Seeking Carol Lee

by Nace Phlaux

  The second I closed my apartment door, Richter knocked through our shared wall, but something was off, as if dots and dashes could be slurred like drunk speech. I responded through the thin layer of drywall and carried my pint with me over to Richter’s door. When I went to go through the second half of the password, the door creaked open as my knuckle first made contact, making me tense up to high alert. I called out “Sebastian Melmoth?” thinking back to one of the aliases he’d used in the past, but the only response I got was the sounds of a heavy thud and objects and papers falling to the ground.

  I leaned over until I could see into the apartment better, and seeing no one in there, I crept inside and changed my grip on my pint to make it more like a hammer. I lifted my foot to bypass the tripwire but found it was gone. Everything about this screamed “Get out,” but I never claimed to be a smart man. Another step in and I heard Richter groaning from behind a chair. Apparently the thud was him falling and knocking over his TV tray, sending a slew of stupid gadgets you’d find in survival magazines or 4AM infomercials around the floor.

  Thirty minutes later, I had him sitting on his couch with his leg up on the coffee table. He didn’t tell me how it got into a cast, and I didn’t ask. The way Richter worked, he’d tell me when he was ready or if it was necessary. The only thing he managed to tell me in that time, though, was that he’d taken painkillers. He laid his head back and covered his eyes with his hand despite the light in the room being dim. I tried to clean up, at least the bits he knocked over when he fell since he never seemed very tidy, and I noticed how most of the projects I’d worked on were missing. Thankfully, he’d kept the laptop.

  Of all the traps and projectile weapons I’d helped Richter make, none were really dangerous. They might take out a squirrel or a window, but you’d have to really aim right or shoot a frail grandma for anything to do any damage. The laptop was potentially different. The idea was he could press a button on a remote control and ignite a small explosion in the electronics. I guess it’d be good if you had authorities knocking on your door.

  So the first problem was testing. A potato gun you could go over to the park and test, even make a day of it. Explosives aren’t that easy. The other problem was the amount of powder—as in, I didn’t know what the right amount was. So the entire thing could either fizzle or take out half the room. I didn’t think Richter was stupid enough to mess with the remote carelessly, but I don’t know who visits him. What if a nephew I didn’t know played a game of “What does this button do?”? So the laptop security system was fully functional. The remote I gave Richter? Not so much. I kept the real detonator, a garage door opener, in the junk drawer in my kitchen.

  After cleaning up as best I could and clearing paths for his gimp ass, I asked him, “So, Mr. Jeffries, what’s with the substation?” He didn’t respond, so I rambled about my day—how I’d been down to the city, the meal I bought, the weirdoes I saw on the streets. Anything for his drugged mind to grab on to and run with. Eventually, I just grabbed a glass and ice from his kitchen and poured myself my vodka, listening to all the commotion from the crowds and emergency vehicles outside.

  Out of nowhere, Richter goes, “The chaos came after all. Five years too late, but it came.” He rambled on about the financial crisis of 2008 and how as more and more people flooded the collapsing market, desperate crimes increased. He wanted to pop popcorn, sit back, and watch the craziness, he said, but it didn’t “escalate.” He thought it’d come to the point where there’d be a daily dose of insane criminals new to the “industry.”

  “Seventy fires in Coatesville, and only twenty so-called ‘solved.’ Whole streets of tires slashed every morning in South Philadelphia. Dark, dark crimes. But the ones I liked were the brute force.” His hand rubbed down his face, falling off his chin and landing on the sofa, but that smile. He just looked so happy. Like he was imagining a great caper. “The MAC machines. ATMs. Whatever you want to call them. Those were my favorites. Videos online of people just knocking them over. Dragging them away.” At that, he flung his hand into the air like he was swatting a bug, dropping it hard again.

  Gears began to turn. I thought maybe then would be a good time to take a chance. In his drugged stupor, maybe his mental defenses would be down. Alcohol may loosen the tongue, but painkillers open you wider than a last call bar tramp. “So how’re you making your money lately?” I asked him. “I’m not too proud to admit I could use your guidance.” He was high, I figured, but blowing smoke up his ass couldn’t hurt.

  His head did that slow push forward with his chin bouncing off his chest that seems like a stereotype a bad actor would use to feign drunk, and his brow furled as if in deep thought for a while. “Temp jobs,” he finally said. “I signed up with J & J over by the mall. Everything looks legit. Everything above the boards. In the black. Night. Bats. Wombats. Melbourne.” He grumbled something I couldn’t make out, but his lips kept going.

  “Do you get anything if I refer you?”

  At that he suddenly seemed to sober up, his eyes widening and staring at me like I called his mother a whore. His body remained limp, but that head and face were fueled with a brief moment of fierce clarity. “Don’t mention my name. Never, ever mention my name to anyone, especially J & J.” After a moment, the head wavered, and the eyes rolled a bit until the fight was lost. I wondered if I should readjust him or put a blanket on him, but the urge passed.

  I sat there in awkward, drugged silence, madness ebbing in the lot out front, and plotted how my next week would play out—how our next week would play out. For the first time maybe since my last few days of being seventeen, I felt hopeful—downright eager, even—for the future.

  * * *

  The next morning, I’m in the lobby of the temp agency, where the chairs are arranged in this bizarre pattern a guy in human resources could tell you is science-tested, psychology-approved to do horseshit to eighty percent of the people in the room. Only thing is, it’s just me and the couple of receptionists at first. I’m three pages into giving them my social security number, references, next of kin, and blood type—thinking the next step involves a proctologist and a slight discomfort—when another lady comes in to fill out her own application. Where does she sit in the otherwise empty room? Right next to me. She’s smelling of stewed cabbage with this lazy eye that might be looking at my answers or my crotch, but either way, she looks unimpressed.

  The testing they have after the application was thankfully in another room, smaller and lined with computers and monitors. I thought I was doing all right with typing, all things considered, since Ma had harped on us knowing how to use a typewriter. But anything involving the mouse thing or the instructions saying “Click this and select that”? No clue. I guess I was taking so long a receptionist came in to sit and guide me through whatever it was they expected me to do.

  This meek, mousy thing sits next to me looking like a stiff wind or drink would knock her on her ass, all brown hair and brown glasses like a librarian and Cousin Itt mated, and the whole time she’s making this forced eye contact like she watched a crappy HR video on how to be polite. The whole time she’s helping me with the computer, I’m trying to bite my tongue and hold back the irony of this wallflower poet girl—’cause you just know she’s got tear-stained volumes of the stuff in her bedroom—having a job teaching the so-called less fortunate like me how to make a bar chart. And beneath it all, beneath the peppermint Bath & Body Works hand sanitizer and the Sunday mass grandma perfume, I could smell the Marlboro Menthol Light smoke seeping from her skin.

  Once I thoroughly proved my inabilities with anything electronic, I had to create an account for the agency’s website I kept telling the girl I’d never use, including answering what she called “secret” questions in case I lost the password. What was the last name of my first girlfriend? What was Ma’s maiden name? How many fingers do I prefer up my ass when I cum? Okay, maybe that last one wasn’t in there, but it felt like they’d asked everything else already.
/>
  Just when I was ready for them to ask me to fill a cup with a bodily fluid, they said we were wrapped up and they’d call me when a position fitting my profile came in. The lobby had filled since I left it, including a woman I recognized from the steel. I couldn’t remember her name and didn’t know if she’d recognize me, so I gave a half-nod and hurried out the door. I didn’t think the place would ever contact me with my lack of skills, but I figured if anyone asked me where I’d gotten any money, I could honestly say I signed up with a temp agency.

  As I was heading home, my gut told me to check the time on the dash. I don’t know what schedule you keep during your work week, but no matter what, it’s self-imposed. You try working in a plant as long as I did, and you’ll notice your insides syncing to a beat. And sure enough, when I looked at the clock, it was time for All-Lite’s lunch. With the power out, though, nobody’d be at the steel or Indian Creek. But they might be at AJ’s, I figured.

  When Sandy turned off all the lights in town there for a while and the two of you moved in, well, to be honest, Bri, I didn’t want to be anywhere near your wife. So those first few days I spent a lot of time over the bridge since Burlington County didn’t seem to be affected too much power-wise. Then one of the boys from the steel wound up calling me and letting me know AJ’s was up and running—must’ve been on another grid, I guess. Once news spread, all the usual crew spent their time there. It was either there or stay cramped up with their families, I guess.

  Now that I think about it, I don’t know what you did while I was gone. But it’s been a couple of months, and I’m still dealing with how your wife spent her time. Naturally, she’d meet the dippiest bunny frou-frous in the building and make friends. Every time I see them in the halls now, they ask about her and why she hasn’t called them back. I’ve started making up tales about what’s keeping her from the phone. The last time we bumped into each other, I may have suggested she’s working on a film project that takes McDonald’s to illegal immigrants in South Philly in the hopes of one of ‘em grimacing. “So far,” I said, “it’s been completely unsuccessful.”

  But the whole time she was comparing strategies to save the planet and you were doing whatever you do that keeps you from smashing her freakin’ head into a wall, I was spending the everlasting lunch break with the crew at AJ’s. And the more I thought about it as I drove home, the more I wanted to swing by the place. Sure enough, the place was jumping for lunchtime on a Thursday, almost every parking spot occupied by a car you’ve probably had your hands on thanks to my referrals.

  I went inside and was immediately assaulted by a sea of familiar faces. Walking around the perimeter, I made my small talk and shook the hands I needed to, but I wanted to find Fredericks or Ort before getting too bogged down by anyone else’s bull. It’d only been a week or so since I’d hung out with those people, but it felt like years. By the time I found Ort sitting in the most secluded spot in the joint, I half-expected to miss whatever stupid wisecrack he’d open with, but he didn’t even look up at me. I sat myself down in his booth without permission and asked him where the wife was.

  Whatever he mumbled, I didn’t catch, so I asked him to repeat himself. “Asshole killed hisself,” he finally grunted. “Mother came by this mornin’. Had a place over at Brittany Springs, she said. Must’ve been plannin’ to move out. Maybe was a secret place to take hookers or dudes or somethin’. I dunno. Neighbors heard it since the blackout’s got it so no one can hear anything else. They found ‘im with his toe still in the trigger and his head across the wall.” I asked if either one of them had been laid off too, but he just shook his head and slammed his empty beer bottle down on an awkward angle, making it fall over and roll.

  I thought he was falling over in his seat, but he wound up leaning hard to his side to get out of the booth. I copied him, worried he’d hurt himself in his current state. He pulled out an empty soft pack of cigarettes, examined the insides with his finger, and stumbled over to one of those ancient cigarette machines AJ’s insists on keeping. I watched as he patted himself down and took out his wallet to look through, all in this exaggerated way only drunks could pull off. He fumbled with putting the wallet back into his pants and almost fell toward the front door, with me following him outside.

  “Where you going, dumbass?” I asked him when he headed toward the street.

  He weakly lifted an arm toward the shop on the other side of the road. You know the place. At the time, I would’ve said it’s that place on New Falls Road that started as a 7-11 and changed a bunch of hands, but no matter what goes in there—check cashing joint, convenience store, whatever—it always looks like a 7-11. I asked him why he didn’t just go to the gas station next door, but he said the guys who worked there were a bunch of pricks. That probably meant someone from the crew went in there, made a racist remark to the Indians running the place, and got told to never come back.

  So I patted him on the back and told him I’d join him, never taking my hand away. With the two of us stuck like that, he didn’t seem to notice how my hand was steadying and guiding him across the busy road. I still don’t know what that place was supposed to be. Maybe a pawn shop? But when we got over to the building, I had to keep myself from looking too…well, anything. I didn’t want to stand out in any way since I knew what the place was. With one of those newer smaller ATMs set up outside the doors and no video cameras in sight, I’d just found our next score.

  * * *

  I should’ve missed Fredericks. I should’ve felt something, I guess. Death, especially by your own hand, just seemed like a norm at the steel. Funerals for a steel death were like any other lunch at the tavern, except with everyone wearing their Penney’s best. All the employees would have flasks in their pockets or vodka in water bottles, slipping shots into whatever drinks the funeral directors provided and trying to blend seamlessly with the deceased’s family. The casket would normally be closed, depending on the method of departure, which usually meant large flower arrangements would be set up to block the casket and give everyone something to look at.

  Sufficiently drunk and chain-smoking too close to the front door of the funeral home, people would air their grievances. The dead owed this one twenty dollars. Another one caught the dead stealing from the cafeteria fridges. Adulterer, thief, addicted to something or another that’d seem extreme to the current group. As the crimes and sins piled up, a litigator would step up, usually by drunkenly slurring “He was a damn good man!” before getting into a fistfight with whoever had the strongest offense against the body inside.

  This was how we grieved. How we moved on. How we proved we cared.

  That’s how I saw my own going. Maybe not the self-inflicted gunshot wound, but the rest of it added up. One lady would call me a misogynistic pig. Maybe one of the other lifers would tell of a long, rowdy night we had in my first few years at All-Lite. Somebody’d complain about me not paying a debt or always mooching off people’s dinners. There might be a scuffle if everyone drank enough, but I don’t think I gave much cause either way. Hayleigh’d be ashamed of ‘em all, but they’d do their best to give you sincere condolences.

  But I’ll never get that treatment now, will I? I’m not an All-Liter. Not technically. Just a thief, among other things I’m even less proud of. And I don’t know what funerals they get. As long as you’re in attendance, Bri, then I guess I did something all right. Just lay me down next to Ma, and leave the spot they reserved for my spouse empty. I figure all this can be transcribed for you to follow later, seeing as how you don’t really need the info right now. But like I said before: The night’s young.

  * * *

  I guided Ort back to the bar, and he tried recruiting me into the Fredericks funeral gang. I pretended to listen, but I knew I wouldn’t go. Just walking through the crew at AJ’s, I already felt like a tourist or someone visiting the monkeys at the zoo. To them, I probably resembled a zombie—a reminder of an end they all might face one day but no one wanted to deal with. Given e
nough time, they’d forget about me just as they would Fredericks or Cragle or any of the other countless names that’d come and gone through the steel over the years. I might not have had all that clarity at the time, but there were pinpricks of it itching at my skin as I walked out of the bar that day.

  I went home and nursed Richter for another night—his last, I figured. In my book, you get about twenty-four hours to assess your damages and get used to your new drugs. Then you’re on your own. But, as payment for my services, I made sure to polish off the last of the wine and vodka I could find in his place. Hopped up on his meds, he didn’t seem to notice. He just needed someone to make sure he didn’t pass out on the toilet for six hours. And if he did, I had to make sure he wasn’t in an uncomfortable position.

  As I dozed off on his recliner, with the TV set to something about how tissues and motorcycle helmets are made and with Richter snoring off a drug-addled rest, my cell phone jolted me awake with its ear-piercing shrieking. I guess I hadn’t used it since I was working, so the ringer was still set to get my attention through All-Lite’s machinery. When I finally answered, either the caller was timid or I was deeper into my sleep than I’d originally thought, so I had to ask him to repeat what he asked.

  “Do you know Carol Lee?” the voice said. Male and monotone, it sounded young. Maybe one of the kids from the steel’s crew was having fun like we used to before everyone could track everything. The thought made me look at the screen, but it just said the number was restricted.

  “No Carol Lee here,” I said to him. “And Carol Anne’s out looking for TV sets.” I hung up the phone before the guy could respond and looked over at Richter to see if the ringing woke him up too. There he was, staring at me with his eyes wide and giving me that “I’m in pain but too incapacitated to react” face. His eyelids finally shut, and I closed down the recliner to make my way back to my place. I had enough of that guy’s weird vibes for one week.