by Daniel Parme
That’s what got that shotgun shell up on the mantle, right between a framed Jesus and a pewter dragon.
“Sometimes I think about…” she picks up the shell and turns it so she can read my name. “He’s just such a drunk asshole all the time.”
She puts the shell back down. “Sometimes I just want to kill him.”
She looks at me and realizes she’s just said it, out loud. “I never would, though. I couldn’t. He loves me and Mom. It’s just, you know, something that pops in there sometimes.”
I knew she’d never kill her father.
But this was the first thing that came to my head when I thought about murder. I thought about that little shell with my name. How I would have died if he’d have actually shot it at me. How he would have died if Erica had shot it at him. How she’d still be alive if either would have happened.
I was getting used to dead people being around, but I was having a little trouble with the concept of making people be dead.
“But I think you should get a gun.” Angela had her hand on my thigh as I was driving her home. “At least for protection.”
“But if I have a gun, I might shoot someone with it.”
“Only if they’re going to shoot you first.”
“They’ll definitely shoot me if they know I have a gun.”
“Not if you pull yours first.”
Imagine chaps and a ten-gallon hat. Imagine tumbleweeds and dust blowing down the streets of Pittsburgh.
“What is this, the OK fucking Corral? Do I look like Doc Holiday to you? I’ve only ever shot a gun once, and it wasn’t a handgun. No gun.” I was proud of myself for knowing that me and a gun would not end well.
“Ok, no gun. We’ll have to think of another way, then.”
I almost ran over a man and his dog. He was not pleased with me. I was not pleased with Angela. “Wait. I thought you said you had a plan.”
She took her hand off my leg. “I did have a plan. But now it’s different. Now they’ll kill us. My own uncle will kill me. He’ll kill you. This is a little more serious.”
Unbelievable. “I think we should call the police.”
“It won’t do any good. You know that. These people are rich, Travis. They have connections. Some of them even are the connections. They’ll find out we called the cops, and they’ll kill us.”
Women are right more often than I would like.
“See,” she said. “We have to think of something.”
I agreed, dropped her off, and went home.
Chapter 35
The thing about working at the morgue is you’re always looking at dead people. Always, they’re dead. Even the people you work with have a vague sense of finality about them.
But the ones that are really dead – cold, stinking, wretched and pale – they’re dead, and that’s all. You can forget all that crap about the strength still being there, trapped. You can forget about releasing souls and letting them live forever. You can forget all of it.
And sure, maybe there’s some truth to feeling stronger, more virile, better, after you eat a person. But that doesn’t make it healthy, and it certainly doesn’t make it any less fucked up.
The thing about working at the morgue is you’re always looking at dead people. These are people who, just yesterday, maybe flipped you off at an intersection. These are people who were making plans for the weekend. These are people who, unless they were terminally ill, had more to worry about than being dead today.
These people, I’m pretty sure they had no desire for you to see them, every fleshy inch, naked and lying prone on a cold metal table. At the very least, I’m sure they weren’t expecting it.
But still, they’re here, dead and exposed. And your job is to look at them, to touch them and move them and do all manner of things they’d surely have objected to yesterday. It would be so embarrassing, if they weren’t dead.
The thing about working in the morgue is you’re always looking at dead people, and every so often you’re sure you know this person from somewhere. You could swear she sold you coffee the other day. You rack your brain about it. You stretch it into a map of everywhere you’ve ever met anybody, and you do it because it’s hard to believe that this thing in front of you used to be a person, but no longer. Now, it’s just a body.
Death is only final if it’s actually the end of something. When all you see are dead bodies with no history, you start to forget that there has to be life before there’s death.
You have to know that these people were people before they became someone’s dinner. You have to remember that, even though we all die, it’s still a sad thing.
You have to remember this because it’s quite possible that people want you dead. They want the end of you. You have to remember that once you’re dead, that’s it.
Even if all this shit about immortality is right, even if someone eats you, absorbs you, they’ll eventually crap you back out again.
You have to remember that your friends, who you’ve eaten, who you’ve crapped back out, were not just dead bodies. You have to remember that they were not just cellophane-packaged protein.
You have to remember that the story changes, but not for them. Their stories are over.
The thing about working at the morgue is you’re always looking at dead people, and every now and again you could swear they’re looking back at you. You could swear they’re looking at you, trying so hard to tell you something. Maybe they knew you, saw you on TV, on the street. Maybe they don’t want their story to end the way it’s ended.
Of course, if you believe this, you have to believe that they’re still in there, trapped. And you can release them. You can let them live forever.
The thing about working at the morgue is you’re always looking at dead people, and you’re a cannibal, and people want to kill you, and people want to eat you.
The thing about it is, it can really fuck you up. Without you even noticing, you’re now really fucked up.
It can get you thinking that just a couple years ago you were just some guy doing some things, normal things, boring things that no one would ever remember you for doing. You barely remember, yourself. It doesn’t really matter that you don’t remember, though, because that story is over. That guy isn’t even you.
It can get you thinking that just months ago, you were sort of famous. You were a survivor. The survivor. The guy who went through this great and terrible ordeal and no one could believe anyone could be that strong. But that story is over. That guy isn’t you, either.
It can get you thinking that now you’re an abomination with a twisted addiction to human flesh, no concept of what life is, or what death is, and no desire for your story to end anytime soon.
And right then is when you really start to agree with Angela.
These people have to die.
It gets you thinking that you’ve never been a murderer, not now, not ever. You’ve never even had it in you to go hunting.
It gets you thinking that maybe it’s time to change the story. This story has to be over, and it has to be over soon.
This guy, he isn’t even you.
Chapter 36
The other thing about working at the morgue is that your boss is one of the people who may want you dead. You have to go to work so he doesn’t think you’re up to something.
“I hear you and Angela had a nice time together.” Dick was doing paperwork, and he looked up at me, raised his eyebrows. “Walter says she got home pretty late. I hope you two were behaving yourselves.”
I couldn’t tell if he meant sex or if he meant scheming. Goddam double entendres. “Yeah, we had a good time. She’s a pretty cool girl.”
“Well, I’d be careful if I were you. Walter would probably be a little upset if he found out the two of you were up to no good.”
For a moment, I worried that maybe Dick was psychic, maybe he knew what I was thinking. But that’s just crazy. “No. Well, someday maybe w
e’ll be up to no good, but I’d like to get to know her a little better first.”
“That’s probably a good idea.” He stacked his papers, put down his pen. “I hope you’ve been thinking about what we talked about the other day. About settling in to everything.”
Oh boy. “Yeah, I have. I don’t know. I mean, I feel a little weird about it being, you know, a lifestyle. But it does make me feel so good.” I can’t begin to explain to you how much I wished I was lying. “And it’s much better than the alternative. I think I just sort of freaked out about, you know, actually being a cannibal.”
He leaned back in his chair and zipped up his fingers. “I know what you mean. There’s a certain stigma about it. It’s not something you’re brought up with. Taboo. It’s the word. Cannibal. The connotation is very negative. But you have to remember, cultures have been practicing this for thousands of years. There are definite benefits.”
I had to go along. Pretend. The way some Soviets would hide their Bibles beneath loose floorboards; the way some Jews would keep an autographed picture of Martin Luther on the mantle table during the Holocaust. Kids, lying is bad. But sometimes it’s the only thing you can do to ensure your own survival, kind of like cannibalism.
“You know, Dick, I think you’re right. I just have to get used to it. I mean, all those people, at PEP, they all seem pretty happy. And they probably needed some time to adjust, too.”
“Exactly. I’m glad you’re thinking about it that way. Don’t get me wrong, there are people who just take to it naturally, but I think most of those people are a little, well, nuts.”
I laughed. “Yeah? Who are those people? I’ll keep my distance.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll figure that out soon enough.” He stood up, went to the window. “I don’t want to lie about it. We were starting to worry that something would have to be done. That would be a shame.”
It was good to know that Dick genuinely liked me. Cannibal or not, he was a good guy.
“Yeah, that would be a shame,” I said. “I don’t want to lie to you, either. That’s one of the reasons I’m ok with giving this some time. I don’t want anything to have to be done.”
“That’s a relief.” He looked at the bird clock. “I have to run out for a while, take care of some things.” He went to his little fridge and tossed me a can of Coke. “You can hold down the fort, right?”
“I don’t see any reason why not.”
“Ok. Well, there’s nobody new, or no new bodies, in the back, so you should just hang out in the front. I’d tell you to clean up or organize something, but you’ve already done all that. So just read a book or something. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
I don’t know where he went, but he went. And maybe he trusted me, and maybe not. One thing I’d figured out about people in PEP was that I’d never be able to tell what was really going on. As with women, it wasn’t really their fault. I just didn’t understand.
With no work to do, no book to read, and an abundance of exhaustion, I did the only thing I could think of: put my head down and take a well-deserved nap.
Eli, gentle soul that he was, nudged me awake by means of a three-inch binder slamming against the counter next to my head. “Dammit, Eli! You fucking asshole!”
“I couldn’t resist.”
“What are you doing here? I thought you requested today off.”
He came around behind the counter. “I did. I just forgot my bag here last night, or this morning, or whatever. Came back to get it.”
I looked around, but didn’t see the bag. “Where’d you leave it?”
“In the back. I put it down to help Dick move the new girl, and I never picked it back up.”
Wait a sec… “There’s a new girl?”
Eli did that one-eyebrowed, quizzical kind of look. “Yeah. I’m surprised you’re not back there, actually. She’s just your type.”
“My type?”
“Oh, come on, Travis. We all know the way you like the meaty ones. It’s ok. Everyone has their type at first, when it’s still new. I used to love the really petite ones. Like five feet, ninety pounds. Don’t know why, really. It’s not like we fuck ‘em or anything. Everyone is just sort of fascinated at first. One of those things, you know?”
“I guess.” I thought it best to leave that conversation alone.
“How didn’t you know she was back there?”
“Dick. I guess he just forgot to tell me.” I didn’t want to eat Eli. I don’t imagine he’d taste good anyway.
“Hmm. That happens, I guess.” He went to the back and returned with his bag over his shoulder. “All right, man. I’ll see you, when? Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Later.”
And off went Eli, leaving me there with a dead girl that Dick had obviously wanted me to stay away from. Unless he really did forget. But I doubted it.
The thing about working in the morgue is you’re always looking at dead people, and once in a blue moon you pull that sheet off – that blue sheet you always see in cop dramas on TV – and you could swear that you’re looking at a big-breasted bartender with a foul mouth and a serious appetite for cock. You could swear you knew this girl.
But her story is over.
This girl, she’s not even her.
Chapter 37
The Pirates are losing badly on the television, and the volume’s all the way down. Nobody needs to listen to that crap. Not that anyone would hear it anyway; the bar’s empty. Almost. There’s one guy, way down at the end, drinking Iron City and playing the touch-screen. And there’s me, and there’s this guy next to me who’s crying a little and drinking a lot. A friend of his died recently, in an accident that was, he says, his fault.
I leave the oxymoron out of it.
This is Jason, still with meat on his bones.
He says his anchor didn’t hold, and his friend’s repel was suddenly a lot more like a cliff-dive into a sea of rock.
“It’s not your fault,” I tell him. “You know you were safe.” He’s always been good about triple-checking all his knots and hitches, all the gates on the carabiners.
But he won’t hear it. “No. I set it up. I had to have done something wrong.” He finishes his drink.
I wave to the bartender. This is well before Virginia starts working here. This is when nobody I know is dead. This is before all those endings of all those stories of all those people who meet me and then die.
“No matter how you cut it,” he says, “if I didn’t set it up the way I did, she’d be fine.”
And this is what came into my head when it finally registered that this dead girl here, this was Virginia. I knew this was my fault. If I hadn’t set it up the way I did…
I looked at her for a while, long enough to think about alive moments with her body. It looked different now. There was no anger, no passion about it. It was just there, that loaf of bread. I looked at her for a while, then I covered her back up, put her back into her drawer.
Then I vomited on my shoes.
By the time Pearson got back, I’d had just enough time to mop up the floor and rinse my kicks, to sit behind the counter and really start to hate myself.
“Hey. You feeling ok, Travis? You look a little green.” This moment. This was exactly the reason I told Angela no gun. I’d have killed him, shot him right in the face. And I’d have loved it.
“I thought you said nobody was here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Come on, Dick.”
“What?”
I wished I’d found myself a gun. “You don’t have anything to do with this?”
“To do with what?” I had to hand it to him; he looked sincerely puzzled.
“I know that girl, Dick. Her name’s Virginia.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. I could smell it, a sickening blend of formaldehyde and sandalwood hand lotion. “Oh. I see. It’s always hard, the first time you know one of
them. I guess you two were close? That why you look like you’re going to be sick?”I wanted to break his arm, but held myself to brushing his hand off me. “Fuck you, Pearson. You know I know her.”
He took a step back. “I don’t know who she is, Travis. I swear to God.”
“You fuckers killed her.” My face was burning. My voice was getting louder. My stomach collapsed into itself.
“Listen.” He knelt in front of me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. They brought her in early this morning. Three o’clock or something like that. She fell down her steps and broke her neck. Her BAC was huge.” Either he was a damn good actor, or he was telling the truth.
Whichever it was, I realized pretty quickly that I was close to losing it, to blowing everything. If I flew off the handle now, flipping out at Dick and accusing him and his buddies of murdering Virginia, they’d see it as threatening, and I’d be toast.
I composed myself, a little. “Oh, God. I’m sorry, Dick. I just… I don’t know. That was just a really hard moment to handle.”
He stood up again. “It’s ok. Everyone here breaks down at some point. Nature of the beast, you know. And you’ve had to deal with a lot more than most. I’m truly sorry about your friend.” He went to his office.
I just sat there, listening to his door open, then close. Then open, then close.
He came back in. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off. You don’t want to be here right now.”
All I could do was nod, give a little whimper.
I didn’t believe him, but it didn’t much matter. By the time this was over, he’d be dead anyway. I’d eat his heart, and the rest of their hearts. Until I was full. Until I never wanted to eat again. I would devour them the way the Aztecs did their enemies. I would steal everything about them, make it my own.
“Oh, and the next PEP meeting is Wednesday. If you’re not up for it, though, I’m sure Walter will understand.”