“I’m just going to stretch out for a bit.”
“Go ahead.”
I put my hands on the fire escape railing and listen to the traffic.
“Your apartment is a bit cramped,” he says from behind me.
“I know.”
“It looks like someone has been in here. There are handprints in the dust.”
“What?”
I crouch to get a look. They’re my handprints. The room must’ve been my hideout when I entered the catalog. I guess it was safer than wandering the streets and freezing to death. I’m just thankful I didn’t throw myself off the fire escape when I was hallucinating.
The extension cord, which I tied with a noose a lifetime ago, is still tangled in the railing. Below is the dumpster, where I threw away all my beloved catalogs. Down the alley, I see the sidewalk, the street, and people passing by. The world out there holds promise. That’s an optimistic thought, and I’m grateful, but it’s an even better feeling to feel at home and happy where you are. The crazy anxiety caused by a rootless childhood, which made me desperate to escape my own skin, has subsided in the last few weeks. After I had left to go to college, I feared I’d never feel at home again. But now… This is where I live, where I belong, where I can come back to when the world overwhelms me, and I need to recharge. I haven’t felt this settled in years. The stupid fight with my landlord may have jeopardized all that.
“Damn it!”
I shouldn’t get complacent. The darkness I thought I had left behind is still in me, waiting. It’s a part of me when I make friends, when I feel at home, even when I feel joy. I’m never truly safe.
A raindrop pricks my forehead. Clouds have blocked the sun.
I already hear tires on wet pavement as cars drive by.
Cars.
Rain.
The dark city.
That night when Loo died, what really happened?
I close in on Loo, her back to me. She should have a coat, but all she has is a wet, black dress. A memory? My imagination? My hands push her into the street as if there’s no choice, as if her death is predestined. My hands just helped fate along. Right before the car hits her, the horn blares like a subway train.
“I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill her.” Marshall could overhear. I wipe rain off my face and whisper, “I couldn’t have.”
It’s just in my head, a false memory I’ve imagined. I didn’t do it.
19.2
Cautiously, I enter the darkness of Brief Pose. The music is off, which is strange because the music is always on during store hours. Where is everyone? It’s like when I trespassed before BP's grand opening. Only now, the checkout area is as dark as a cave.
All at once, the lights turn on, “Surprise!” and from all sides, everyone pops out from hiding.
A banner reads, “Happy Birthday!” Film-themed paper products are stacked on the counter. It’s Tuesday already. I didn’t even realize.
Adam holds a cake, and Juliet and Fiona hang off him as if the three are together. The girls blow party favors in his face, playfully teasing him as he sets the cake by the paper plates. Marshall, dressed in my extra BP clothing, stands off to the side with a fire extinguisher, presumably worried that the single candle would catch fire to the place.
“We are closed for one hour,” Tara says, holding a present.
“Can we do that?” I’m dumbfounded.
Tara lights the candle with a cigarette lighter. “A calm before the storm. This Friday, Matthew Weber is paying us a personal visit. He’ll expect perfection. Prepare to work your asses off.”
“Whatever it takes.” Hunter holds a box of Miracle Grow in his hands. “We’ll make him proud, right guys?” Matthew Weber is Hunter’s idol.
“Don’t worry, Hunter,” I say. “We all want it to go well. Fiona will get a modeling job. Tara will move up in the company. You should have enough time to pick his brain. It’ll be perfect.”
Fiona looks flattered. “You really think I have a chance?”
“That’s why you got this job, right? They have to consider you, at least.”
“I know, but, oh god! He is going to be here in four days. Maybe I should skip the cake.”
“We have to celebrate,” Adam says. “It’s somebody’s birthday.” He starts singing “Happy Birthday,” and they all join in. I blow out the candle. Everyone besides Marshall claps; he’s uncharacteristically grumpy.
Tara hands me the first present. I rip off the glossy wrapping paper. In a small cardboard box is a string of Buddhist prayer flags and a black Sharpie. “You write your prayers on them,” she explains. “And the wind takes your prayers out into the world.”
“I don't believe in presents,” Marshall says, hugging the fire extinguisher. Right. His last gift exchange burned down his life.
Tara cuts into the cake. It’s white with some raspberry filling. Maybe they won’t notice me not eating any.
Hunter hands me the Miracle Grow. “Tara’s idea. I couldn’t think of anything. I was gonna get you something to wear, you know, something besides BP clothing, but I don’t want to impose my fashion tastes on to you.”
“God forbid,” I say.
“Hey. Fashion is a personal statement. Most gays take fashion very seriously.” He gets self-conscious. “Whatever. You know, you're my first gay friend since I moved here--sorry, 'queer' friend.”
He’s my first gay friend too.
“Have you ever tried staying for breakfast,” Adam says. “You know, instead of slipping out the window?”
“Har har.”
It’s true. Hunter is a bit of a slut, but we don’t hold it against him. Tara used to sleep around; Adam might be sleeping with Fiona and Juliet, and who am I to talk? I got a blowjob in a laundry room from what amounted to a total stranger. I smile thinking about it. I’ve wanted to brag to Hunter because he’d understand a casual hookup, but I’ve been too embarrassed.
Everyone besides me takes a piece of cake, even Fiona. I grab a juice box. I’m just amazed they knew it was my birthday.
Now that I have friends, maybe I should give romance a try and play the field. I have a few hookup apps on my phone, though I’ve never used them. I could create a dating profile. Then again, maybe I should take it slow. After all, my last girlfriend was imaginary.
The juice box contracts in my hand as I suck out the berry drink and then makes that sucking sound when I reach the bottom.
“We work with dance music,” Juliet says. “We party in silence.”
“I'm not complaining,” Hunter says. “Who is sick of nst nst nst?”
We all raise our hands, even Marshall. “What?” he says. “I can hear it on the street.”
“We should go bar hopping tonight!”
Juliet elbows Adam in the ribs and whispers loudly, “You know Eric doesn’t drink!”
“He wouldn’t have to. He could watch me get drunk. I’m a very entertaining drunk.”
“Okay, this one is from all of us.” Tara hands me a present the size of a breadbox, wrapped in the same glossy paper as the prayer flags.
I unwrap it and can’t believe what I’m seeing, not even a little. Inside is a video camera. I’m speechless.
“You don’t like it?” Juliet says, disappointed.
“Are you kidding? I don’t know what to say.”
“It was JuanCarlos’s idea,” Tara explains. “He said you were into making movies, but you didn’t have a camera.”
“Wow. Just wow.”
“We tried to get one with a good mic, but you might need to buy a separate boom if you want to shoot anything professional.”
I can’t get words out.
Adam pats my back. “What’s wrong?”
“A year ago… I could've never imagined this. Thank you. This means everything to me. Really.”
Things have gotten pretty sappy. Thankfully, Adam changes the subject. “Did you hear that two more BPs were vandalized?”
“Those fuckers!” Hunter is ins
tantly pissed. He thinks BP can do no wrong.
“One was burnt to the fucking ground.”
“That's horrible,” Marshall says. “Was anyone hurt?”
“Not that I heard.”
I shake my head. We pulled the catalog. What are they protesting now? It doesn’t make any sense.
Fiona simultaneously jumps, yelps, and throws her cake across the room. Everyone stares at her. Maybe she decided to diet after all.
“I thought I saw a bug.” Mortified, she goes to clean up the mess.
Adam goes to help her. “Baby, don't sweat it; I’ve seen things too. I even went to an eye doctor.”
“What have you been seeing?” I ask.
“I don’t know. It’s like just out of the corner of my eye. I’ll see a shadow, maybe the form of a person, and I’ll turn, and there won’t be anything there. Sometimes this terror comes over me like I’m being chased, it feels like I’m in a horror movie, but it always passes. It’s nothing.”
Hunter suggests that maybe it's from a rugby injury, but I know that’s not it. The catalog must need more time to wear off. How long has it been? A little over two months since the recall, that’s not that long. Getting better takes time.
Adam wipes frosting out of the carpet with a new BP shirt, not bothering to get a towel.
Fiona throws the ruined cake into the trash. She grabs a shirt and wipes off her hands. “My psychiatrist says that the insects are my minds way of telling me to deal with childhood trauma. I used to pretend bugs were in all my food. But I thought I was over that. I’ve been eating really well! I’m on some new medications; maybe that’s what’s making it worse.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Juliet says and puts her arm around Fiona’s shoulder.
“I freaked out at my last audition. It was embarrassing.”
“I’ve been freaking out in class,” Juliet says.
“Really?”
“Yes. It started off with these happy but really intense daydreams about graduation. My parents were so proud. God! I’m tearing up just thinking about it.”
“That's weird,” Hunter says. “I've been having daydreams about my dad. He talks to me sometimes.”
Juliet nods. “Yeah, I talked to my parents too! But they started harassing me. Saying all sorts of horrible things. What does your father say?”
“If I reject my sinful lifestyle, he'll love me. Hey, at least we're talking. In real life, he won’t give me the time of day.”
“It’s happening to everyone,” I say, mostly to myself.
Tara stuffs the prayer flags into the trash. “Buddha told me to do things. Bad things. But it’s not Buddha, is it?”
JuanCarlos sticks his head out of the stockroom. “Eric! Get your ass in here! We have one more surprise.”
A large crate in the center of the stockroom gives off a smell that makes me salivate. It makes me crave rolling in BP clothing. It conjures images of paradise and escape and makes me feel like all my new friends will never be enough.
JuanCarlos hands me a crowbar.
With dread, I pry open the lid and reveal at least a hundred new Summer BP catalogs.
On the FRONT COVER, fully clothed models stand in a desert.
JuanCarlos proudly announces, “Everyone gets a copy.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Clara Powers
On the subway, I rock back and forth on a hard plastic seat that reminds me of riding in the back of a cop car. Eclectic strangers do their best to avoid making eye contact.
I vaguely remember leaving my birthday party without warning my friends. It’s crazy to think that the catalog makes people lose their minds, but what else could it be? I should’ve said something. Instead, I ran. I need time to think.
At the end of the subway car, someone has dressed as Santa.
I hug the catalog. I didn’t even realize I took one! I drop it as if it burns me. People look at me and the catalog, expecting me to pick it back up.
The person dressed as Santa is just a teenager in a red coat texting on her phone.
Someone else is going to pick up the catalog if I leave it on the floor. Do I want some stranger affected too? I reluctantly pick the catalog up, keeping it at a distance. There will be a trashcan at the next stop. I can hold it for that long.
Curiosity makes me long to look inside its bland cover. Or is it something more. It’s just photographs inside, probably with a desert theme like the front. I don’t need to look, but what could one peek hurt? As I open to a random page, the lights in the subway car flicker and go out.
In my apartment, Marshall has a grip on my shoulder. “I didn't mean to startle you.” He holds, against his chest, a large jar of baby dill pickles that’s down to mostly pickle juice.
I clutch the air. “Where is the catalog?”
“You had me throw it out.”
“Right.” I recall having him trash it in an unknown location so I couldn’t retrieve it, but the memory feels distant and foggy.
“You okay?”
“I think my friends are in trouble.”
“I noticed. Can I have a pickle?”
“What?”
He tries to stab a pickle, but they keep sloshing away from his fork. “I found a job lead that might pan out. If so, I should be out of your hair by the end of the month.”
I don’t need him to find a place; I need his help. “I keep forgetting what I'm doing. It’s as if, I don’t know. God, what if this isn’t real? I keep seeing Santa.”
“Hmmm. It might be head trauma.” Marshall finally forks a pickle. “Or a brain tumor. That would be bad.”
He eats the pickle and goes for the last one. Why is he so fucking calm about this?!
“Everyone at my work is hallucinating!”
“I know. I was there. It could be a cluster. But you're right; cancer does seem unlikely.” He sets down the jar and scrounges in my junk drawer. He pulls out a small medical flashlight and turns it on. “It's mine,” he explains. “From my old life. You ignored the protesters.”
“What? The protesters are crazy.” I think of Abigail going on and on about aliens.
Marshall tests my pupils. “Calling the kettle black, aren't we? Do you think Brief Pose is responsible? Have you been having headaches?”
I shake my head.
“I don't think it's a tumor. You should probably get it checked out, though.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“Not anymore.”
“What if my birthday party wasn’t real? I could have been hallucinating.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything.”
“Were there other people there? Fiona threw her cake. And Adam helped her clean it up. And Tara. Did you meet Tara?”
“You weren’t talking to yourself if that’s what you’re asking. Not like before. You seem better.”
“When did you see me talking to myself before?”
“It was a while ago. You were smoking in the alley behind BP. You told that kid with the camera to fuck off. And then we went for a walk, and I told you not everyone is real. Remember? What did you think I was going on about?”
“I thought you were being poetic. God! I don’t want to go crazy again. How do I know any of this is real?”
“You don’t.” He shrugs. “No guarantees. Your whole life could be a dream. You could be my dream for all we know. ‘I think therefore I am’ is bullshit. But for the moment, I suggest having a little faith. What’s the alternative?”
“Thanks. Real comforting.”
I can smell alcohol, but it’s not from Marshall. Santa sits slumped on my loveseat. He can’t be real. He can’t be! I snatch up my video camera and turn it on. I try to record him, but when I look through the viewfinder, there is no Santa, only an empty loveseat.
“Eric?”
I look past the camera’s viewfinder screen and see Santa still sitting there. He takes a swig from his flask.
“Eric, what is it?”
“I think BP i
s responsible for all of this.”
“What do you mean?”
I pan the camera. The fact that Marshall shows up on the little screen, while Santa is invisible, doesn’t prove definitively that Marshall is real, but I find it reassuring.
“BP was in a financial free-fall. Somehow it all turned around. People were buying clothes like there was no tomorrow. Their stock skyrocketed. Around that same time, I started to hallucinate. I thought it was just me, from my past traumas, but I think BP did something on a national scale. Matthew Weber was desperate, they were going to remove him from his own company, and so he decided to put something into the catalog. The orientation video mentioned something about sex pheromone bonded with the paper.”
“Human sex pheromones are a myth. Humans don’t have a functional vomeronasal organ. We can’t detect pheromones.”
“I’m not a scientist. Whatever they did, it changed everything. Everyone wanted to buy BP clothing. It has to be the catalog. I know it.”
“My family died because of a faulty wire. I get it. Big business doesn’t give a shit about us.”
“There's already been a recall. I think these new catalogs were shipped out before they gave the order to take the other catalogs off the shelves. They must know about the side-effects by now. They’d be crazy to release new catalogs out to the public. At some point, the financial liability would become too great.”
“A recall?” He seems offended. “Did the recall give me back my family? A multi-million dollar lawsuit means nothing to these people. They'll kill your friends, or make them go insane, and see it as a business expense. Like you said, business is booming. You can’t prove it’s the catalog. They aren’t gonna stop. Weber is coming to your store Friday, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Simple. You settle things then.”
“It's not just about justice,” I say. “It's getting worse. If I don't find out what BP did to me, to my friends and me…”
“Sanity is overrated.”
I’m not sure if he’s joking or not.
How many BPs are there? “Fuck! Thousands of people could be affected, and this whole time I thought it was just me.”
“One thing I've learned: It's never just you.”
“I should’ve done something. I should have warned people.”
“What do you think the protesters were trying to do?”
I look over to the Santa. He smiles a wide, rotten grin. I wish he’d wash his suit so it wouldn’t always be grimy and smell up the place. I want to strangle him, but he’s already gone.
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