Corpus Chrome, Inc.

by S. Craig Zahler

  “What’s wrong with the guy?” asked Al. “The one with long hair?” The tiny bust swiveled toward Champ. “You look depressed.”

  “I’m just hungry.” The garbage man bit into his venison sandwich, and pumpernickel crackled. Chewing, he tasted eleven complementary and two contrasting flavors.

  “Is that thing good?” asked Al. “Sure looks good. Sounds good.”

  The lily in Champ’s ear beeped. A demure female voice said, “Incoming call: Reorientation Office.” The garbage man chewed, pondering over the identity of the caller, whom he did not recognize. It seemed like the communication must be work related.

  “What’s happening?” asked Al’s profile, peevishly.

  R.J. the Third replied, “The depressed gentleman has received a call.”

  “I’m going to take this,” announced Champ. “It’s business.”

  “Incoming call: Reorientation Office,” the demure voice in his ear repeated.

  Clutching his delicious sandwich, the garbage man rose from the bench, walked toward the living wall and double-tapped his lily. “Um, hello?” he said through a mouthful of food.

  “Good evening,” said a fellow with a rich and soothing voice. “Am I speaking with Mr. Champ Bradley Sappline?”

  Champ swallowed chewed food, inhaled a few flakes of crust and began to cough. Darting over, R.J the Third put a lemon-flavored suck bottle in his hand. The garbage man drank and mouthed the words ‘Thank you’ to the jackass whom he had just then decided that he liked.

  “Yeah,” Champ croaked into his lily. “I’m him.”

  “Are you currently driving a vehicle or working with dangerous tools?”

  “Nope. Neither.” The garbage man coughed once more and inquired, “Is this about that seminar on garbage man etiquette? I’ll go next time, I promise. Really. I know I’ve missed it fourteen times, but next time I can almost guarantee that I’ll try to make it.”

  “This is not related to that matter.”

  “What’re you calling about?”

  The man with the soothing voice said, “I recommend for you to go someplace private and seat yourself. I could wait on the line or I could call you back. The information that I am about to tell you will dramatically impact your life.”

  “Let me get outside,” said Champ, concerned that he was about to be fired or reprimanded for something that Mikek had done. He then walked through the living wall and stood beneath the shop’s overhang, where he was shielded from the rain.

  “Okay,” said the garbage man

  “Are you settled?”

  “Yeah. Yes.”

  “My name is Mr. Johnson, and I am a shepherd in the Reorientation Office at Corpus Chrome, Incorporated. I am calling to inform you that your father has been selected for resurrection.”

  Stunned by what he had just heard, Champ stared at the sandwich in his hand. A moment later, he asked the dripping venison, “Are you sure?”

  “Indeed, indeed, indeed.”

  The garbage man felt as if he were a buzzing insect. Juice dripped from his sandwich, and fennel sauerkraut dangled. With great profundity, he said, “Holy shits.”

  Mr. Johnson laughed. “You aren’t the first person to say that.”

  “Um…how does this work?”

  “I’ll tell you. May I record this conversation?”

  “Should I get a lawyer first? What do people usually do?”

  “You should hire a lawyer to review the three-party contract, but this conversation is of no legal consequence. The questions are simple and designed to alert our attorneys to potential conflicts, and to give me an idea of the kind of reception that the re-bodied individual will receive.”

  “Go ahead, then. You can record.”

  “Wonderful.”

  A woman’s voice said, “The following conversation is being preserved for clerical purposes and is not in any way legally binding.” A pleasant chime rang once.

  Mr. Johnson asked, “Do you, Champ Bradley Sappline, object to the resurrection of your father, Eagle Jack Sappline?”

  “No. I don’t object.”

  “Wonderful. In a word, phrase or sentence, how would you characterize the relationship that you shared with your father?”

  “Um.” The garbage man thought of the last time that he had seen his father: They had gone to a 3-D movie in Midtown about a prison riot in which a group of armored policemen swept in, executed all of the inmates and then jailed scores of judges and defense attorneys. Nine years old at the time, Champ had found the violence terrifying, particularly the quintuple decapitation sequence, which he vividly remembered more than three decades later. His father had laughed and cheered throughout the entire picture.

  “Might I suggest some words that people often use to describe such relationships?” inquired the shepherd.

  “Sure.”

  “Loving. Nurturing. Respectful. Supportive.”

  “Nothing that positive.”

  After a pause, Mr. Johnson said, “Let me go down the list,” and then suggested, “Hateful. Destructive. Vitriolic.”

  “Better than that—but he was a fireman more than a father. My mom divorced him when I was five and moved us to Buffalo because of her boyfriend, so I didn’t see that much of him before he was killed.”

  “I will describe your relationship with him as ‘estranged but amicable.’”

  “Sounds accurate,” said Champ, though he knew that Candace would have disagreed. (She had described his relationship with his father as “the source of many of his problems, especially his blue-collar outlook and his fears of abandonment.”)

  Mr. Johnson said, “Wonderful. Under these circumstances, Corpus Chrome, Incorporated will be able to proceed apace.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “At your earliest convenience, you and I should have a meeting in which we discuss your father’s general reorientation and his obligations to CCI once re-bodied. When will you next be available?”

  Champ mentally reviewed his work schedule. “I have Sunday and Tuesday off.”

  “Tuesday at…fourteen will work. I’ll toss a datemark in your vault with my contact information.”

  “Danke. Thank you.”

  “You are very welcome. Congratulations, Mr. Sappline, and have a good—”

  “Wait,” blurted Champ. “I have a question—if that’s okay? Something I’ve been wondering since you told me what was going on. Can I ask?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I’m excited about all of this—and grateful—but I don’t understand it. I mean—why’d you choose him? He was a fireman. He wasn’t rich or a scientist or a famous artist like most of the people who get picked. He fought fires.”

  “Eagle Sappline is an atypical choice,” the shepherd admitted, “but I don’t know why he was chosen.”

  Champ thought that Mr. Johnson sounded earnest.

  “Have a good evening,” said the shepherd.

  “You, too.”

  Champ Sappline tapped his lily and stared at the rain, thinking of his father. Like the precipitation, his memories were separate and unclear refractions of light.

  Once again, the garbage man said, “Holy shits.”

  Chapter XIV

  A Little Sibling Ribaldry

  “So that’s where my sister pretends she’s a man,” said Tjorbn Karlsson, pointing an index finger that was adorned with two white gold rings at Lisanne’s breathing mattress. “Unless it’s the other way around?” The tall handsome fellow faced the petite blonde and arched an eyebrow. “Ahem, ahem?”

  “Neither of us is ‘pretending to be a man,’” Osa said to her brother, “though that isn’t any of your business.”

  “Mis
s Breutschen is wearing a suit,” Tjorbn observed, “but it’s still feminine. This whole situation’s confusing.”

  “Feel free to slap him,” Osa said to Lisanne.

  “I can withstand abuse.” Grinning like a reptile, the handsome fellow presented a peninsula-sized sideburn to the petite blonde. “Go ahead and smack me. I deserve a slap. Help me out.”

  Lisanne committed no violence.

  “I’d like to see the rest of the apartment,” Osa’s father prompted from outside the bedroom. He then cleared his throat meaningfully.

  “This is part of the tour,” the tall beauty called through the open door. “There’s nothing in here that’ll embarrass you.”

  From the hallway, the older man replied, “I’m not comfortable going in there. You kids can do whatever you want, but I don’t need visual aids to paint the picture. No thank you.”

  Tjorbn walked over to the drawer panel. “Where do you guys keep the toys? Gelatin man parts? Tongue propellers and those furry little animal heads?” He touched an up arrow, and a drawer extruded from the wall, smooth and silent like a mortuary slab.

  “Close that,” demanded Osa.

  The bronze man investigated the contents of a deep drawer, exhumed one of Osa’s large black brassieres, looked at Lisanne’s flat chest and dropped the garment. “I know who wears that.”

  “Don’t be an asshole.”

  “Did you move in?” Tjorbn asked his sister as he appraised socks.

  “No, but I stay here a lot.”

  “Cyclops must be lonely. He’s been suicidal ever since you had him neutered.”

  Osa punched Tjorbn in the shoulder, a forceful blow that would have propelled Lisanne across the room.

  The handsome fellow guffawed. “You’re weak.”

  “No wrestling,” Osa’s father admonished from the hallway.

  Tjorbn tapped the up arrow on another drawer, one that was filled with Lisanne’s panties.

  The petite blonde whistled a C-sharp and said, “Darkness.” Suddenly, the bedroom plunged into artificial night.

  Osa’s father asked from the hallway, “Why’d the lights go out in there?” Receiving no response, he cleared his throat and said, “You kids should come out of that bedroom.”

  * * *

  At the dinner table, Tjorbn was better behaved, and Osa’s father was far more relaxed. Mr. Rikard Karlsson was a reserved and quiet sixty-four-year-old fellow who had a long icy face, and like many Swedes whom Lisanne had met, he was fair-skinned and rose to a rather high altitude. The absent mother, an Indian woman from Calcutta who had died ten years ago, was the source of the Karlsson siblings’ fiery demeanor, dark hair and sepia skin.

  “It tastes like the chicken was made in a real tandoori.”

  “Danke, Mr. Karlsson,” replied the hostess. (Osa had told Lisanne to address her father formally. The petite blonde had asked why, and the tall beauty had explained, “It perpetuates the illusion that he’s still an authority figure.”)

  “The curries were delicious,” praised Tjorbn.

  “Danke. I am glad that you enjoyed them.”

  Mr. Karlsson said, “My wife used to make curries like these, but she was Indian and naturally adept. You’re German American, correct?”

  Underneath the table, Osa’s bare foot slid under the bulbous cuff of Lisanne’s right pant leg—a clandestine suggestion that delayed the petite woman’s response for a moment. “American German. I was born and raised in Berlin.”

  “My first wife was German.” Mr. Karlsson looked down at the ancient beer stein that he had brought from home, washed by hand in Lisanne’s sink (using only hot water) and dried with a special chamois. The long fellow drank a mouthful of beer and added, “She was smart and graceful, but very strict.”

  Lisanne maintained a neutral expression.

  Osa guffawed. “So’s Lisanne. You should’ve heard her chastise me for being late on our second date.” The tall beauty smiled hugely. “That’s why I told you guys to be in the lobby at nineteen-thirty even though the invitation was for twenty-thirty.” To her mate, she confessed, “My whole family’s tardy. Don’t kill us.”

  “Did you keep them in the lobby for an hour?”

  “We went to the bar on the fiftieth floor,” replied Osa.

  “That was why I tasted vodka on your lips.”

  Mr. Karlsson cleared his throat.

  ‘Oops,’ Lisanne thought to herself, as Osa took and squeezed her hand.

  There was a seven-second lull in which Mr. Karlsson folded his cloth napkin into the shape of a Viking boat, Tjorbn sped three ice cubes in a rapid circuit of his Scotch glass and Osa ate a steaming bite of curried rabbit. Lisanne enjoyed the moment of silence that she shared with the family and felt that it connected her to her mate in yet another meaningful way.

  Tjorbn swallowed a mouthful of Scotch and spat out an ice cube. “That guy’s giving his speech tonight—that executed guy that CCI brought back.”

  “Derrick W.R. Dulande,” said Mr. Karlsson.

  “That’s his name.”

  The sexagenarian shook his long head. “I remember when he was executed—I was about Tjorbn’s age.” He drank a mouthful of beer, lowered his blue eyes and fingered the scrollwork upon his ancient stein. “It was wrong to bring him back. I don’t believe in the death penalty—perhaps because I grew up in Sweden—but that one deserved the injection if ever any man did. He was remorseless, maybe…maybe even evil if there’s such a thing.”

  “That’s tonight?” asked Osa. Lisanne recognized both revulsion and excitement in her mate’s voice.

  “Yeah,” said Tjorbn.

  “I’ve not heard about this,” said Lisanne. The men looked at her as if she had just waggled a neon tentacle. “I’ve been locked in the studio for the past six weeks.”

  “And with me,” Osa added, “and we haven’t been watching the news.”

  Mr. Karlsson coughed loudly.

  Osa pointed to the bedroom. “We’ve been in there.”

  The sexagenarian clapped his hands to his mouth to contain the explosive coughs that followed. Across from him, his progeny shared wicked-children grins.

  “I am interested in watching this speech,” said Lisanne. “Osa, please take your family to the living room—I’ll join you once I’ve slotted the dishes.”

  “I’d offer to help, but I’m afraid it would seem insincere,” said Tjorbn, a moment before he was punched by his sister.

  * * *

  In the kitchen, Lisanne slotted a dish into the horizontal aperture of the wall unit, listening to the distant baritone voices of Tjorbn and Mr. Karlsson as they discussed a sports team. The petite blonde thought of her own father and mother and sister, all of whom were deceased. Soon, she returned her mind to happier thoughts and inserted another plate.

  Amidst the sounds of men’s chatter and the thrum of the wall unit, Lisanne discerned the soft pad of sock-covered feet. A shadow slid across the floor and draped her as she inserted forks into the utensils port.

  Lisanne turned to face Osa.

  “I love you,” said the tall beauty.

  Lisanne nodded, her heart racing. There had been intimations and allusions, but neither of them had actually named the blossom until that moment.

  “I have loved you for four weeks,” replied the petite blonde.

  They kissed.

  Osa leaned forward. Lisanne felt the wall press against her back, and soon, their chests were flush. Each woman slid a thigh between the other’s legs, and the kiss deepened.

  In the other room, Mr. Karlsson was seized by an uncontrollable coughing fit.

  Chapter XV

  Three Transubstantiations

  “These koi fish are lov
ely,” said the white woman. “I saw them at the Met Annex.”

  A fifty-year-old Japanese man who was clothed in yellow and blue familial robes replied, “Nishikigoi is the correct name for these fish.” Junichi Daisuke (like most people) disliked reporters. “Koi just means carp. These are not ordinary carp.”

  “Nishikigoi,” repeated the woman, with an accent that he found laughable. “Is that correct?”

  The Japanese man walked away from the reporter and circled the elephantine aquarium—a ten-meter-in-diameter glass tank that was suspended in the air by micron wire and filled with filtered water. This immaculate vessel was to serve as the central backdrop for Derrick W.R. Dulande’s resurrection speech.

  The frown on Junichi Daisuke’s face became more significant when he thought of the re-bodied murderer.

  Within the floating pond swam three hundred and eighty-two nishikigoi, which had been culled from the collection of two thousand that the Japanese man maintained in the Living Annex of the Metropolitan Museum. He had transported the chosen fish to the gala room last evening, but many of his favorites had not been included. There were plentiful golden Yamabuki Ogon, pure white Hikari, spotted Bekko, skunk-patterned Kumonryu, and copper Kawarimono, but his supervisor had told him not to transport any Gin Matsuba, Goromo or Kohaku to the event. Nobody had explained to the caretaker why these three types of brocaded carp had been excluded, but they had one thing in common, one visible trait that separated them from their peers. Decorating all of their bodies was the color red.

  Junichi Daisuke presumed that the arrangers of this event (a committee within Corpus Chrome, Incorporated) wanted to exclude the crimson fish, which might bring to mind blood, in particular that which had been spilled by Derrick W.R. Dulande during his shameful first life. The red that colored nishikigoi was a brilliant one, and the natural patterns upon Kohaku fish looked almost exactly like spattered gore.