BLACK STATIC #41
Page 2
It can’t be, of course, but that’s exactly what it looks like. Like someone crawled into the Dumpster, lay down, and stayed there while people continued tossing trash bags on top of him. Or her. Maybe it’s some kind of bizarre prank, the sort of thing a teenage kid would do.
I’m tempted to turn around and leave. There’s another Dumpster in the complex, farther from my place. It’s not too cold to walk, and I could use the exercise. But I step closer to the Dumpster to get a better look at the head. Only the crown is visible. No facial features, no neck, no shoulders. Even when people try to remain motionless, even when they’re asleep or unconscious, there’s still a sense of life to them. But I don’t feel that now. If it is a head, it’s not a living one.
The thought sparks a surge of fear, but I clamp down on it before it can grow. I examine the head more closely. It can’t be part of a dead body, can it? What sort of murderer would be stupid enough to dispose of a victim like this? I inhale, but I don’t smell rot. I smell trash stink, of course, but nothing that smells like a dead body.
The Dumpster is set on a concrete square, and bits of detritus surround it. A plastic spoon, a splintered chicken bone, a stained paper plate that’s folded in half. I set my trash bag on the concrete and bend down to pick up the spoon. My back complains and my knees pop. I spent five hours yesterday putting in new kitchen and bathroom tiles for my dental hygienist. I’m retired, but I still do the occasional handyman job, mostly just to keep busy. My body isn’t always happy about what I put it through, though.
I don’t like touching the spoon. Christ only knows what kind of germs are crawling all over it. I straighten, ignoring more protests from my back and knees, and I step even closer to the Dumpster. I stretch out my hand and touch the spoon to the head. Gently at first, then applying more pressure. The head’s hard, and it doesn’t give. I bend down, moving my face closer to the head, breathing shallowly to reduce the Dumpster’s stink. I use the spoon to brush away a few strands of hair, and I see rows of tiny evenly spaced holes in the pale pink. The hair protrudes from these holes, is affixed to them, and I know that this isn’t a real head.
A half-smile forms on my face, and if I were the kind of man to laugh at myself, I might do so now.
There’s room for me to fit my trash into the Dumpster, and I pick up the bag and shove it in, one more plastic white stone to pile on top of the faux head. I turn to go, but I hesitate. I’m not sure why. Curiosity, I suppose. There’s some newspaper in the Dumpster, wrinkled loose pages. Seems clean enough. I pull it out, tearing it a bit, but I get enough for what I need. I then take hold of the head, feel its straw-like hair against my palms, and I pull it free from its prison. I only glance at the face, just enough to confirm that it does indeed have one, and then I wrap it in the newspaper, truck in beneath my arm, and start back to my apartment.
I have nothing waiting for me there. I don’t have any jobs lined up for today, and there are no chores to be done. All that waits for me is the TV and whatever I can find on it to make the time pass a little less monotonously. But I suppose now I do have something to do when I get back. I can examine my find. I glance back at the fence enclosing the Dumpster, once more see the sign. no dumpster diving!
Fuck you, I think. I already did.
•••
I live on the ground floor of a two story building. There are four apartments, two on each floor. As I stand in front of my door, my across-the-hall neighbor’s door opens. I tell myself it’s a coincidence. I made no noise coming in. Hell, I haven’t even reached into my pocket for my keys yet. There’s no way she could’ve known I was out here. Unless she heard me leave to take the trash out and stood at her door, eye to the peephole the whole time, waiting for me to return. It’s possible, I decide. She has shown an uncanny ability to leave her apartment at precisely the same time I’m in the hallway or on my patio.
“Hey, Pete! How are you doing?”
I’d like nothing more than to pretend I didn’t hear her, unlock my door, step inside, and close and lock the door before she can say another word. But that’s not how neighbors are supposed to treat each other. So, repressing a sigh, I turn and give her a thin smile. Pleasant, but not encouraging.
“I’m okay, Renee. How are things with you?”
I don’t care much. It’s just a thing to say.
“I can’t complain. Wouldn’t do any good if I did, right?”
She’s around my age, mid-sixties, thin. She’s wearing a short black dress with a dark blue suit jacket over it. Her bare legs are trim and toned. The woman takes care of herself, I’ve got to give her that. She looks like she’s dressed for work, but it’s the middle of the day. She told me several weeks ago that she was let go from her job at the mortgage company where she’d worked for years. Maybe she’s on her way to an interview. Maybe she’s in denial. Maybe she just likes dressing nice. A flannel shirt, jeans, and sneakers is my idea of nice these days.
I don’t like looking above Renee’s neck, though. Not because I’m shy or intimidated by eye contact. I don’t like looking at her face for a simple reason: she doesn’t have one – which only makes sense since she doesn’t have a head. Her neck terminates in an opening with a smooth, even rim, as if she’s an animated mannequin. Well, most of one.
I’m not frightened or disturbed by Renee’s headlessness. Unsettled might be the best way to put it. Like when you’re talking to someone who has an obvious physical defect on their face. Severe acne, crooked or missing teeth, a glass eye… Unpleasant, maybe, but hardly terrifying.
I’m about to say it was nice to see her but I have to go. But as if sensing my intent, she hurries on before I can speak.
“How’s Kristie?”
Her voice issues from the empty space where her mouth should be. I have no idea how she can form words without a mouth.
Kristie’s my only child. At first, I have no idea why Renee is asking about her, but then I remember. Kristie recently had her uterus removed because it was riddled with fibroid tumors. I’d forgotten I’d mentioned this to Renee.
“She’s doing well. Recovering. Takes a while, you know.”
I assume what I say is true, but I don’t know for certain. I haven’t spoken with Kristie since the day after her operation, and that was almost three weeks ago.
“I hear you,” Renee says. I can imagine her nodding, as if she knows exactly what I’m talking about. Once again, I get ready to make my excuse and get out of here, but once again, she out-maneuvers me.
“What’s that?”
This time, I know exactly what she’s talking about, and my arm tightens around the head, making the newspaper wrapping crinkle softly. And yes, I’m well aware that I’ve got a fake head tucked under my arm while I’m talking to an apparently headless woman. Life’s full of odd coincidences, isn’t it?
“It’s nothing. Just some old piece of junk.” And then to distract her, I add, “Like me.”
She swats me on the arm.
“Don’t talk like that! You’re still an attractive man.”
I should be irritated by such a clumsy compliment, but I’m not. She does have a great body for a woman her age, and it has been a while since I’ve been with anyone. Sure, she doesn’t have a head, but she’s got everything else, and I’m sure it all works just fine. But I don’t want the complications a relationship – even a casual one with a headless woman – would bring.
“I’ve got to go,” I finally manage to slip in. “Exercise time.”
Aside from taking the occasional walk, and whatever physical effort I put in during my fix-it jobs, I don’t exercise. But she doesn’t need to know that.
“Oh, sure. I have to get going anyway.”
She pauses, as if to give me a chance to ask her where, but I don’t.
“See you later,” I say, and turn back to my door. I quickly take my keys from my pocket and start to unlock it.
“Want to get together for a drink later on?” She says this fast, the words running
together so they blend one into the other. She’s nervous. I can hear it in her voice.
A drink? What’s she going to do, pour the goddamned thing into her neck?
“Sure,” I say, only because it’s easier. I still don’t turn around, but when she speaks again, her tone is lighter, ebullient.
“Great! How about I come over at eight?”
“Sounds good. See you then.”
I open my door and slip inside my apartment. I know I should look back and give her a smile, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I close the door and turn the deadbolt slowly. I don’t want it to seem like I’m locking the door to keep her out, although that’s exactly what I’m doing.
I stand there and listen for several moments. I resist looking through the peephole. I have the feeling that she might be on the other side of the fishbowl lens looking back at me, but how could I tell? After a bit, I hear her walk away, followed by the sound of the outer door opening. She’s finally gone.
I start to take the head into the kitchen, but I change my mind and take it into the living room instead. I remove the newspaper which by this point is barely staying on. I drop my improvised wrapping paper to the floor, then I set the head onto the coffee table, face toward the couch. I turn my back on the head, not yet ready to examine it. I head to the front closet, remove and hang up my coat, and then I return to the couch. I sit in front of the head and lean forward, elbows on my knees, hands crossed at the wrists.
It’s a woman’s face, or rather a replica of one, just as I thought. The neck flares out slightly toward the bottom in order to form a stable base for it to rest on. Its features are delicate or maybe exaggerated. The face long or maybe round. It’s hard to tell since the curtains are closed and I don’t have the lights on. There’s make-up painted on the plastic, some eye shadow, eye liner, rouge, lipstick. It looks understated and subtle at first, but the longer I stare at it, the more overdone and garish it seems. Getting old. Need to have my eyes checked.
She looks familiar, this new acquaintance of mine. But I can’t put my finger on who she reminds me of. I don’t think it’s Renee. I’m pretty sure she’s blonde, or was. And this is a younger woman’s face. I think. The more I look at the face, the less certain I am of what I see. Sometimes she looks barely out of her teens, sometimes several decades older. My daughter? She almost never wears makeup of any sort. At least, she never used to. I haven’t seen her for…actually, I’m not sure how long it’s been. I missed some Christmases over the last few years, and that’s about the only time we get together. My wife, maybe? Anna died six years ago. Pancreatic cancer. I suppose her loss should’ve hit me hard. That’s the way a husband is supposed to feel when his wife dies. But by that point we were two people who shared the same living space and not much else. I sold our house – despite Kristie’s disapproval – and moved here. Less to take care of, and the neighbors keep to themselves and leave me alone. Or they did, until Renee moved in across the hall.
Now that I think of it, the face does resemble Renee, or at least what I imagine she might look like. The plastic looks more pliable now, and I feel warmth coming from it. Or imagine I do. I really want to touch it. Instead I get up, retrieve the newspaper, and wrap the head up again. Then I carry it to the bathroom and put it in the cupboard under the sink.
•••
I do my best to put the head out of my mind, and for the next couple hours, I tidy up the place. Not because Renee is coming over, I tell myself. I run the sweeper, dust, clean the bathroom – but I don’t open the cupboard door to look at the head – and clean the kitchen. I even make the bed, smoothing out the wrinkles so the covers are neat. Not for any special reason. When I clean, I like to be thorough, that’s all.
Dinner is microwave spaghetti and meatballs. Normally I’d eat on the coffee table with the TV on, but I don’t want to get any tomato sauce stains on the couch or carpet. So I eat in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, holding the meal container in one hand while I work a fork with my other. Halfway through the poor imitation of a meal, I realize I don’t have any alcohol in the place. No liquor, no wine, not even a couple beers. I’ll need something to serve Renee. Even if she isn’t able to drink it.
I dump the rest of the lukewarm spaghetti down the disposal, throw on my coat, and head out the door.
•••
On the way back, two bottles of wine on the passenger seat next to me – a red and a white, since I don’t know what kind Renee likes – I start thinking about the head hidden beneath my bathroom sink. Where did it come from? What was it made for? Maybe it was some kind of practice dummy made for a student hairdresser. No, that doesn’t make sense. Once the hair was cut, it wouldn’t grow back. I suppose you could style the hair and get some practice that way. Maybe the student finished the coursework, maybe even got his or her license, and so didn’t need the practice head anymore. Maybe it was a decoration, something weird that some young kid thought was kitschy cool at first, but then got tired of and threw away. It could have been a lot of things, I suppose.
I wonder what it is now.
•••
“This is very good wine, Pete. Where did you get it?”
Renee sits next to me on the couch. I’ve tried to keep some distance between us, but she keeps moving so that her leg touches mine. I wonder what she’d do if I got up and sat in the chair next to the couch. Come over and sit on my lap?
“The grocery. Nowhere special.”
She’s drinking the white. I hate white wine, but I poured a glass for myself anyway. It’s sitting on the coffee table. I haven’t touched it. If Renee’s noticed, she hasn’t said anything.
“Well, you made a great choice. I like a man who can select a good wine.”
I chose the brand primarily because it wasn’t the cheapest or the most expensive. But I don’t tell her this. Instead, I watch in fascination as she raises the glass to the emptiness where her face should be. She tilts the glass back, and when she rights it again, the level of wine has lowered a bit, and her throat muscles work as if she’s swallowing. I have no idea how she’s managing to make it look as if she’s actually drinking. It’s an impressive trick, and I’d love to ask her how she does it, but I’m afraid it might be rude.
She talks between sips, complaining about her job, wondering what kind of winter we’re in for, reminiscing about her cat Jennie, who died a year ago from feline leukemia. I listen without paying much attention. I can’t think of anything to say, but she seems content to carry the conversation for the both of us, which is fine with me. I’m more preoccupied with how she looks. Even though this is just a drink with a neighbor, and not a date, she’s wearing a tight black dress which shows a significant amount of leg and cleavage. Sufficiently provocative, but not so much as to make her seem slutty. The problem I’m having is that I can’t tell when she’s watching me. Whenever I’ve been with a normal woman – one with a head, I mean – I know when to sneak a look at her body based on where she has her gaze trained. But I can’t see Renee’s eyes. I’m not sure she has any, at least not eyes as I’d recognize them. So every time I glance at her breasts or legs, I feel as if she knows. There’s nothing in her manner to indicate she’s aware of my mild lechery, though. She just continues delivering her monologue, and I continue half-listening.
She finishes her wine, and I break my silence to ask if she’d like a refill.
“I’d love one,” she says.
I nod and take the glass from her hand. Our fingers brush for a split second, and I feel the proverbial stirring in my loins. Ordinarily when something like this happens, the two people involved might share a meaningful look. But we can’t. I stand and start toward the kitchen.
“Do you mind if I use your bathroom? I’m afraid wine goes right through me.” She punctuates this statement with a giggle.
“Sure. It’s down—”
She stands. “I know. You’re place is set up the same as mine, remember?”
“Right.”
She’s in the bathroom. And so is the head.
Cold panic grips me, and I put the wine bottle down too hard, and it thumps on the counter, loud enough for Renee to hear, most likely. I half walk, half run through the living room and down the narrow hallway to the bathroom. My shoes don’t make much sound on the carpeted floor, but they make enough, and I fear Renee hears me.
I stand at the door, listening. It occurs to me that if someone could see me now, I’d look like some kind of pervert, eager to get off on the sound of a woman pissing. But I was married for over thirty years, and I have a daughter. I long ago got used the sound of a woman relieving herself. In truth, I’m not sure what I’m listening for. I’m not sure why the idea of Renee being alone with the head disturbs me so. I only know it does.
I don’t hear a spray of urine hitting water. What I do hear is soft whispering. One voice, two…I can’t tell.
I lean closer to the door, place my ear against it. The whispering doesn’t sound any louder, but I think I can detect two different voices, one pitched slightly higher than the other. I can’t tell if they’re feminine or not, but they must be, of course. I can’t make out any words. I’m not even sure they are words. They’re more like rushing wind, ocean waves, or the surge of blood moving through your veins. I think I hear something that might be my name spoken once or twice, but it could easily be my imagination. My imagination also pictures Renee squatting in front of the open cabinet, looking at the newspaper-covered head, the wrapping vibrating slightly as the head speaks.
Another thought strikes me then, and my anxiety level – already high – shoots up. What if this was Renee’s plan all along? What if she invited herself over for drinks only so that she could find the head and get some time alone with it? What if she wants it for herself? After all, she doesn’t have one of her own. What if she comes out of the bathroom with the plastic head attached to her shoulders, her neck somehow fusing with it until they’re one? How would I get the head back then? But then I think, There are plenty of knives in the kitchen.