by Tobias Wade
“Just my conscience,” I said.
After that, we stopped saying Hello to each other when we passed on the street. It wasn’t anything hostile – not yet. We just nodded and looked away. I couldn’t imagine having any common grounds with someone with such a perverted ideology, and I didn’t want to have a confrontation by trying to convince him how he was wrong.
He must have felt the same way and said something about it to his kids. One of them – the tall one with the baggy hoodie, I forget his name – started spray painting on his side of the brick wall between our property lines. I waited until he was gone to walk around and see what it said.
Build a wall, Kill ’em all.
Well shit. I guess I shouldn’t have been so offended by that. He didn’t even make it up – it was just some stupid campaign sign that was held up at some of the Trump rallies. I could feel the blood boiling in my veins though. Now anyone who drove by my house would see that right beside my front door. They’d probably think the whole neighborhood supported that cat-vomit with a hairball on top.
Knock knock knock. I didn’t even know what I was planning to say when I knocked. I just wanted to vent some steam. Dave opened the door, and I pointed a silent finger at the wall.
“Yeah?” he said. He stepped out to get a better look. Then he chuckled. “Well look at that.”
“You gotta have a word with your kids, man. I don’t want that hate speech on my wall.”
“Your wall? What did he mark your side too?” Dave walked up to the wall to peer over.
“No, but it’s right next to my house -”
“Oh so it’s not on your property. Sounds like you wouldn’t even notice if we had a bigger wall.”
After that, we didn’t even nod at each other. He sometimes gave me a little smirk, and I’d just turn away from him. I don’t care if it was his property, I couldn’t understand how he – a grown-ass man – could condone that kind of hate.
I stopped saying Hello to his wife too. She would smile and wave while watering her rose bushes, and I’d just pretend I didn’t notice. The message was still on their wall – she must have known about it. If she wasn’t painting over it, then that was the same thing as supporting it.
That’s when my kid started getting picked on in school. Rob wouldn’t tell me who did it, but I knew it was those bastards next door. I saw the look Rob gave them when they all left the bus together: like prey sizing up a predator. The tall kid in the hoodie smirked – the same idiotic sneer his father had.
I couldn’t pick a fight with Dave until Rob actually pointed a finger. I’m always trying to get that kid to stand up for himself, but he hates fighting. It would just be my word against Dave’s. But I still wanted to send him a signal that said I knew what was going on, and that I wasn’t going to stand for it.
I waited until night to sneak over to his yard. All the lights were off, and I didn’t even use a flashlight so I know nobody saw me. I took a pair of garden clippers and chopped the heads off every rose in front of his house. As an afterthought, I stuck the clippers in the ground and wrote:
Hate begets hate.
Yeah I know it was childish, but you know what? I felt damn good about it. It serves that bitch right for raising such hateful kids.
And I know I was being hateful too, but that was the point, wasn’t it? To show them their actions had repercussions. They wouldn’t have any proof, but they’d know it was me and that when it came to my kid, I wasn’t playing around.
Maybe instead I should have written ‘Hate begets hate begets hate begets hate…’because it didn’t end there like I was hoping. This time it was the side of my house that was spray painted.
Go back to Mexico.
I was livid. I knew they were racist – the moment I heard him say he voted for Trump, I knew it. They were all a bunch of racist pricks. My son was being bullied worse than ever, my mail was being ripped up and thrown around the street, and my trash was scattered back into my yard.
This had to end. I waited on Dave’s driveway for him to get home. He just sat in his van staring at me, so I opened the door for him.
“What the Hell are you doing in my driveway?” he snapped.
“Go ahead. Say it. Say what you really mean,” I said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Ask me what I’m doing in your country. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? That you belong here and I don’t?”
“Look man, I never said that.”
“Your kids did, and you let them. Your president did, and you voted for him. Why don’t you grow the balls to finally say it too?”
He opened his mouth, then looked over my shoulder and shut it. I looked around. Rob was standing there. Dave’s other kid – the one in the wheel chair – he was watching too. I could see Jasmine peaking out from behind their kitchen curtains. Dave took a deep breath.
“Get inside, all of you!” Dave yelled. They did. We both watched the kid in the wheel chair until he was all the way inside, then we turned on each other again.
“Well? Are you going to say it to my face now?” I demanded.
Dave shook his head and let out a long sigh. He looked as tired as I’ve ever seen him. “Look man, I would if that’s what I believed, but I don’t. I just want a better life for my family. I’m sorry if my kids have been misbehaving. I’m out working all the time, and they’re acting out for attention. I promise it won’t happen again.”
My fire was dying down. What could I say to that? I know Dave – Hell I’ve known him a long time. He never did a thing I didn’t respect before this political bullshit came up. I wanted to apologize too, but it felt so good for one of those Trump boys to finally admit they were wrong. I told myself I would bring him a bottle of wine or something tomorrow, and just accept this victory right now.
Back inside my house, Rob was waiting for me right inside the door.
“Did you win, Dad?”
“Yeah Rob. I won alright. See what did I tell you? When you know you’re in the right, you can’t be afraid to stand up for yourself. You gotta fight fire with fire.”
“Okay Dad. I’ll remember that.”
It was cold outside. The wind always picked up in the early morning. I’ve been standing out here for an hour waiting for the firefighters to finally finish spraying down Dave’s house. The kid in the wheelchair (Alex – I finally learned his name) didn’t make it out. They wanted to go back in for him, but the firefighters wouldn’t let them. They swept the house, but by the time they found him, he had suffocated in the smoke.
They say it started around 1 AM last night. There were kerosene soaked rags stuffed into the air vents, so it wasn’t an accident. They were able to contain the blaze before it got over the wall between us, and it was amazing to see how different the two sides looked now. The charred beams jutted accusingly into the sky, and the ground was filthy with ash and debris. His side of the wall was blackened by the fire, but I could still faintly make out the slogan.
Build a wall, Kill ’em all.
The two sides of the wall really weren’t so different before the fire. Now it was night and day.
“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it Dad? You wanted to fight back.”
“Go inside Rob. It’s too cold out here. We’ll talk about it later.”
Hate begets hate begets…
I think I’ll need to bring Dave something a little stronger than wine.
Everyone Lives,
but not Everyone Dies
Everybody dies. That’s common knowledge. I learned it when I was five when my hamster met a hawk for the first (and last) time. It was my fault for taking him outside, but that only made the discovery harder.
Everything dies. Everything in the history of the world, up to about a hundred years ago, has died. We take that as proof that we’re going to die too, although we don’t know for certain until we’re actually gone – and by then it’s too late to know any
thing for certain. As long as we’re still alive, it feels like there is a chance – no matter how improbable – that we are the exception. That somehow everyone else in the world will die, while we will live forever.
I hope some of you just thought about Louis CK‘s bit about everybody dying. That’s what was playing on TV when Grandmother Elis entered the room.
“Don’t listen to that man,” she said. “Not everybody dies.”
Of all the objectionable things Louis CK jokes about, I can’t believe this is the topic she chose to argue.
“Of course not, Granny. You’re not going anywhere.” There is no point in arguing with old people about absolutely anything. Even when they’re wrong, they’ve grown accustomed to being wrong too long for the facts to keep up.
“Oh I’m going to die,” she said, laboriously sitting down next to me. “When you get to 84, you can’t put a roast in the oven without wondering if you’ll be around to take it out. But not everybody dies. My grandfather is 143 years old.”
“That’s not possible.” Was it? I’ve heard some people lived to be ancient, but I’m pretty sure no-one makes it to 143 without the Devil’s private medical insurance.
“He was born in Belgium in 1874, but he lives nearby now.”
“How do you know?”
“He still sends me a birthday card every year. I have them up in the attic somewhere.”
“But how do you know he’s the one sending the cards?” I pressed. “When was the last time you visited him?”
“I never visit. I have nothing to say to him.”
That’s all she would say about the subject, but my curiosity wasn’t nearly satisfied.
I found the birthday card in a shoebox along with 83 other cards. I think they were all hand-drawn and colored, but the older ones were warped and yellowed by time and water damage.
Within each card was inscribed an address alongside this verse:
One less year for you to wait, before your sweet release. Won’t you shed your mortal fate, and live with me in peace?
It sounds to me like he was offering grandmother an escape from death. I can’t imagine that he really had a cure, but I wouldn’t turn down that offer if it was handed to me.
Visiting old people is a chore. Visiting ancient people is an adventure. I plugged the most recent address into google maps, and it led me to a Victorian era estate house on the edge of town. It looked like nobody has lived here for years. Even if the old guy was a myth, it would be fun to just poke around and have a look.
I climbed up the rotting porch and knocked on the door, leaving an imprint in the dust the shape of my fist. I hope he doesn’t break a hip on his way to let me in. He probably has some live-in medical staff if he’s lasted this long though.
When the door swung open, a tall thin man with rigid posture and a pristine suit stood before me. He was wearing an old fashion plague mask and black leather gloves, so I couldn’t see his skin. By the way he was standing though, I figured he couldn’t be that old.
“Um, hi. Does Mr. Jacobs still live here?”
He didn’t move. One arm was held behind his back at a perfect right angle. A corpse couldn’t have held more stolid composure.
“He sent my grandmother this card. And like, 80 other cards – one every year.” I produced the birthday card, and the man snatched it like a striking snake. The card disappeared into his pocket without a glance. He turned wordlessly and entered the house, leaving the door open behind him.
“Sit.” The figure gestured at an elaborately embroidered arm chair which the Queen of England wouldn’t have looked out of place in. The whole house was absolutely magnificent – while the outside was dilapidated enough to be seen on a “we buy ugly houses” poster, the interior was immaculately preserved. Dark mahogany wood panels, crystal chandelier, intricate golden light fixtures, and shelves and alcoves stuffed to bursting with all manner of exotic dolls, carvings, and trinkets.
“Why did Elis send you?” he asked. The voice had a peculiar hollow ring as it reverberated inside the mask. The words were slightly clipped, but his English was flawless. He continued to tower over me as stiff as a flag pole. My hands ran self-consciously over one another in my lap.
I was tempted to admit I came on my own, but the cards seemed specifically for my grandmother, and I didn’t want to be turned away. Idle curiosity doesn’t open nearly as many doors as blatant lies.
“My grandmother – Elis – she wanted me to meet Mr. Jacobs for her.”
“I am Mr. Jacobs.”
“Then, um, she wanted to let me decide whether to accept your offer.” I didn’t know what it meant, but it was just vague enough to work.
He bent over me, the long nose of the mask practically scratching my skin. The slow intake of breath – was he sniffing me? I fought the urge to be sick when a wave of the thick incense within the mask washed over my face.
Apparently satisfied, the man moved to sit across from me on the other side of the marble coffee-table. He poured a glass of red wine from a silver decanter for me before pouring another for himself. His long body leaned back, crossing lithe legs with the dexterity of a dancer. Polished leather shoes flashing softly in the dull light. There is no way this guy is 143 years old.
“Drink,” he said, the thick perfume billowing out of the mask.
“I’m not old enough to –”
“How old are you, boy?”
“19. How old are you?”
“Are you old enough to fear death?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Then you are old enough to drink.”
I was getting really uncomfortable at this point. My hands wouldn’t sit still. Maybe I was in over my head. I was just curious, that’s all. I didn’t really believe he was 143 years old. If he really did have a cure for death, why wouldn’t my Grandmother accept it?
“I think there’s been a mistake. I think I should be going now.” I started to stand, but he was faster. He stepped directly over the coffee table and blocked me from getting out of the over-stuffed chair. The perfume was intoxicating. I couldn’t think straight. Whatever I tried to focus on just blurred out in my mind. All I could see was the piercing red wine taunting me from the table. The only sounds were my beating heart, and his melodic voice echoing from the mask.
“Is this a game to you, boy? Are you trying to play me?”
“No sir, I –”
“Do you seek to fool me? To rob me? To take my secrets, and sell them for your own gain?”
“I swear I only came because –” My head was spinning. The crystal chandelier flashed as bright as a lighthouse. The scent was overwhelming. It was all I could do just to avoid throwing up. Even if he weren’t blocking me in, I don’t know if I could have stood to leave.
“Because what? Why are you here? Why have you disturbed my home?” He was shouting now – at least I think he was. My senses were so saturated with noise and light and smell.
I shut my eyes tight. I pressed my hands over my ears so tightly I could feel them pop somewhere deep within my head.
“I don’t want to die!” I shouted. I could have said anything else, but that’s the only thought my mind could hold onto.
“Then drink.” My eyes were still closed, but I could feel the glass of wine being shoved into my face – spilling over my chest. I grabbed it with both hands and gulped it down like I had been lost in the desert for years.
Mr. Jacob’s presence immediately lifted. He must have moved away to the other side of the coffee table again. That all-consuming perfume began to clear from the air, but I kept drinking. I didn’t want to die. I don’t care what happened to me in that moment. I never wanted to die.
Crunch. Something hard slipped into my mouth from the bottom of the wineglass. I opened my eyes. The bottom of the glass was crawling with beetles. I tried to cough, but the one already in my mouth slipped down my throat. I could feel its legs struggling against my esophagus all t
he way down.
“Do not worry, child.” Mr. Jacob’s voice was soft as a purring cat. “You never will. Now go home, and do not return without your Grandmother.”
I got up and ran. Once outside, I fell to my hands and knees and heaved on the ground. I forced my fingers down my throat, but I didn’t need much help to induce the vomiting. The red wine poured out in waves, splattering all over my hands and knees.
Still gasping for breath, I ran my hands through my own vomit – searching. It was all liquid. I squeezed the wet dirt with my hands. The beetle hadn’t come out.
I took off my shirt and pants which were soaked in vomit, and put them in the back of my car. I drove home, trying my best to pretend nothing happened.
But it was hard not to think about when I could feel the beetle crawling around in my stomach the whole way back. I don’t know what that beetle I swallowed was, but it’s doing something to me.
The squirming sensation had abated for a while, and I figured it would be digested. I wasn’t feeling as nauseous anymore, so it probably wasn’t poisonous. I told myself he was just some crazy hermit who got his wrinkled old rocks off by playing tricks on people. It wasn’t that my Grandmother was afraid of him – she must have just known he was a fraud.
I was almost home before the sharp pain in my stomach doubled me over the steering wheel. It was like an ice-cold knife trying to force its way out from the inside. I had to pull off into a gas station to wait for it to pass.
The pain quickly faded into a gentle numbness, the sensation replaced by a soft tickling working its way up my chest cavity. I lifted my shirt and fought the urge to be sick again.
There was a lump under my skin. And it was moving.
I poked at it gingerly, and could feel the hard carapace of the beetle underneath. It must have bitten free from my stomach and begun to crawl around. I briefly considered trying to smash it, but what if I didn’t kill it? What if I just made it mad and it went on a rampage inside of me?
The lump wasn’t moving fast, but it was persistently crawling toward my heart. I took a deep breath and felt it holding onto my rib-cage as it expanded and contracted.
