they say the owl was a baker's daughter: four existential noirs

by KUBOA

  The officer made no attempt to get me to stand. I heard him cursing to himself, roughing his shirt sleeve against the wall, rubbing at the side of his face, his neck. He gave me a kick, no place particularly. It hardly hurt, but I lowered myself a bit more to give him a sense of satisfaction.

  -I think he killed her, I started to say, voice cracking immediately.

  The officer, with real disdain, scoff, belted at me to be quite, grabbing at me, trying to get his hands under my arms.

  I saw the elevator door opening on the wet lobby, lit like early evening, the traffic hardly visible through the dirty reflection on the inside of the building’s entrance door.

  I made myself heavy, humped myself into the corner, burying my face behind myself and could hear him cursing more, taking a posture of violence.

  I refused to stand up when he told me to, didn’t even listen, felt him trying to get a decent hold of my ankles. I kicked and scramble, knew I was muttering oh no no no no but it didn’t even sound like anything to me.

  ***

  I was made down the sidewalk perhaps only twenty paces before the police car door was opened to close me in.

  Rain fingered at the windows, veins trying to get into me through the holes of my face. I watched my breath blow grey against the glass and vanish a few times before just blowing, no grey, no vanishing, the car taking equilibrium with me, accustomed to my flavor.

  I didn’t look out to see what the officer was doing, didn’t care. I just sat, facing directly against what was probably a thin of my reflection that I just couldn’t make out, knew people passing outside wouldn’t see me, even a suggestion, would see a smear of the building front in reflection, see themselves, and water in lines, dots, a lot of nonsense on the glass.

  I hoped they’d been forced to shoot the man, that he’d revealed himself, that maybe the confrontation with what I’d done had exploded him, driven him to do something he shouldn’t have, no different than had been done to me.

  I wished and wished him dead, but knew he wasn’t, impossible he would be. In fact, he was probably being consoled, soothed, left to pretend he wasn’t what he was.

  I wondered if they’d let me sleep, maybe even just to be cruel, maybe just to let me wake up and find myself still what I was, still what I’d done, what had been done to me— it seemed if I could stay awake I could bear it, but if forced to wake to it I’d disintegrate utterly, whatever crumb of me was left moistened, pulped, mawed and gone.

  The car was just silent, terrible, getting its teeth settled into my bones before sleeping, itself, forgetting me.

  man standing behind

  She saw the barkeep, said ‘O God, he can't be dead!’

  Stag said ‘Well, just count the holes in the motherfucker's head.’

  -Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

  It wasn’t as late as I’d thought it would be, I’d only wound up kept past shift by an hour. Still, I was walking briskly, thinking to get the train, get home as quickly as possible. No real point, but why not? I glanced at storefronts and had my head down from the din and the eyes of the wet pedestrian traffic, things too bright and blurry, too noisy to focus right.

  I caught sight of a cash machine and remembered I wanted to have some money for going out later, new resolution, stick to a budget, this would be the best way—drinks with friends, the debit card could get abused.

  I waited in a bulge of people at a crosswalk, looked at some of the boots and stockings some of the women were wearing, kind of wished I worked in an office building with them.

  When I got into the little alcove with the machine, I took a moment to clean my glasses with my shirt, inserted my card, coughed into my hand. A man walked right up on me, said Hello and while I screwed my face to ask him what he thought he was doing I noticed he had a blunt little gun in his hand, fingers loose around it. I started to meet his eyes, then turned my head down, the man backing up a step, moving in behind me.

  -Hey, finish what you were doing, he said.

  -Look, I’ll just put in my pin, alright? I’ll walk away and you can take whatever you want, there’s a few hundred I think.

  -Just finish what you were doing.

  I tapped my pin number, went through the options on the screen, selected Deposit instead of Withdrawal, reset.

  -The gun’s real, just so you know.

  -I know, it’s alright. How much do you want?

  He lifted up my shirt a bit, put the metal of the weapon to my skin, moved it away.

  -It’s a real gun, it’s a loaded gun, don’t think that it isn’t.

  -I know it’s real, I believe you. Look, my code is in, you can empty it out, alright?

  -Just get your money, whatever you were going to get.

  There was three hundred eighteen dollars and change in my account, I hit to withdraw three hundred, collected it, handed it up over my shoulder.

  -Look at me. He didn’t touch the money, told me to put it in my pocket. Look at me.

  -I don’t want to look at you.

  He chuckled, like he was getting bored, said if I didn’t look at him he would shoot me.

  -I don’t want to look at you, just please, okay?

  -Turn around and look at me, man.

  So I did—he was rolling his eyes, like it’d been a little lover’s annoyance, made a kind of was-that-so-hard scoff.

  -Come on over here a bit, people might want to use that.

  We moved down ten or twelve paces, I was leaned to the sooty window of some florist.

  -Hand me your wallet.

  I calmly gestured the money across at him and he got a wide, tense smile.

  -Hand me your wallet.

  -It’s three hundred dollars. He gestured like he was about to talk again, so I fumbled over my words, said I didn’t really have a wallet. I just keep my stuff in my pockets, I stammered.

  -He nodded, said that he pretty much did that too. Let me see your ID.

  I went through a few pockets until I found it, held it as well as the folded three hundred across, but he just picked the ID out, closed one eye while he looked at it.

  -But this isn’t a current address, right?

  I still had the money held out and he handed me back the ID, told me to put them away.

  -It’s not a current address, on the ID?

  I shook my head, said it wasn’t. He blew a long breath out this mouth, then another out his nose, went into his pockets and produced a pack of cigarettes, handed it to me.

  -There’s matches inside. Start me a cigarette.

  I looked at him.

  -Jesus, man, start me a cigarette, this is going to get so trying on my nerves if I have to say everything twice, alright? Start me a cigarette.

  I did, handed it to him, then tried to hand back the pack but he shook his head, told me to put those in my pocket.

  The gun was in his pocket and so was his hand, I briefly wondered if with him standing as close as he was couldn’t I risk giving him a shove, ducking into the pedestrian traffic just a little bit further than arms-length from the both of us. He knew my name, but I could get to the police—though maybe he would fire wildly after me, hitting god knows who.

  -He gestured with his nose while he said We’re going to start walking, you walk right in front of me.

  -I don’t have anything, I don’t think I’m who you think I am.

  I said this, it just came out, the words curlicue and pointless.

  -I don’t think you’re anybody, Roger. I just need you to walk.

  He looked at his cigarette, holding it up with palm facing him, told me to start him another one first. I said Okay, but it took me a moment to register that the pack was in my pocket, got one out, noticed my hands were shaking, which could have been from the cold, except I didn’t feel cold.

  I had to turn my back to him to shield the matches from the general stir in the air, looked at the wall corner, brick into brick, thought maybe if I spun aro
und, maybe if I jabbed the cigarette at his eye I could squirm out—I even thought he might shoot me still, but maybe that’s the thing, let him shoot me and he’ll have to run off, I should just grab at him so I get shot in the leg, then he’d have to run off.

  He gave me the remains of his cigarette and told me I could finish it. I held it, numb, idiot, said I didn’t feel like smoking, just then.

  -Then don’t, he said, and he had an expression like he was stifling a sneeze. Then don’t, he said, more clearly, told me to start walking, to turn to the left.

  ***

  We walked for a few blocks—he didn’t have the gun to my back, just his hands down in his pockets, we walked along just like any of the other pedestrians, I was even still moving in the direction of the metro station I’d been heading to.

  It was odd getting a footing on my thoughts, there was very much the impulse to run or to do something to bring attention to my situation.

  But that was my situation?

  At best, I could scream out, flag over a police officer. But the man with the gun could just keep walking, what was I supposed to say to stop him? That man has a gun. That man showed me a gun, told me to walk with him? All he would have to do would be walk away and then I’d no idea where things stood.

  Not that he could find me, why would he find me?

  At worst? Well, at worst he would shoot me dead—at worst he could shoot me dead and maybe some other completely innocent person.

  I kept my eyes opened for reasonable ways to give him the slip, but nothing seemed more or less reasonable than anything else. I was stuck in a numb moment of thought—I didn’t want to die, certainly, I didn’t want to look over my shoulder forever, who knows what in the world this man wanted.

  -Do you have smaller money than you took out of the cash machine?

  I almost didn’t register the question was directed at me, he didn’t lean in close, hush it at me, threaten it at me. I hadn’t answered yet when he directed me into a small convenience store, we went down the aisles, he picked up a bottle of water, a small tube of breath mints, asked for a pack of a certain brand of cigarettes when we got to the cashier—not the same as the pack I had in my pocket. I paid without him having to make further indication to me and when we were outside he asked me to hand him the change which he skimmed three ones off of, gave me the rest.

  -Sorry, I don’t have any cash at the moment, I’ll pay you back. He smiled, almost winked at that, then made a gesture like it’d been a dumb joke, I shouldn’t worry I wasn’t getting it.

  We stopped at a moderately crowded bus stop, stood back a ways and he had me light him another cigarette, one of the new kinds, told me I could have the others. I lit one, thoughtless, wanted to ask him wouldn’t he just take the money, again, but I just stood, mute, cigarette curling out smoke I didn’t inhale.

  A bus pulled up after a few minutes and we shambled in at the back of the line, plenty of seats, me at the window, the man with the gun sitting right next to me. I hadn’t paid attention to which line we were on, but I wasn’t directly familiar with it and soon we were in areas of the city completely foreign to me.

  I tried to figure what would be a good way to attack him. Maybe when getting off of the bus—it was a question of getting the gun away, I imagined, though I started to even doubt this. So I struggle the gun away, maybe point it at him—I’d have to pull the trigger if he just came at me, then and I doubted I’d be able to do so, even with the swelling rage I felt.

  I’d have to, because what would happen otherwise?

  Again, would I say This man pointed a gun at me, told me to come with him?’ I mean, I could prove that, I supposed, but then what would happen if he had a permit for the weapon or something or even if he didn’t, it’s not like he’d be arrested, thrown in a hole to rot.

  And that all was just considering I could wrestle the gun away, that I could get the upper hand.

  -Where are we going? I asked weakly, not thinking he would answer, not really understanding I had spoken.

  -To Carlisle Street, he said, casual, then added it was a good fifteen minutes on the bus and then a little hike.

  I couldn’t imagine him killing me, couldn’t picture it, should just run when I had the chance—he wasn’t going to go nuts, shoot whoever was on hand, he’d just wander off, I could just run and I’d bet he wouldn’t even follow me. Then I could report him, describe him—and here, without me wanting it to, I found myself thinking Hopefully before he grabbed somebody else.

  I’d have to report him, what else was I supposed to do, just go home? It wasn’t even reporting him so that he could get caught before coming to get me—which was still a possibility—he was obviously going to do something that needed to be stopped.

  It was a lost situation, if I screamed, even, right here on the bus, even if I took that complete risk, nobody was going to hold him, he’d just walk away.

  -What’s on Carlisle street?

  -He seemed to be thinking about something else, blinked, smiled with his tongue tip pinched between his lips. I live there.

  I hated his leg touching mine, his side touching mine, hated I could smell him. And it almost made me chuckle that I wondered if he was going to take me hostage at his house, as though I wasn’t hostage, already. It was strange, the shift in my thought of identity—it’s exactly what I was, of course, there wasn’t any other word for it.

  Victim, suddenly screwed its way into my thoughts, there was the word Victim.

  But I preferred Hostage, it almost relaxed me.

  We were out of the city, on one of the blank roads that led to the smaller pockets of residential area, little towns, outlying specks of the city, very similar to the sort of area I lived in, except where I lived was further away—or I kind of wondered, which way were we going? Was it closer, further? I let myself stare at the warm inside of the cold window wondering about this little irrelevancy.

  ***

  When we stepped off the bus, it seemed into the middle of nothing, just on a curved slip of road, tree lined, tall lampposts every ten paces but none of them lit, a long nothing that we walked and got to the entrance of a deep residential area. I lit my own cigarette, while I walked, the man behind me not asking me to light one for him. I wanted to chance a glance back over my shoulder, even if just to get an idea was his hand still in his pocket, was it out, maybe his coat sleeve brought over his hand, concealing the weapon.

  If I was going to run, it seemed the best time, slam my elbow into his nose, in through the tree line, just run and not stop. But I couldn’t bring myself to even turn, to verify if he was directly behind me, five paces back, seven, ten, a bit to my left a bit to my right.

  It must have been a mile or two through neighborhoods of townhouses, then through a wide public park area, the lake water tight but not yet freezing, and once through this the houses became individual, stand alone, pockets of yard fifty feet or so long between each. We walked right up to the side door, by the garage, of one of these.

  -A key landed on the cement just by my foot before the man said Go ahead and open the door.

  Inside it was heated, warm, smells of a dishwasher having recently run, a television or radio somewhere, the sound of a woman talking on the phone. This woman mouthed the word Hi to the man and he said, quickly and quietly, that I was his friend, Roger, I’d just be there for a few minutes, he claimed it was something to do with work and she nodded, obviously not paying so much attention, responding to whoever was on the other line.

  -You can have a seat, Roger, I’ll go grab that for you, he said, motioned me to the long sofa, tossed me the remote control then moved off, behind me.

  I stared at the television screen, uncertain, liking the warmth of the room, the relaxation of my seated body on sinking cushion. I turned to see had the man really just left me there, but saw he was in the hallway, just seemed to be milling there. I looked in the direction of the woman’s voice but couldn’t see her for the pla
cement of the high kitchen bar counter. I stared at the television, didn’t even know why I wasn’t doing anything else, wasn’t even thinking about what else I might do.

  -Sorry, that was my brother, the woman said, loudly, obviously aware that the man had left the room.

  I heard her stand and looked up as she entered the parlor area.

  -Hi, I’m Gwen, Donald’s wife. You two work together?

  I even smiled a bit, said Yes and just then the man, Donald, stepped in from the hall, arm extended, fired a shot right into the side of Gwen’s head and her body seemed to slump before the little smack of the shot, a handclap, even registered.

  I stood, awkwardly, almost like one would if their date was arriving to the restaurant a bit late, stared at the coil of her body. I felt Donald touch my shoulders, he turned me a bit this way and that way, told me not to sit down, to just wait there. I honestly didn’t feel like I understood what had happened, even had the vague thought that Donald had rushed off to get something to stop his wife’s bleeding—I just stood, no idea how long, then Donald was handing me something.

  -Change into this.

  I saw it was a pair of pants and a pair of underwear.

  -What? It was a peep, a genuine question, I didn’t process what he meant.

  -You can’t go out like that, he said, pointing at me—I kind of noted the gun wasn’t in either of his hands. These should fit, just get dressed.

  I’d soiled myself, urinated and defecated, it was jarring to realize. I stepped backward as though I’d just stood in something or realized a bug had crawled on my shoe.

  -I’m sorry, I kind of muttered, daintily started undoing my pants, now aware of the hot reek of the mess wafting around me.

  -It doesn’t matter, just get dressed.

  He went to the kitchen, brought me a few hand towels, went back to the kitchen while I got myself cleaned up and into the pants—his I thought, maybe not, but probably.

  He came in, smoking a cigarette, handed me a thick glass of what I thought was water but turned out to be vodka. It was after swallowing, gasping out, I realized how heavily I was breathing.