by Weston Ochse
“Man is dust, and from dust you shall return.”
He mimicked my movements and made his own sign of the cross upon my forehead. A smile crept along his mouth, and then his expression went blank, his gaze once again far away. I didn’t dare disturb him, so I closed the pouch and placed it around his neck.
We opened the great doors to the street. Outside, the night was silent. The Feast of the Flesh was over and it was in quiet dark that we twelve confessors grasped the ropes and began pulling the float through the streets.
There would be no crowds for us.
Redemption is a lonely thing, and sacrifice is individual.
***
Story Notes: In the mid-90s my mother told me a story about a friend of hers who came home to find her child burned to death in a pile of leaves. It was called a suicide and I couldn’t help but wonder how a survivor could deal with such a thing. I held onto that question for a number of years until I was asked to present a Mardis Gras story to the Twilight Tales Reading Group in Chicago. I wrote this, then read it out loud in the Red Lion Pub. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house when I finished.
NOW SHOWING ON SCREEN 14
A Day in the Life of a Dust Bunny
Starring a Dust Bunny – not to be confused
with a Playboy Bunny
“Holy Mother of Plastic Surgeons! Is this what’s under my bed?.”
– Hugh Hefner Jr.
No Dust Bunnies Were Injured During the Filming
Elsie lay within The Land of the Under-bed wrapped in swathes of comfortable shadows and listening to the sounds of an awakening day.
The Land of the Under-bed was a pleasant place.
A safe place.
A place free of the damnation of cleansing.
Like a secret cave, forgotten home to discarded toys, old socks and dirty magazines, that small space between the mattress and the floor was where she could be safe for a time. The Land of the Under-bed was a place where she could rest without fear of notice.
She had slept well, last night. The snores of the body resting above serenaded her like a lullaby. When she’d finally awakened it was still dark. To pass the time until the dawn, she listened to the stories of the dust bunnies — whispered tales of domestic happiness and childhood longing.
Not like the asylum.
No, the asylum was a dangerous place. No happiness there.
Especially for the Dust Bunnies. Dust bunnies couldn't live in asylums. Everything was too shiny and clean, as if insanity was contagious and a dedicated janitor could hold it at bay. The linoleum floors of the place that had once been her home absolutely glowed with their scourging, the alternating black and white tiles like chessboard roads where the patients were mere pawns of some drug-wielding queen.
No dust bunnies lived within the acres of infection free floors. Even beneath the beds, the floors were slick and hard with only an occasional speck of dust marring its sanitary plane.
The janitors were murderers.
Serial killers.
Elsie had learned not to stare into their eyes, to stare in anyone’s eyes. One could be captured by eyes if not careful and, if anything, Elsie had learned to be careful. The janitors pretended to be mere drones, always sweeping, mopping and buffing, but if she stared carefully into their reflections upon the asylum floor, she could see their real faces. The truth of their evil was in the reflection of their eyes, luminous with the crazed devotion of disciples of a God who refused to allow imperfection.
Imperfection…
…defined by him.
…maligned by him.
Elsie sighed and petted a dust bunny. She heard its muted coo as it sighed with contentment. She touched the creature in its tender spots and watched happily as it raced around the floor, spinning and twirling in a circular happy dance. This home was a good place, the home to a host of happy dust bunnies. There was no fear of a janitor here. Elsie brought her arms together, gathering a hundred dust bunnies in a warm embrace, promising them that she would look after them as they looked after her.
"Danny, time to get up," came a harried shout from downstairs.
The bedsprings quivered above her, then released as a boy's feet hove into view. She quieted the screams of panic from her wards, whispering promises of love and safety.
"Aw, Mom. It's too early."
"Don't give me any shit this morning. Everyone's running late."
Elsie huddled within The Land of the Under-bed and stared through the thick gray thistle of the dust bunnies, watching the boy dress then hurry downstairs. She waited until the front door slammed and the family car backed out of the driveway before she slid silently into the room.
***
Elsie spent the day doing what she always did.
First stop was the fast food joint down the block. Breakfast was found in the dumpster — dirty, rancid, edible and divine. Sitting happily among the refuse, Elsie munched, flipping through yesterday's newspaper and shaking her head at the news of the crazy world she had left behind. From the mound of detritus, she pulled almost empty cups and drank the residue of yesterday's melted ice. When she finished, she leaned back and drifted, staring through the open lid of the dumpster at the clouds drifting by, imagining them as immense dust bunnies flying through the air, seeding the world in an attempt to return it to the natural state of chaos.
Elsie was forced to abandon her comfortable place when her bladder signaled its fullness.
In the bathroom of the fast food restaurant Elsie ran her fingers along the inside lip of the toilet. She admired the steadfastness with which the staff ignored it. Like all fast food restaurants, the staff was made up of kids who placed more stock in the thrills of life and their new freedoms than in cleaning. The floor was littered with toilet paper and the scatterings of a well-read newspaper. The walls were covered with greasy handprints where large women had lowered themselves. Elsie licked one, imagining the billion burgeoning bacteria becoming a part of her.
At the sink with the fingers she had just used to collect the offal residue, she rubbed the hidden underside of the faucet. People would use this and imagine their hands clean. People might even lower their heads for a drink, or cup water in their hands to clean a face. Either way, the imperfection would continue.
Before she left, Elsie pulled out a dust bunny. She spoke to it, thanking it for its service and its sacrifice. It cooed back, understanding its duty. She placed it atop the sink and stepped back, admiring how strong and proud the dusty gray ball appeared upon the whiteness of the porcelain. Perhaps people would see and understand.
She could only hope.
As she left, Elsie checked that the packets of pills upon her body were secure. It would be a long day and she was thankful she had enough ammo to at least wound.
In the asylum, they watched you very closely and made sure you took your medication. Elsie had learned the art of regurgitation, however, and was able to save her pills for later. There was always someplace to hide the small tablets and the multi-colored, time-release capsules. When the doctors finally believed that it was time for them to release her, Elsie would gather her stash and take it into the world. Even now, ziplock bags were taped to her body, bags filled with a hundred capsules and tablets: Haldol, Thorazine, Ativan, Effexor, Paxil, Zoloft and a dozen others that allowed her to insinuate her dust bunny logic into the bodies of the misguided.
When Elsie eventually ran out, she would do something stupid, again, like wander onto the highway, screaming at the traffic. It was never really more than a month before the overburdened medical system was forced to release her. And when they did, Elsie made sure she was resupplied.
Her next stop was the mall.
…and the church where she added Zyprexa to the holy water.
Nobody would drink the holy water, but it was the principle of it. It didn't hold the same thrill as dropping the powder from six Tranxene capsules into the ice tea dispenser in the food court at the mall, but it was satisfying to get b
ack at the God that demanded such demented perfection.
…and then there was the Department of Motor Vehicles…
…and the gas station…
It wasn't until lunchtime, after she ran her feces-covered hands through the salad bar of a buffet-style restaurant, that she was noticed. As usual, it was a manager with too much time on her hands and a penchant for victimizing the unclean.
"Hey there! What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Elsie had been a librarian for twenty years before her conversion and she knew the meaning of the word rhetorical, so she ignored the remark.
"I asked you a question, lady."
Elsie sighed and remembered the Dewey decimals of a dozen books that would help the woman understand that this question wasn't meant to be answered.
Luckily, Elsie was able to press a quivering dust bunny atop the potato salad before she was roughly jerked away. She turned, ignoring the pain, and gazed defiantly into the thirtyish woman's bespectacled eyes. Elsie noticed a fading patch of yellow beneath the left eye. And another at the corner of the jaw beneath the left ear, almost disguised by a heavy coating of makeup.
Almost.
"You need to leave, lady."
The command came petulant and whispered so as not to disturb the other patrons who were already beginning to stare.
The bruises were evidence of a certain brutality. Elsie wondered if the woman knew about the dust bunnies. She wondered if the woman hid beneath the bed and spoke to them, praying to the dust bunnies to protect her as Elsie herself had done for so many years.
Elsie allowed herself to be dragged to the door. Before it was slammed in her face, she turned and spoke.
"Are you hit often?"
The woman stepped back, her hand gripping the door for support. Perhaps she felt the question was rhetorical.
"Do you speak with the dust bunnies? Do you hear their cries?"
The woman stared.
"Do you answer them?"
The woman slammed the door and left Elsie outside.
"You could be me," said Elsie to the door. "If you would only listen, you could be me."
Elsie turned and trudged on down the sidewalk, shaking her head at the obviousness of it all.
It was sad. Too many people had fallen for that popular line, Cleanliness is next to Godliness. They patterned their entire lives around those five words, cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. They measured their own self-worth around the perfection of their homes, their cars and their lawns. They believed that if people saw that they were clean, it might actually mean something.
Everything else was secondary.
Everything, including their own happiness.
Ludicrous.
It was patently obvious that the need to clean was nothing more than a way to enslave.
Dirt was freedom.
Elsie was still dwelling upon the dichotomy of a bruised woman promoting cleanliness when she saw one of her own.
Another Dust Bunny was being escorted roughly out of an elementary school. Elsie smiled, remembering when the schools had been assigned to her. She had been dressed nicer, aware of the critical eyes of the teachers and security guards and the need to fit in for a time. Never would they allow one in homeless mufti to enter.
Once inside there were the bathroom faucets that all the little boys liked to lower their heads to drink from, the water fountains that met many lips, the door knobs, the hand railings — secondary transmitters, all. Children were so easy, always placing their tiny fingers in their mouths. Sadly, although their minds were malleable, Dust Bunny logic was too difficult for their comprehension.
A police car screamed to a stop, and from her vantage across the street, Elsie watched as her compatriot was taken into custody. She moved deeper into the alley. The jails were okay. There wasn’t too much more one could do to add to the endemic filth, but it was an excellent opportunity for proselytizing. Elsie had known many who had converted to Dust Bunny Logic from a cell.
For Elsie, it had been the whispers in the dark at the asylum that had drawn her to the organization, but never did she inform the doctors of her conversion. They already thought she was crazy — as if killing her husband hadn't been justified. In the early days, she’d steadfastly refused to admit that her deed was wrong, reminding the men in white coats of the constant beatings and verbal abuse she’d received. Over the years, however, Elsie had learned that all the doctors wanted to hear were lies. So she’d left them with the illusion that their witch doctoring was valid and, fifteen years later, she was released.
She had entered a murderer and left a Dust Bunny.
No one really knew who had begun Dust Bunny Logic. They had no figurehead, merely a common belief. Even their name was shrouded in mystery. Some liked to believe it was a parody of the Playboy Bunnies. All of those exploited young women were so perfect and clean, chained to their bodies — to their beauty.
Elsie doubted it.
Even though the parody had a certain poetic quality, she believed it was because of the little ones. Not everyone could converse with them. Many even believed they weren't real. But Elsie, like many others, understood their significance and treated the little dust bunnies like the rare, mystical beasts they were. More than mascots, the dust bunnies were proof that their cause was right — natural.
For the rest of the day, Elsie ensconced herself into the mundane tasks of Dust Bunny disruption. She added dirt to the pepper shakers at the pizza place. She placed Celexa into the salt shakers of another fast food restaurant. When she dropped Ativan into the water cooler of a new car dealership, she couldn't help but grin in anticipation of test-drives that would now be conducted by tranquilized prospective buyers.
Very nice.
Very messy.
Even with all the satisfaction her deeds created, the possible fates of the restaurant manager she’d met earlier was still weighing upon her mind. The fact the woman was abused was certain. Elsie knew the signs: bruises, old and new; too much make-up; the inability to make eye contact; the nervous shifting from foot to foot as if her place in life was not yet determined.
Elsie knew them well. After all, since she had been six years old she’d experienced those very same symptoms.
Everything began when she turned six.
Everything.
It was when Elsie had turned six that her stepfather had started the slapping and the pinching. Elsie had spent long hours in The Land of the Under-bed waiting for her mother to come home, squeezing herself tightly into the place where the bed met the wall and pulling old toys and dirty clothes over her so her stepfather wouldn't find her. He would call and call, his schizophrenic shouts both angry and cajoling. Sometimes, when he reminded her of all the good times, she would begin to leave her haven. It was the screams of the dust bunnies that held her back…
…kept her safe.
…those wonderful fluffy dust bunnies.
Finding out where the woman lived was easy. Her name tag had said Tracy. Even better was her discovery that the staff at the restaurant had their own parking spaces. It was only half an hour of delving through glove compartments and under the seats that resulted in a silver Cellica with an old cable bill that promised a Tracy Wilson lived on 234 East King Street.
The address was only a mile away.
When Elsie arrived, she was pleased to discover a doggy door at the back of the house. At five foot and one hundred pounds, her slim body fit easily through—the major reason she had been promoted to domestic duty.
Of course, the problem with doggy doors is that it meant…
Halfway through she came nose to nose with a brindle bulldog. An immense head boasted very thick teeth from a dog who was eager to show them to her. Bulldog drool glistened along its jowls and dripped upon the floor, each drip a promise of how tasty she could be. Elsie stared into the animal's eyes and after about a minute, she pushed the dog aside, scooted the rest of the way in on her knees and stood.
"That's rig
ht, big boy. I'm a friendly."
She’d always been a dog person. When she was married she had a friend who raised Dobermans for a guard service. After Elsie's first time in the pen, she wasn't allowed in again. She’d ruined the litter, infecting it with love. As a Dust Bunny it was even better. The animals smelled the nature upon her. Free of the cloying smell of perfume, soap, and other toxic chemicals, dogs, with their super-human olfactory sense, appreciated her stoic imperfection.
Elsie patted the dog and took in the bottom floor. She’d known what she would encounter before she had arrived. A kitchen, dining room and living room in immaculate, Better Homes and Gardens condition. Everything shouted out perfection. It was a place that Miss Manners, Gloria Vanderbilt and the First Lady could easily transplant themselves into. It was sad how so many men dictated to their women that the lifestyles of Leave It To Beaver and Ozzie and Harriet should be emulated.
Even the garage was dress-right-dress. Elsie imagined the repercussions that Tracy faced if anything was out of place in the house.
…a dirty plate?
…SMACK…
…an unmade bed?
…SMACK…
A house ruled by a man who’d fallen for the great lie: Cleanliness is next to Godliness.
It was mankind who insisted upon order. Nature dictated chaos. If God created both, which should be the dominant? Elsie knew that the question wasn't rhetorical. Man existed within nature, therefore man should be part of the environment within which he was created. Ajax, Clorox, and Spic–N–Span were created by man to put order to nature — to change nature.
Nature is dirty.
The world is dirty.
Nature is natural.
There were lengths of boards stacked neatly along one side of the garage, leaving space for only one vehicle. The wood came in many sizes: ten, six, five and four feet. Each one was treated with a slick polyurethane coating, as if it was meant to be waterproof.
Elsie halted amidst her inventory. She heard the sound of a car entering the driveway and the garage door began ascending. Grabbing a four-foot length of two-by-four, she slipped into the house and ascended to the second floor. It was in the master bedroom where she slipped under the bed and began her wait. As the front door opened and slammed, she lamented the fact that there were very few dust bunnies. She would speak to them. Tell them of their brethren and entice them to multiply.