Seeking Carol Lee

by Nace Phlaux

  “So what if I wanted to create a new profile?” I asked.

  “Do it all the time,” she said with a smile. All her grins ended in a bizarre sneer, making me think maybe there was a reason she wasn’t customer-facing. She then showed me how she would create a Gmail account with false info. “I usually use my cats. Echo.P.Tewilliger@gmail.com being my favorite.” The Facebook profile would come next, using stock photos for my profile picture. Liz guided me through using Photoshop to grayscale a picture of a girl in her twenties relaxing on a sofa. She said, “Ooh, nice,” when she saw the photo. Most of the girl’s features were nondescript, save for some lines implying ample cleavage and lips that implied...well, more good tidings. “Get us a couple coffees while I handle your friends.”

  By the time I came back, my alias, Violet Jessop, had nearly two hundred friends and liked vaguely local sports teams like IronPigs and Penn State; restaurants, mostly classier places we’d only ever use for a big anniversary or birthday, like the Moshulu and Mico; and top 40 musicians I knew of but couldn’t say, “Oh, he sings X from the Y album.” Photos showed ambiguous vacation shots that could’ve been taken on any beach with anybody’s legs in the generic sandals. The only thing not included were people liking and commenting on everything posted. At worst, I could complain about no one paying attention to me.

  I thought my stranger would be amused by me creating the fake profile. Maybe even be proud of me. I wondered if I could find him on Facebook but quickly realized how silly that sounded. No name, no location. He said he came to the hotel for the food, so he had to be close to Langhorne. But that certainly didn’t limit my choices. And as he proved with his name, he could’ve been lying. For all I knew, he was halfway around the world now.

  I spent the rest of my shift, with Liz’s help, making it so a number of people liked and shared the things I’d pretended to say, share, and do. By the end of the shift, I’d made Violet a fully rounded personality. Liz helped me set up the profile on my phone using something called Friendcaster, which permitted me to use multiple accounts. She also warned me on the slippery slope, suggesting I don’t make multiple fake accounts to see how far someone could be pushed.

  The next step? Sending a friend request to Jerry.

  During the last hour of the shift, we talked about what dating was like nowadays. Tindr and FishInTheSea.com and so on. Liz had a date that night she said she’d met through one of those apps or sites and had talked with over the past few weeks. He passed whatever challenges she mentally had, and they would meet at a coffee shop in Feasterville. As we chatted, a chime went off from my phone, and I found Jer had accepted my friend request.

  I didn’t know what to do or say at first, so I just stared at the notice. The time of day made sense. Around the period where all his meetings would be letting up, leaving the leftovers of whatever delivery service they’d ordered from in the break room. He’d be decompressing after a long day by checking his email and maybe his Facebook. After a while of staring, I received a message, asking, “Don’t mean to be rude, but do I know you?”

  Yes, you do, Jer. Yes, you do.

  I’ll fill you in on the rest later, Dot. Time to get lunch. Love you with all my heart.

  Fondly,

  Candy

  Eddie 9

  No matter how much I drank the night before and no matter what time I’d gone to bed, I woke up early and ready for work, as I had for decades, but tried calling out on account of... I don’t know. I think I blamed my car. But the receptionist told me that was a shame. “Gaunt was eager to see you today, Eddie.” With her dry delivery, there was an equal chance she could’ve been sincere or sarcastic. I begrudgingly agreed to come in, but I can’t remember the drive. Who knows how many people I could’ve run over without any memory.

  Once clocked in, I was told to visit the boss man, who looked well for someone whose home was invaded two days prior. “I told them I’d gotten too close to a candle, and a neighbor drove me to the hospital,” he said. “So again, you owe me, as I see it. Did you have any luck with Tran while I was out?”

  Instinct told me to lie. To make up a story. But the previous night had drained me, defeated me. I told him the truth: I hadn’t even tried to get to his issue. Maybe he was drained too, because he said that was all right. “Take your time,” he actually muttered. Not my usual style, but I took it.

  That Dugan guy taught me to install the equipment into ambulances and such for the rest of the day, but I couldn’t concentrate. I did whatever he wanted, but when he asked if I had any questions, he had to ask twice. With about an hour left of the shift, I just couldn’t take any more and asked to go home sick. Back there, I slept for a few hours and awoke to the dark. The dim light of Gleason’s called through my window, and I spent another night mourning the passing of my friend.

  The next morning, a Thursday, I called out and fell back to sleep. When I woke, the sun was bright through the windows, and I got cleaned up and went to the office. They gave me an envelope that turned out to be from Poy. The manila envelope itself was addressed to me but didn’t have an exact apartment number on it, which is why they left me a note about it. What was on it, though, was a string of ramblings that seemed to start mid-conversation.

  “I’m sorry” was written in Sharpie and rewritten repeatedly and recklessly, as if attempting to slash the paper like a knife more than writing anything, but the rest of the envelope was covered in a variety of colors and inks, some faded as if he’d been jotting notes on this for God knows how long. Most of it seemed batshit insane, ranting about street lights, time dilation, and sacrificing goddesses. Inside was nothing but a pair of used women’s panties. I didn’t sniff them or anything, but there was an obvious slug trail.

  I sat in my apartment reading the various scribbles for a while when someone knocked on my door. Looking out the peephole, I saw it was Ort, whistling a rendition of “Yankee Doodle Dandy” and scoping out the hallway, and let him in, not thinking the situation through. “How’d you get in?” I asked.

  “Someone held the door open for me. It’s not like your shit’s secure, asshole,” he said. Despite my mental messages telling Max to stay where he was, he came out from my bedroom to greet our visitor. Ort punched me in the shoulder and said, “You stole my dog? What the fuck, man?” I eased back off him, waiting for the neurons to connect. When the pathways finally clicked together, he looked at me wide-eyed, but I was already back-stepping and tripped over my own furniture. Suddenly he was on top of me, shouting about his money.

  Before I could respond, Max jumped at him, getting some good bites in. I took my time getting back up but finally ordered the dog to stand down. Max went back to the bedroom while Ort muttered curses and rolled on the ground. He was getting blood all over my carpet, but I never expected to get that security deposit back anyhow. Alcohol would solve all our problems, I figured, so I grabbed a couple beers from the fridge while the asshole bitched about his wounds. Probably didn’t even break that much skin.

  If someone had stumbled into the apartment, they may’ve thought they were watching a scene of Law & Order being shot. Two bloodied and beaten and worn alcoholics drinking in the early afternoon with all the shades drawn tight. Put on some Barry White, and I guess the set could’ve been a completely different show. After a few minutes of silence, that noiselessness that only decades of friendship can foster, assisted by the beers in our hands, Ort noticed the package from Poy and mumbled, “What’s with the underwear?”

  “Someone sending their apologies.”

  “Thanks, but don’t be sending any jock straps of yours my way.”

  “I saved your ass,” I told him. “Everyone in town could recognize you and Cragle’s car. And you can’t hide shit to save your life, you freaking moron. Might as well put up a neon sign for the cops saying, ‘Please arrest me.’ The smartest thing Cragle could’ve done, what I hope he’s done already, is call the cops on his stolen car after driving it into the Delaware. But that’d also me
an he’s on their radar.”

  Ort stared at the carpet for a while. With that stupid face of his, I wasn’t sure if he was deep in thought or falling asleep with his eyes open. Finally, he said, ‘Why’s it so quiet in here? That guy who played that Ancient Aliens shit all the time finally croak?”

  “Yes. Just two days ago.”

  “Oh.” He nodded and his eyebrows shot up, but his eyes kept on that random spot in the rug. “He leave behind anything good?”

  “Robbery / murder.”

  “Boo,” he said and sneered.

  “Did Fredericks leave anything good behind?”

  He dug in his pockets and pulled out an ancient iron container with the initials “DVM” on the cap, handing it over after giving it a final once-over. It looked like something that could’ve held a few cigarettes or a lighter, and as if Ort had read my mind, he told me there’d been a joint in it when he first found it. Rust covered a fair amount of the exterior, and it brought to mind the time Fredericks first taught me to make ashtrays with the scrap metal around the steel. A flood of memories involving him, Richter, and a long list of friends who’d left us came to mind, and I looked up to Ort, still staring at his spot.

  “Feel like doing something stupid?”

  Of course he did.

  * * *

  We grabbed some fast food and parked in the back of the Great American’s parking lot. Ort lit a cigarette without opening the window or even asking first, so I smacked him and told him to take it outside while we waited. For the rest of the time we stayed there, he got all the “quitter” jokes he could out of his system, and I just nodded silently until the so-called goddess’ crew showed up. Thankfully, it didn’t take long before they arrived, and I tapped Ort to start the next level.

  “An Indian started shit with me, but I don’t think I could take his whole crew,” Ort said into the phone. He gave his location and claimed he’d be outside since they kicked him out for drinking too much. “Maybe I should run in for a drink,” he told me when he got off. “You know, to be more convincing. Method actor like Brando and shit.” As we waited, he asked, “So who’re we rooting for here? The Hitler crew or the faggots who pissed in your Cheerios?”

  My only answer was, “Do you care?”

  Of course he didn’t.

  You remember that ugly-as-sin pickup a guy at the steel brought into the shop last year? Blue Ford with a full American flag decal in its rear window and the “Buck Ofama” bumper sticker? Hayleigh saw the “Don’t Re-Nig In 2012” sticker and wouldn’t calm down until you promised to tack on a ton of labor charges. That guy, goes by the name Hertzog if you believe it, is the owner of said truck, if you recall. So Hertzog and his merry band of mentally challenged racists pulled into the lot and filed out of their cars, many of them showing off without any coats and drinking Budweisers.

  Watching Ort stumble over to Hertzog was almost comical. The German’s a good head taller than the sickly alcoholic with a head smooth as a baby’s rear but an unkempt beard going on. The guy worked on the loading bay of the steel but got laid off. And not even during the waves where I got cut. Months prior, one of our black workers must’ve said the wrong thing near him, and a scuffle broke out. Didn’t have to have any discussion or paperwork about options. I can only imagine what the bastard would’ve said when Getsinger brought in his big security guards.

  Ort talked with Hertzog and pointed to the kid the girl called Ashish. The whole group sat in the corner of the building. Had a good view of the parking lot, but that meant the parking lot had a good view of them right back. I watched as Hertzog led the group to the entrance, disappearing around the front of the building for a moment before reappearing in the window at the table. I assume the Klansman, forming a wall of disgusting meat around the girl’s table with his team, said something like, “I heard you were talking about my boy” or something that’s supposed to sound intimidating in a Deliverance kind of way.

  The kids act confused because they are confused. They genuinely have no idea who this boy is the big hulking man is talking about. The leader and Officer Buzzcut jump out of their seats, but whatever Hertzog had to say works, and they go back down. I imagine the next words out of his mouth were something like, “And now we’re all going to get up calmly and walk behind the building.” He may or may not have added “where we’ll kick in your faces ‘til our feet are sore.” Regardless of the exact words, the boys are escorted to the door like kindergartners in church services.

  Buzzcut blended right in with the small militia, but the other two stood out as the cleanest cut and the darkest. Even Ort looked like the scrappy little brother that someone’s mom forced the group to endure. The girl didn’t seem to care from what I could tell. It looked like she went back to eating her dinner and playing on her phone. She either trusted in her boys’ abilities or didn’t care whether they came out alive.

  Everybody reconvened in the rear lot, so I lowered my window and heard the German say, “I think you owe my friend here an apology,” and pointed to Ort. This time of year, dusk had already begun, and being a Tuesday evening, there wasn’t exactly a rush. Most patrons coming in stayed at the front of the building. The whole time, the German’s staring down Ashish, and Ashish tells the truth: He’s never seen the guy before. Hertzog smiled at the rest of his team of assholes and said, “Son, I was hoping you’d say that,” and jabbed him right in the gut.

  Buzzcut immediately went into action, laying a path of pain the Pennsyltucky rednecks had never witnessed before. The leader made a break for it as everyone focused on Buzzcut and the Indian. The poor brown kid threw some punches, but the boy was lanky. Hertzog just grabbed him by his thin frame and tossed him to the ground. The German and another of his group—a fat guy with a tuft of brown hair poking out of an otherwise balding head and a leather jacket with an eagle flying across an American flag on the back—headed for Ashish, but the leader returned with paintball guns in both hands, firing into the crowd.

  The plan was for Ort to run to my truck whenever the chance opened, but as soon as the pellets flew, he ran after Hertzog and hopped into his blue Ford, running off as the other bigots raced to their vehicles and escaped the mad paint baller. The leader finally ran out of pellets, long after every car—including my own—had been splattered with neon splotches. Buzzcut helped Ashish up, and the three slouched back into the restaurant.

  As I waited, I noticed Poy in the parking lot. He concentrated hard and even pointed at a street lamp near his car, muttering something to himself and finally looking elated when the light blew out or turned off. Some people came to the back lot and found their cars covered in paint, cursing and shouting, but I just stayed in my driver’s seat, crouched down and listening to the recorded screeches of owls at the dealership across the street.

  My phone vibrated, and when I answered, it was Ort, whispering, “They think I’m smokin’, so they asked me outta the truck. I’m with ‘em at the dealership across the way. They’re watching the dothead, gonna follow him home and kick his ass. They ain’t happy about being embarrassed. What do I do, man? This was your idea, asshole. What do I do?”

  “Get out of it as soon as you can,” I told him. “Don’t mention my name. You know my brother’s place? Meet me there as soon as possible.”

  The girl came out, followed by her boys, shortly after the call and drove out of the parking lot, turning left toward Penndel. The boys went the opposite way, and after a moment, Poy continued his stalking to the left. Ort texted me gibberish that suggested they were moving, following Ashish’s car. The humanitarian part of me, the part deep down that finds a kitten cute or perks at the cheerful giggle of a child, hoped the small militia came at them at full force, making themselves easy to spot and outmaneuver. Then I remembered crawling down a darkened hallway covered in shattered glass, and my mind corrected itself.

  I drove down to your place and parked by the garage. When I finally shut the truck off and checked my phone, a dozen unread messages from
Ort waited for me. Turn by turn, he let me know every street they went down, as if I would screech across traffic and pull him from Hertzog’s Ford. His last text said, “molotof coktail got table stop empty.” The latter half of the message didn’t make any sense, and the first half opened a whole new can of worms. If they were burning something down, what and where was it?

  * * *

  The call came a couple hours later. With no one home at your place, I picked up a six pack at Bill’s and worked on getting the paint off my truck. I owe you for the detail spray. Once done, I went back to Bill’s to grab a cheesesteak, enjoying all the walking after being stuck in that parking lot for so long. As I was returning, my phone rang from a strange number that turned out to be Lower Bucks Hospital. “Who am I speaking with?” the nurse said. “You’re listed as the emergency contact in Mr. Ort’s phone, but he has you under, well, a rather vulgar name.” She explained that Ort had been admitted to the emergency room after what appeared to be a brutal assault. “He keeps saying he fell down the stairs, though.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Ort’s eye was swollen shut, and his lips and bloody teeth looked like he tried to get intimate with a blender. Purple bruises lined his face, and I could see more through the thinner spots of his hair. In a matter of hours, he’d gone from looking like a standard meth addict to a full blown tweaker. At least his hands had some defensive wounds, meaning he tried to get a good punch or two in.