He watched in sickening horror as John Doe peeled back every bit of himself like a piece of fruit, moving on to his arms and hands, then on to his chest, gut, and groin. Every fold of skin peeled away with that same scratchy, squelching Velcro sound, and now Gregory understood the odd noise he’d heard back at the bus station.
He looked away from the stranger and recoiled in disgust as he witnessed others doing the same. The men in the next row helped each other peel away their flesh, one working his hands under the wrinkles and folds of the other, inching the skin away from the meat underneath like stripping back a sticker from plastic. The women across the aisle were already exposed. They ran their hands across their sinuous folds, exploring their anatomy, and Gregory realized with sickening horror that he couldn’t tell if they were smiling anymore because their lips were gone.
“This is what it is to shed your skin,” John said, offering his hand. “We come here to the Otherlands to strip away our burdens and trade faces. Here, we are free to be whomever we wish. Tonight, you will become me, Gregory. And I will become you. Forever one with the Nobody Tribe.”
Gregory’s mind buzzed. Was this what he wanted? Was this the price he had to pay to become someone else?
John Doe slicked his leathery tongue across the top of his brittle teeth. “Remember what I told you, Greg. It’s too late to go back, but I promise you’ll thank me when it’s over. I keep my promises.”
Gregory reached out and took John Doe’s hand for the last time. “Will I remember anything? Will it hurt?”
“You’ll remember everything.” John squeezed Gregory’s hand. “And yes, my friend, it will hurt. The pain will be transcendent, the most glorious thing you have ever felt in your life.”
John Doe’s fingers sank into the boy’s flesh, and Gregory knew his friend wasn’t lying.
***
One day later, a man no one had ever seen before stepped off an unmarked Greyhound bus in Long Beach. He wore a dusty black suit that was nearly a size too big, and his youthful eyes betrayed the mess of salt and pepper hair sitting atop his head. No one paid him any attention, and at another time, in another life, this fact would have bothered him.
He smiled, feeling his cheeks wrinkle back. His face was too big, but that was all right; his friends in the tribe told him he would grow into it.
He walked over to a nearby trash can, reached into his back pocket, and pulled out his wallet. He thumbed through until he found his old ID and looked at the smiling face of a young man who would never again know the force of his father’s fist.
Gregory Doe tossed the ID into the trash, grimacing as his muscles ached. The other Nobodies on the bus told him aspirin would be his best bet until he got used to his new skin.
A breeze blew past him, filling his nostrils with the scent of the salty Pacific, and he thought of Tommy. Tommy Keegan, with his sun-bleached hair. A fluttering ache rose up within his chest, and he frowned.
The other Nobodies didn’t have a remedy for that. Heartache was something he couldn’t shed, something he couldn’t throw away. Can anyone?
SAVING GRANNY FROM THE DEVIL
I remember when Granny had her first stroke. I was there with her, and I thought she was going to die. She didn’t, though. Granny was from strong stock, and it was going to take more than one stroke to keep her down. She had physical therapy for several months before a bigger stroke partially paralyzed the left side of her body. Even then, she slowed but did not stop. Four strokes couldn’t hold her back, and I think that if age hadn’t been a factor, she would’ve kept on going.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. I want to tell you about Granny, first.
I don’t even remember why I called her “Granny,” she was just Granny to me. Granny Mildred. She was my dad’s grandmother, but after my parents divorced, she gave my mom and I a place to live. She didn’t care about how awkward the situation was—she just cared about me having a roof over my head. That’s what I remember most about my early childhood: growing up at Granny’s house. Her home was my world, and she was one of the only constants I had in my life.
While Mom worked during the day and went to school at night, Granny took care of me. Mom was around when she could be, but most days belonged to Granny and me. She took me shopping or out to run other errands, showing me off to all her friends.
On Friday mornings I accompanied her to Arlene’s Beauty Shop, where she sat underneath a hair dryer for an hour before having her head meticulously sculpted into a pristine, silver bouffant right out of the 1960s. Afterward, we’d get drive-through for lunch, and then I’d spend the rest of my afternoon crashed out in front of the TV with a pad of paper, doodling whatever spilled from my imagination.
This was my early life. Just Granny and I versus the world. She was my best friend before I understood the importance of such a title. Before the strokes got the best of her. Before the Devil paid us a visit.
I was eight years old when I first met the Devil, although I didn’t recognize him at the time. I thought he was my friend back then, but that’s not quite true.
He was just a messenger.
***
“Kiss it.”
Gerald presented his mud-covered sneaker. I tried to squirm away, but Brent’s weight was too much. He held me down in the grass and twisted my arm behind my back. Pain burst before my eyes like phantom fireworks.
“We’ll let you go if you kiss his shoe.”
“No,” I groaned. I didn’t want to cry, but the tears were there, waiting. Brent bore down on me, pushing the air out of my chest. He was big for an eight-year-old—easily the biggest kid in our class—and I felt every pound of him compressing my insides. When he shifted his full weight against me, I squealed in pain.
“Hey, I think this fag’s gonna cry.”
That did it. The comment wasn’t even the catalyst—I was still too young to know what that word even meant. No, what made me cry was the fact that they knew I couldn’t help myself. Every kid has their limit, and they’d just pushed me to mine. I started sobbing like the baby I really was.
Struggling, taking big panic breaths, I searched the road for someone—anyone—who might help me, but there was no one around on that Saturday morning. Mom was at work, and Granny was back at home cleaning up after breakfast. I’d told her I wouldn’t venture too far, but that was just an innocent white lie.
Gerald shoved his shoe against my chin. The acrid stench turned my stomach. There was more than mud on his sneaker.
“Kiss it, or else.”
These two inseparable bullies were always picking on the quiet kids. I’d kept my distance—even eight-year-olds understand a pecking order—but this morning I was careless. I wasn’t allowed across the street, but I’d explored every inch of my granny’s yard long ago, and there was only so much in that plot of land to occupy my imagination.
Fancying myself an explorer, I’d waited until Granny was finished in the kitchen before wandering around the corner and beyond the row of trees marking the edge of Mr. Fuson’s yard. I’d overheard my mom talking to Granny about the neighbor’s plan to tear down the old dog kennel at the edge of his property just a few days before.
After exploring most of the neighborhood, my curiosity was working overtime, an itch in the back of my brain that I couldn’t quite scratch. If I didn’t explore the kennel soon, I’d never get the chance—and now I regretted that decision.
I happened upon Gerald throwing stones at the windows of the old building, and like the idiot I was back then, I yelled for him to quit it. Gerald wasn’t much bigger than me, and in a pinch, I figured I could outrun him. When Brent emerged from the old kennel with a rotted piece of wood in his hands, I knew I’d stepped into a hornet’s nest.
“Now he’s crying!” Gerald’s shrill voice whined in my ears. “Look at the little baby cry!”
“Kiss the damn shoe,” Brent grunted. “Do it, or we’ll lock you in there.”
I knew where he was talking about, and I
wanted to protest but all my words came out in pained sobs. Hot needles stabbed into my arm as Brent held me there, and I had to fight the urge to vomit. I remember thinking how perfect this would be if I threw up all over Gerald’s shoe, but knowing those boys, I think that would’ve made things worse.
“Screw that,” Gerald squealed. “Let’s put him in there anyway. With the dead dog!”
My eyes grew wide when I heard that. I immediately regretted not kissing Gerald’s shoe. Before I could protest, Brent pulled back on my arm, yanking me to my feet. Dark spots burst in my vision as the bullies shoved me into the decrepit kennel. I stumbled to the dirt floor, gasping for air and fighting the rising desire to retch. Turning back, I saw the door close behind me and heard my captors cackle in triumph.
***
Banners of light filtered through the broken windows like pale, crooked arms. Motes of dust wandered lazily in the musty air. I wiped tears and snot on my sleeve, climbed to my feet, and pushed against the door. The sturdy wooden frame wouldn’t budge. I imagined Brent pressed against the door, bracing his hulking mass against my puny resistance. I kicked at the door and beat my fists against it. I was angry and humiliated, afraid of what they’d say at school the following week. Even at eight, I knew how vicious rumors were—especially the true ones.
“Let me out!”
Brent and Gerald chuckled at my distress.
“What do you think, Brent? Should we let him out?”
“No, let him sit in there. He’s got company anyway.”
The dead dog. In that moment I became aware of the stench, and this time I couldn’t hold back. I turned away from the door, doubled over, and threw up. Outside, Brent’s baritone chuckle punctuated the gaps between Gerald’s gasping, shrieking laughter. Wiping my mouth, I realized I hated them, even though I didn’t fully understand that hate.
“Shut up,” I rasped, grimacing at the raw sensation at the back of my throat. I spat bile on the ground and reached out into the shadows to brace myself against the wall. The branches of sunlight only lit up the old kennel so much, leaving the rest bathed in a dim haze.
“Shut up,” Gerald whined. “Shut up, guys. I’m scared. What a stupid baby.”
Brent grunted. “A stupid fag-baby.”
They erupted into new fits of laughter, rising and falling in waves that accented my shame. I’m such a chicken shit, I thought. I should’ve stood up to them. I should’ve—
“You should have, child, and you didn’t. Why not let me?”
I held my breath. That was a grown man’s voice. Deep and confident, the voice spoke with authority. I became aware of a different smell in the kennel: a pungent stench of eggs overpowered the rotting dog.
“It’s quite all right,” spoke the man. “I’m not here to hurt you, child. I’m not like them.”
My heart thumped in my throat, and the burning fire in my lungs reminded me to breathe again. I exhaled slowly, listening to the pounding in my ears, feeling lightheaded and hoping that I’d imagined everything. Outside, the bullies continued their incessant banter, rapping against the door, calling me “fag-baby.” The smell filled the room, thickening the air, and I felt it clinging to my skin like a slim film. I wanted to throw up again.
Movement stirred at the far end of the kennel. My head thumped to the beat of my heart as I searched the shadows, trying my best to seek out the shape of the man. I saw nothing but empty stalls and rusted wire fencing. The dull, rapid tapping of knuckles against the wooden door echoed in the empty chamber, providing a chorus to the pounding in my ears.
“H-Hello?” I wanted to cover my mouth, but my hands wouldn’t cooperate. I stood there in the dark, petrified by what I could not see.
Something shifted at the far end. Closer now. Heavy steps moved slowly toward me, and when the bulldog stepped out of the shadows, my vocal cords finally woke up. I uttered a scream not out of fear, but of shock and disgust. The dog’s stomach was bloated, its fur coated in a dark ooze that dribbled down its side. The creature’s paws were covered in the stuff, and when the dog shook its head maggots flew out of its ears.
Something lurched in my gut and I heaved, but nothing came up.
“I detest that reaction.”
I looked down at the rotting canine. Thick strings of blackened goo oozed out of its nostrils and limp jaw. A maggot writhed across its snout. Part of its front leg was stripped bare of fur, revealing raw, swollen flesh. What captured my attention, however, was the piercing blue glow emanating from the dog’s sunken eyes. They resonated with life inside the dead creature’s husk.
“Do you want out of here?”
The man’s voice echoed under the kennel’s tin roof, and the dog stared at me, waiting for a reply. The bullies kept up with their mockery. I looked away from the dog toward the door.
“Don’t worry about them,” spoke the dead dog. “Just tell me, child: do you want my help?”
Confused, my heart booming in my chest, I lowered my eyes to the dead animal. I stared into those unsettling sapphire orbs and nodded. My cheeks flushed, filling up with the shame of not being able to fight my own battles. I really was a chicken shit.
The dog shook its head again, flinging a clump of maggots to the dirt. A string of congealed blood dripped from the animal’s left ear, pooling just beside its paw. “This will only take a moment.”
The dog lowered its head, baring its fangs for the first time. Blood oozed between yellowing teeth, dribbling out of its mouth in thick clumps. For a moment I feared the animal was going to attack me, but when I heard the door creak I realized the dog was not growling at me.
“Hey, wait a sec,” Gerald said. “What’s happening to the—”
The kennel door swung open, flooding the dingy chamber with morning light.
“What the hell?” Brent stuck his head inside the doorway. “I don’t know how you did that, fag-baby, but we didn’t say you could leave—oh shit.”
The dead dog snapped at the air, uttering a growl so fierce that I had to step away for fear it might turn on me. Brent’s startled face went pale, his eyes wide and mouth frozen in shock. His lips moved but no words left them, and for the first time, he was absent of witty remarks.
The bulldog took a step forward, and then another, leaving behind a bloody trail of writhing maggots. The creature snapped again, letting loose a bark that was neither canine nor human. The sound was akin to crackling fire and wind, like kindling crumbling to ash in a bonfire. And those eyes—God, even now, I can’t get that look out of my head. Those piercing blue eyes shimmered with life like a newborn baby, cutting through the gloom of the kennel and reflecting back on Brent’s terrified face. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
“What is it?” Gerald’s voice carried from beyond the doorway. “What’s wr—”
He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. The dead dog snapped once more, and this time Brent reacted, pulling back from the doorway just in time. The animal bounded after them, and in the moments that followed all I heard were the sounds of fire and wind punctuated with the screams of two bad kids. I stood in the shadows with my hands to my ears, shivering in the warm morning air.
***
“Come on, child. Out you go.”
I opened my eyes to find a dark figure standing in the doorway. He offered his hand to me, but I hesitated. The screams of the bullies had faded away mere minutes before, but I feared they might still be out there, lurking, waiting for me to emerge. I pictured Brent and Gerald dragging me back here and locking me away again. The thought gave me a chill.
“Don’t worry,” spoke the man. “You have nothing to fear from them. I chased them off.”
Timid, I walked to the entrance, squinting at the sunlight. As I neared the man, I could smell that same overwhelming stench as before: eggs. The stranger was pale with dark hair cropped closely to his ears. A thin, dark goatee accented his smile, and his bright blue eyes shimmered even in the light. His slender figure filled out the contours of a black sui
t. I’d never seen clothes so fancy. There was nary a speck of dust or lint on the fabric. He even had shiny gold cufflinks shaped like goat heads.
The dark man looked down at me, grinning. I stared up at him in awe.
“Did you chase away Brent and Gerald?”
“I sure did, kiddo. I’ve not much use for bullies. Parasites, they are.”
The logical question of “Are you a talking dog?” hung on my lips, but I was too embarrassed to ask. I didn’t want to be rude.
“Oh, please,” the man said, waving his hand through the air. “That isn’t a rude question to ask. In fact, it’s the right question to ask. Yes, I was the dog. I heard you needed help, and I happened to be wandering by. Now here we are.”
I suddenly felt dizzy, the morning air thickening in my lungs.
“Thank you,” I whispered. He waved my gratitude away, producing a cigarette from his pocket. He held it to his lips and snapped his fingers, making a spark that set the cigarette ablaze. I was so entranced by his display that I almost didn’t notice his long, black fingernails. They looked like claws.
“Are you a magician?”
He took a drag from the cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke that stank of tobacco and cloves. The aroma did little to cover the smell of eggs. My stomach had settled itself over that smell, but I’d hardly grown used to it. I never did, either.
“A magician?” He shook his head. “No, Toddy. Magicians use magic. I just use what comes naturally.”
He flashed a smile as his words sank in. Toddy. No one called me that. Well, no one except for Granny and my mom.
“How do you know my name?”
The dark man grinned. “I know a lot of names, kiddo. I speak a language of them, but right now, yours is my only tongue.” He produced a small, black notebook from his back pocket and flipped through its pages. “Says it right here, as a matter of fact. Toddy. Don’t you go by that?”
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