Factory Town

by Jon Bassoff

  Charlie pulled back his greasy blonde hair with his hand, thought things over for a few minutes. Need a place to crash, huh? Well, hell, Russell, I got plenty of space at my place. And I live right here in the neighborhood. You remember my house, don’t you?

  I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I didn’t want to let on. Sure, I said. I remember it well.

  Well, it’s settled then. We’ll play a few hands of cards, drink some Tennessee white whiskey, and then crash at my place. Now that I think of it, you can share a room with my mother. You remember my mother, don’t you, pal?

  Well, sure.

  She’s changed a lot. She’s not the woman you remember. She’s sick, very sick.

  I’m sorry to hear that.

  It’s a mental disease. Nothing anybody can do. You feel so helpless. They can fix a broken leg, but when a person’s mind is broken…

  We walked slowly toward the house, Charlie pausing every few minutes to take a nibble from a metal flask. I watched as the moon vanished into the fog and mist. The gravel crunched beneath our shoes. When Charlie spoke again, his voice was hushed and conspiratorial. So tell me, Russell. You ever settle down? Ever find a girl?

  Yes, Charlie. I got married for a spell.

  But?

  The marriage didn’t last. What does?

  Only damnation, Russell.

  We arrived at the house. A nearly collapsed picket fence surrounded the property, the white paint peeling, the wraparound porch rotting and sagging. The old farmhouse had been left to fend for itself and had long since given up. But tonight the house was alive, what with the light and music and laughter.

  I walked a step behind as Charlie made his way across the lawn and toward the front porch where five men and a single woman—her teeth missing, hair thinning—were drinking whiskey and talking about cars. When they saw me, conversation ceased and they eyed me suspiciously, always the outsider.

  Charlie said: Folks, this is Russell Carver, an old buddy of mine. We had us some good times, yes sir, we did. He’s visiting Factory Town for a spell and it would be awfully kind of you if you made him feel at home. Like I said, he’s an old buddy of mine.

  Pleasure, I said, and they all nodded their heads in unison. For a while we stood there awkwardly, nobody saying a thing, then one of the men, a skinny fellow with one eye, one leg, but thank goodness two arms, said, Watcha doing here in Factory Town, mister?

  I’m investigating a disappearance, I said. A girl named Alana. She’s been missing for some time. I have reliable sources that say she’s here, in Factory Town. So far I haven’t had any success in locating her.

  You a detective then?

  No, not exactly. I—

  I ain’t never heard of no gal named Alana, said another man, corncob pipe in his mouth, skin as white as a ghost. And I woulda ’membered that name, sure as shit.

  I’ve got a photograph, I said. Computer generated. The way she might look today. Mind taking a look?

  I pulled out the tattered photograph and handed it to the skinny man, who proceeded to pass it around the group. Each person held the photograph, but not one person looked at it.

  Nope, said the ghost man. None of us ever seen her, and that’s a fact. Best you go looking somewhere else. Like I said, I woulda remembered her had I seen her. But I ain’t never. None of us have.

  You didn’t even glance at the photo, I said. Not one of you.

  Now that ain’t fair, said the skinny one. We all looked at it, of course we did!

  She’s in danger, I said, grave danger, and I’m not going to be able to save her if you’re all hiding something or if you’re all protecting somebody.

  There were a few long moments of silence before the woman spoke: Mr. Carver, we’re not hiding a thing. There’s nothing to hide. It’s you that’s doing the concealing. Don’t think you’re so clever. We can see right through you. Anybody with an ounce of sense could.

  I snatched the photograph out of the woman’s hand and stuck it back in my jacket pocket. I was angry, but I kept it together.

  I said: We’ve all got secrets, I guess, and that seemed to placate the bastards. Charlie grabbed my shoulder and we walked across the porch, the screen door hanging off its hinges, banging open and shut, and pushed our way inside.

  The house was filled with people milling around, drinking beer and whiskey, slapping each other on the back, dancing haphazardly. The music that I’d assumed was coming from the radio was actually coming from a makeshift stage where four blacks in matching purple zoot suits played a cappella.

  Looking around, I saw that there was no furniture, no carpet, no photographs. Several of the windows were busted out. In the kitchen, the refrigerator and oven were both beyond repair, doors missing, wires splayed every which way.

  Charlie walked me around, introducing me to people whose names I forgot the moment he said them. He grabbed me a Coca-Cola from a cabinet and then disappeared into the crowd, while I stood around, not sure of what to do with myself.

  Eventually, I sat down in the corner, exhausted again, listened to the music and drank my soda. People walked past me, stepped over me. I pulled out the photograph and stared at the image once again. And now I noticed that the photograph had changed. Alana’s face, which for such a long time had possessed an expression of innocent joy, had now transformed into that of terror, eyes open wide, mouth shaped in a silent scream. And, if you looked very carefully, stared at the photograph for a long enough time, you could see, standing directly behind the girl, the vague silhouette of a man.

  CHAPTER 4

  Hope faded fast, so I changed from soda to whiskey, while the black men picked up instruments and the music changed from do-wop to swamp blues. The sound was scary, like skeletons clattering on a ship deck, and the dancing intensified, bodies convulsing wildly. Men pounded the floor hard with their feet, fired Mexican pistolas into the air. Women unbuttoned the tops of their dresses, revealing cleavage wet with perspiration. Eight or more people were passed out on the floor, and I had to step over them to move across the room. A blond man wearing an Indian headdress grabbed and hugged me; a gypsy woman wearing a live cobra stuck her tongue down my throat. My head was spinning out of control.

  I saw strange things. I saw beautiful young women smoking kinnikinnick from a Sun Drop soda can. I saw a pair of old men, arms tied tightly with belts, shooting up scopolamine. I saw a transvestite sucking off a midget, a religious fanatic chewing on broken glass, a sword swallower bleeding from the mouth. I saw books burning orange in a makeshift bonfire, scandalous paintings being slashed with a rusty nail, violins being shattered with a nightstick. I saw mania filling the eyes of each and every person: the man with a hundred piercings, the woman with the skeletal face, the girl with the haunted smile, etc. etc. I saw recklessness, hunger, and desperation. I saw the decline of humanity.

  I was lost, lost, lost, as always, lost.

  Charlie Gardner appeared from behind a curtain, as if he’d been standing there his whole life. There are some people you should meet, he said. They’re expecting you.

  Expecting me? It made no sense. Nobody knew me here. I was a stranger.

  I followed Charlie up a winding staircase crowded with carousers and degenerates. Some of them pointed at me and laughed. Others just sighed and shook their heads. There was barely any room to ascend the stairs, and I found myself stepping on feet and knees, and knocking over drinks.

  We finally made it upstairs, and Charlie closed the door behind me. Everything was suddenly quiet, the shouts and laughter and music muted. We walked down the long hallway. Water dripped from the ceiling. One of the doors slammed open and a woman staggered out of the room, her black hair short and unkempt, her face wind-chapped and spiteful. She wore a short flower dress, all tattered and torn, and one of her high-heel shoes was missing. Walking next to her was a young man who looked even more disheveled than she. He wore no shoes, no shirt, and his face was hidden by long, filthy hair. He was puffing on a thin cigar.
I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.

  What you looking at, nigga? he said.

  Nothing, I said. I’m looking at nothing.

  He and the girl kept walking, but he stopped every three or four steps to turn around and glare at me. He mouthed something: I know you.

  Charlie opened a door and we entered a room filled with smoke. The floor was black parquet. The walls were red brick. In the middle of the room was a long sheet of corrugated metal held up by stacks of whiskey crates. Three men sat around the makeshift table in plastic lawn chairs, playing cards. They didn’t look up when we entered, didn’t look up when Charlie introduced me.

  One of the men was tall and flag pole skinny with damp black hair falling below his eyebrows. His face was pale and sickly-looking, beads of sweat forming at his temples. Another one of the men looked much more vigorous with a barrel chest and square jaw, a Fu-Manchu mustache visible above a week of growth on his face. He wore a Stetson hat, tilted upward on the back of his head. The other man was small and old with thinning white hair and a pair of spectacles resting on the tip of his rosacea nose.

  The doctor, the sheriff, and the pastor, Charlie whispered to me. It’s like the start of a fucking joke, you know?

  They played cards and nobody talked. I couldn’t figure out the game. Each of them stared at their cards for a long time and then somebody would pick a card from the deck, throw down one from their hand. It wasn’t poker. It wasn’t blackjack. It wasn’t any card game I’d ever played.

  From the back of the room, a phone started ringing. There was no reaction. The phone rang and rang, fifteen times at least. Nobody moved.

  The fellow with the Stetson hat (the sheriff?) spoke: So this is the new fellow, huh? He didn’t look up, remained focused on his hand—an ace of diamonds, three of hearts, eight of clubs, ten of hearts, and a jack of spades.

  His name is Russell Carver, Charlie said. We go way back; ain’t that right, Russell?

  I nodded my head yes.

  Now the old man spoke. Have a seat, Russell. Take a load off. I glanced at his gnarled hands. Tattoo letters across each finger: Jesus Lives. This was the man of religion.

  There was an empty chair, so I sat down. Charlie remained standing. The phone rang again, this time only two rings before ceasing. The sickly doctor dealt me a hand of cards. Was there a game, or were they just flipping cards to pass the time? Three kings and a pair of queens. The men stared at me. I dropped one of the kings on the jagged metal table, drew a four of diamonds.

  This is the way it went for some time. We played cards and nobody talked. The game kept going. There would be no winner. The game kept going. And the phone rang again.

  Finally, conversation. This time, the doctor spoke. His voice was high and reedy. He was sweating profusely. His left eye was amblyopic. This town, he said, isn’t for everybody. There’s a lot of…misery.

  I stayed focused on my cards, didn’t say a word.

  Indeed, said the pastor. Sometimes I wonder if Factory Town isn’t some sort of a purgatory. Sometimes I wonder if it isn’t Hell. Then he smiled. But no, that can’t be. After all, we’re all alive, aren’t we? Flesh and blood. Even the Vultures are alive. Isn’t that so, Estaban?

  I looked up and saw the man whom he was referring to huddled in the corner of the room. I hadn’t noticed him before. He was dressed in the rags of a beggar. He had a long black beard and long greasy hair. His skin was covered with lesions, and his eyes bulged wildly. He was tall but he couldn’t have weighed more than 100 pounds. He was gnawing greedily on a piece of meat, shielding his precious food with his arms. When the pastor spoke to him, he only grunted a response.

  The gentlemen playing cards all looked at each other knowingly. Then the sheriff tipped his hat and said, You ever met, Estaban, Mr. Carver? One of Factory Town’s finest.

  No sir, I said.

  Come here, Estaban, the sheriff said. I want you to meet Russell Carver.

  Estaban, the beggar, didn’t respond, just continued attacking the meat. The sheriff tipped his Stetson hat, then pulled out his Smith and Wesson. He cocked the pistol and pointed it directly at Estaban. Come here, old man, he said, before I blow your goddamn brains across them there red bricks.

  The ragged old man thought things over for a few moments and then pushed himself to his feet. He kept the piece of meat cradled in his arms and, struggling to maintain his balance, walked slowly toward the table. The sheriff pulled up a chair and Estaban the Beggar sat down.

  Estaban rocked back and forth and mumbled some nonsense. The doctor patted his hand, looked up at me. Such a tragedy, the doctor said. A goddamn leper in this day and age. We’ve treated him with mercury and viper’s flesh, but no success.

  Is he contagious? I asked.

  We’re all contagious, the doctor said.

  The sheriff tossed his cards on the table, nodded at the leper. Look at this piece of shit, he said, munching away happily, ignoring our guest completely. You hungry, Mr. Carver?

  Yes, I said. I haven’t had a thing to eat since I arrived here.

  Food is hard to come by, the pastor said. No farming. No livestock. Here in Factory Town a can of beans is worth more than gold.

  Hear that? the sheriff said, grabbing the leper’s shoulder and digging in with his fingers until he cried out in pain. Our guest is hungry. How about sharing some of that meat with him?

  Estaban squirmed away from the lawman’s grip. My food, he said. Always my food.

  He’s hungry, the sheriff said. He ain’t gonna eat all your food, so just relax. Just a few bites, understand.

  I stared at the bloody piece of flesh and shook my head. I’ll wait, I said. No need for me to take somebody else’s food.

  But the sheriff only glared at me and snarled. You’ll eat, he said. Goddamn it, you’ll eat.

  And then, just like that, a metal plate with a piece of bloody flesh, and he’d said there was no livestock in this town.

  You’ll eat, the sheriff said again. By fuck, you’ll eat every piece of this here delicacy.

  Things got out of control quickly. Before I could react, the pastor and the doctor grabbed a hold of me and pulled back my arms, and the sheriff picked up a chunk of the bloody flesh and attempted to shove it into my mouth. Like an uncooperative toddler, I clenched my mouth shut and started kicking wildly. Despite the two of them restraining me, I was strong enough to pull free, and I tried getting out of my seat, but then my old friend Charlie was there again, and he was helping the doctor and the pastor, and they pinned me on the ground. The sheriff stood over me, cocked his pistol, and pointed it at my forehead. I stopped fighting then.

  Meanwhile, Estaban the Beggar was good and angry about his food being stolen, and he was rocking back and forth, raising his diseased arms to the heavens and moaning and crying.

  The sheriff, that mean son-of-a-bitch, got down on his haunches and told me to open up. I glared at him for a moment, but that gun remained steady in his hand, so I opened my mouth and he pushed some of the bloody meat inside. Think of it as your initiation, he said.

  I chewed slowly, disdainfully, while the men stood over me, grotesque grins spread across each of their faces. Estaban continued crying. The meat tasted awful—I think it was rotten—but I managed to swallow it down without gagging. When I was finished, Charlie helped me to my feet and each of the men patted me on the back and rubbed my shoulder, and they were laughing like it was all one big fucking joke.

  Did you see the expression on his face? the doctor said. Priceless.

  He took it better than most, the sheriff said. I’ll give him that much.

  I told you he was good folk, Charlie said. Salt of the Earth.

  A good lad, the pastor agreed.

  But my expression must have revealed my rage because Charlie looked at me and said, Ah, take it easy, Russell. It was just a little joke we like to play on outsiders. That meat ain’t gonna hurt you, none. Ostrich meat, that’s all it is. It ain’t no big deal, so don’t act like i
t is.

  While Charlie was talking, I suddenly remembered Alana, and my throat tightened. Here I was playing cards and eating ostrich while that little girl’s life was in danger (if she wasn’t dead already). I could feel tears making their way to my eyes. Everything was wrong. I reached into my pocket for the photograph, pulled it out and began rubbing it like a crucifix.

  What you got there, Russell? the doctor said. You’re not looking so good.

  It’s a picture of a girl, I said. Alana is her name. She’s missing. She’s in danger.

  Sure, sure, the sheriff said. We know all about her. Alana. Yes, sir. I’ve got my men looking into her disappearance right now. No need for you to worry. We’ll find her, you can be sure about that…

  And that’s when I heard screams coming from the hallway. The men looked at each other; didn’t do anything but raise their eyebrows and shake their heads. The shrieking continued.

  What the hell is going on? I said.

  Nothing, the pastor said. You stay right here with us. You don’t worry about that screaming. Just a girl having a good time is all. A town of debauchery, I tell you.

  I stood there for a moment, thinking. Then I rushed toward the door.

  CHAPTER 5

  The hallway was now crowded with people, but they were all quiet, leaning against the wall, eyes all gazing in the same direction. The screaming was unmistakably that of a woman, but it was that of agony, not ecstasy. Nobody in the hallway made any motion to investigate the commotion and, in fact, as I hurried down the hallway, they turned to each other and shook their heads and murmured their disapproval. When I glanced back, I could see the sheriff and his cronies standing outside of the cards room, hands on hips or arms folded, watching dispassionately, making no move to assist.

  And then the screaming stopped. Suddenly and completely. I slowed down my pace but continued walking, determined to find the woman in distress. The sudden quiet was disconcerting and caused me worry. Had she been hurt badly enough to silence her voice? I turned back around. The throngs of people who had been crowded against the walls had now vanished, disappeared to the lower floor or into one of the bedrooms. It was just me. As I edged forward, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a photograph hanging from the wall. A young boy, seven or eight years old, face contorted into a scowl. Behind the boy, a metal swing set and green grass forever, forever. And the boy in the picture was me.