” Annabelle Leigh said.

  The foreigner raised a spindly, pale finger, wagging it in her face. “Say it. We need to have an agreement.”

  “I’ll make whoopee with ya.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Ya.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “I said ya, mister. What else do ya want?”

  “Where?”

  “There’s a hotel across the street. They charge ten cents an hour. Or we can go up the beach.”

  “I like the second option better.”

  She took his arm and they began walking. Back at the arcade and leaning on his pillar, Annabelle Leigh’s boyfriend stared dejectedly at the holes in his shoes.

  The memory shifted, as did my point of view. I blinked and found myself looking through someone else’s eyes – Annabelle’s. They were only open for a fraction of a second before I was plunged under a wave and salt water stung my eyes, blurring my vision. There was a hand pushing me down. But I fought. I fell and my butt sank into the sandy bottom. I pushed off as hard as I could to get my head above water. My long hair billowed all around me, making it hard to see. I only knew where up was because of the force pushing me down. I bit that huge, powerful hand, swallowing a mouthful of seawater in the bargain.

  His grip relented for an instant. It was enough for me to squirm away. I scrambled out of the waves and to my feet. He caught me a dozen yards away in the wet sand. He turned me over onto my back and straddled my chest to keep me from getting up. I squirmed and I scratched and I bit, but I was pinned. With one hand, he trapped both of mine behind my head. I was just a little girl, half the size of the drunks he was used to fighting. Wrestling me into submission was nothing.

  The man picked up a rock off the beach, a little bigger than his hand. He looked at it, examining its weight, if it would be enough to kill me. At some point he’d reached the decision that I’d insulted him, I guessed as early on as saying “One dollar,” but more likely long before he ever saw me. He was going to make me pay. This is how he made us all pay, how he made the world pay.

  For the first time, I noticed the taught, scarred tissue running up his neck, out of the dirty collar of his shirt to his mouth, like he had drank acid and spilled it down his chin to his chest, all pink and gnarled.

  The last thing I remembered feeling, aside from paralyzing terror and the three hundred pounds of male bones and flesh crushing me, was surprise. His face was still, and the look in his eyes wasn’t rage, or joy, or hurt, only the blankest, coldest indifference, like two black holes punctured into white paper.

  When the rock fell on my skull for the eleventh time, I slipped out of Annabelle Leigh and fell into darkness. The memory shifted.

  ***

  I wake up on Pacific Avanoo, ware I fall asleep behind Angelo he is the meat man's shop. There are horses an carrijs in the road. The shops all got streamers an shiny thing s in there windows. Christmas Day, 1891. I was am a little boy.

  My tummy growl. I got no food. I look in the trash pit behind the shop, but there ain't no thing there ain't rotten. The dogs hiss at me so I hiss at them. I hate those old dogs but some nights they keep me warm.

  A rain start to fall. The clouds look like a pregnant women. The rain feel cold. People on the street run in side. The rain buffeted from the wind. That's one of my favorite words.

  The wind get so strong a man's umbrella snap and blow backwards over his head. A carrij wheel get stuck in the mud, an the driver hop out an said, “Shet.”

  I go to Tom Weaver’s. Tom Weaver the guy we give our scores to since Zed Farley got kilt. Zed Farley was a sonofabich. He made enuff off us to rent a room in a old house on 1st street. He told the house ma he was our cousins. Tom Weaver house next to the railroad traks. It's old but fine enuf. Tom waiting there aready when we show up. Ten other guys live in Tom Weaver house. Tom Weaver crazy, fair. He is old. He used to be frens with Fred Johnson but Fred Johnson went back home to New York. Fred Johnson's family is rich.

  I give Tom Weaver two wallits, 3 necklace, and one hat. The hat is beefer skin. It's a nice hat. Tom keep it for his head.

  The Sheriff come find me next morning behind the meat shop. Angelo, he is the meat man, ratted me. Say I sleep there. The Sheriff come take me to jail. Judge say he gon' send me to the Army. I tell him I'm only tin. Judge say you ain't gon' to the Army, your gon' to the reformitory. I say I alredy ben there. Judge say your gon' back.

  The reformitory a small place behind the church where Father White teach us readin' an' writin' an' 'rithmatic. Me and the other boys sleep side to side on blankits. I don't sleep at all. Mick, he is a fat boy who snores. I stare at the window until it's gray outside. Father White don't never give us enood.

  I try stealin' a carrot when he catch me. I say you ain't gon' hit me. He say I'm the devil's child. He take me round back and hit me. My face gits black and red for 3 days.

  Next time he catch me stealin' that gold-platid cup from the rectum to sell to Tom Weaver. The old people take wine from it dur'n Mass. Tom Weaver say he give me two dollar for it. On two dollar I can go all the way to the Yukon and get rich diggin' gold. I was gon' spell it Ukon but Fat Mick say it spelt Yukon. He read'n over my shoulder. Hey Mick, your fat. You ain't gon' hit me you big baby.

  Fat Mick say it ain't spelt ain't. Fat Mick ain't too smart.

  For stealin' the gold cup Father White lay me with a belt 'til my ass bled. I say you ain't gon' hit me but I knew he wud. He say I'm the devil's child. My pants was red for 3 days.

  Next time he catch me stealin' two dollars from his secret hole in the shed so I can go to the Yukon. The shed by the graveyard and the men keep a shovel there for diggin' graves. Father White come at me with the shovel screamin'.

  I say you ain't gon' hit me. Father White hit me 'til my face gone and blades me with the shovel edge 'til my gut comes out but I ain't dead. He put me in a hole round back of the graves. I still got one eye open when he starts puttin' on dirt. The dirt is heavy and cold. I ask why. Don’t God love me? Father White say No, Carl, God don't love you an' he never did. I'm the devils child.

  ***

  Chinese Lee sets the dynamite carefully on the lip of the rock ledge, tying the
wires with a tired, calculated precision. His fingers are deft. He’s the fastest man out of their three-man crew. It is the twelfth charge he’s set this week.

  It is not Lee’s error that causes the dynamite to explode while he is still standing over it, but the fault of the man on the other end of the wire, a huge Irishman named Irish Bill, so fat and smooth-cheeked he’s often mistaken for a woman, who is still exhausted from waking up drunk. His whore the night before, a little German boy whose age he did not ask of the madam, was so lush he lost himself in him for a whole fifteen minutes, and it’s still on his mind. When he finished at the brothel, he had waited outside for the boy to step out, then took him and roasted him alive over an open fire, deep in the woods where no one would see or tell.

  He won’t tell now, Irish Bill thinks.

  He’s never been hard to find due to his size, his smooth cheeks, and the stutter of his words. He’s escaped the noose before, but this time he may not be so lucky.

  The thought makes Bill cringe, and for an instant, he forgets the detonator in his hands, and accidentally leans on it. He doesn’t feel the explosion, his body being shredded into its smallest constituent parts by the flames and the concussion of the blast and the rock shards flying like shrapnel in a whirlwind.

  I don’t feel anything at all. Neither does Chinese Lee.

  ***

  Moving rail ties on the crane pulley is tiring. It needs a strong man, an ox with molten metal for blood, not some small little limp-hands to get it done right. But even the strongest bull gets tired. The ties are over my head when the rope slips through my fingers. I feel the rope burn my skin off only for an instant, hear the name, “Shaw!” shouted over my left shoulder before I am half-impaled, half-crushed flat by the falling steel. I am not the only one under it.

  ***

  The saloon roars with piano music and the false pleasure of whores wailing in the rooms. The gentleman in front of me, whom I have as recently as two minutes ago complimented and purchased a shot of the finest whiskey, has just broken his bottle and is brandishing it at me like a blade. He tells me to “Git,” calls me “Fancy Pants.”