Conscience

by John Skipp

  You laugh. “Just hang out. Think about it for a minute.”

  I do as you say, but I don’t know why. My finger’s still on the trigger, and it’s tempted to blow. “I think you should get out of the shower,” I intone, “and start explaining things real fast.”

  “Just a second,” you say. “Let me soap up quick, with particular attention to those hard-to-reach areas.”

  At which point, you start soaping your ass. And this is the amazing thing.

  You are totally not afraid.

  I am pointing a gun at your head. Normally, when I do that, there’s some fucking fear involved. People cringe. They’re made nervous by death. They expect that I will probably pull the trigger.

  And they’re generally right, cuz I usually do.

  You just don’t even care.

  Who the fuck ARE you?

  “I’m the thing that you’ve been missing.” You look back at me as you say it. “I’m the friend you forgot you had.

  “I’m the one that you always talk to. “The one who is always here.”

  How can I describe my panic? My brain-unhingement? My disbelief?

  I mean: CHRIST! There’s a limit to how much lunacy your basic human being should ever have to stand. There’s a boundary beyond which one should not need to go.

  A sane person would say, well, that’s just crazy! Then cut the cord there. And go on with their lives.

  But there is no pulling the plug on this moment. It’s like looking up and seeing a UFO – an experience I’ve always wanted to have, but never did – suddenly buzzing over me.

  It’s like magic –- actual magick – taking place.

  And I have no back-up plan, no prior experience to draw on. Unless you count talking to myself, which I fucking do all the time.

  And here you are, saying: when I talk to myself, I am talking to you. And I’m supposed to believe that.

  The question then becomes: am I still a sane person?

  “Oh, Charley,” you ruefully state. “If I said you were sane right now, well...” Wiping the last watery drops of blood from your eyes. “...of course, that would be crazy. Cuz you’re not. But that doesn’t mean this isn’t happening.”

  “What isn’t happening?”

  “Aw, look,” you say. “You’re probably not gonna be comfortable talking till I’m tied to a fucking chair or something. So, hey...” You stick your head under the water a final time, luxuriating in it, then turn the shower off. “Ready when you are.”

  It doesn’t take more than a minute for you to towel down. I watch this process very closely, my aim remarkably steady. If you were gonna pull something, it would probably be now.

  You don’t. From there, it’s a short jaunt back to the main room: you in front, me behind, the gun always at your back.

  With the towel around your waist, you pull out the desk chair and face it toward me, then sit upon it. Put your arms behind its back.

  The fact that you are putting up no resistance makes me feel kind of stupid and mean. I tie your hands tight, nonetheless: making it hurt a little, just to see what happens. What happens is that you go, “Oooch,” a little, but otherwise shrug it off.

  I’m slightly amazed that my own wrists don’t hurt. Past that, I just wish all hostage situations were this easy.

  “So,” I say, when you’re all secure. “How you doin’?"

  "Great! How you doin’?”

  “Fantastic,” I lie, as I come around before you. The fact is, I have never felt stranger than this. More uncomfortable within my own skin.

  Maybe it has something to do with all that blood. But mostly it pertains to how harmless you are. While my inbred paranoia waits for the other barrel to fire, something hot at the core of me knows that you’re not the one I have to fear.

  I catch us, in the mirror behind the dresser: you so clean, me so gore-drenched and reeking. You so calm. Me still holding the gun. The picture it paints is so horribly clear that I just want to die.

  “You don’t have to,” you say.

  “That remains to be seen. Why don’t you tell me what you want?”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you want?”

  “I want you to explain this shit,” I say, “in terms that I can understand.”

  “I just woke up,” you say. “From a very long sleep."

  "Why were you asleep?”

  “Cuz I got tired of being ignored.”

  I try to ignore that. “So why are you here now?"

  "Because the time has finally come.”

  “For what?”

  “You’re gonna hate this...”

  I laugh. “I already hate this...”

  “I know. You’ll hate this even more..."

  "Go on...”

  “You’re gonna have to decide what kind of person you are. Not in theory, but in practice.”

  “I already know what kind of person I am.”

  “You know what kind of person you’ve become."

  "That’s who I am.”

  “I don’t see it that way. You want to know who you are? Take a good look in the mirror.”

  “I’ve already seen it."

  "How’d you like it?”

  “I wish I had better hair.” You laugh. I continue. “I wish I could wake up.”

  “You’re not asleep any more."

  "I think I am.”

  “May I tell you something?"

  "Please.”

  “There’s a difference between Big Sleep and little sleep. Just like there’s a difference between Big Self and little self. You can have all the little sleep you want. And you’ll need it. But the Big Sleep is over.”

  I look at you, and your eyes are so clear.

  “Think about it,” you continue. “That’s all. I’m not here to lecture. You can do that yourself.”

  “So I can go back to sleep now?’

  “You can go back to bed. Sleep in it, if you’re able. I’ll just be here, waiting.”

  “Waiting for what?”

  You smile. “For you, ya big dork.”

  I think about taping your mouth shut, but that would just be petty. You won’t be talking again tonight, unless I ask you to.

  I look back at the blood-soaked bed. I look down at my blood-soaked self. I don’t accept a speck of this. Dismiss it as a nightmare. And lay back down.

  But there’s no ignoring the stench of death: all over the bed, all over me. I hug the pillow. It is red and slick, and there is no comfort there.

  Still, the booze – so long held at bay – settles over me once again, like a shroud. I close my eyes, negate the vision, blackout.

  In that blackness, Angela is waiting for me.

  THIRTEEN

  Skin on skin, warm and happy, in an utterly benevolent dark. The sheets are damp with sex and sweat, the tiniest whisper of late-menstrual blood.

  We are smelling each other all over each other, and totally happy to do so at length. Loving animals, draped in connection. Without a problem in the world.

  Mmmmmmmm, I say. She echoes the sound. Our limbs are tenderly entwined, torsos warm and flush together. Our fingertips gently but firmly explore each other’s favorite territories: not fervently, for the moment – we’ve just freshly exploded – but with a hyper-keen awareness of what we know might feel good.

  If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to make her feel good. It’s the one art at which I excel. I can’t sing, I can’t dance, I can’t draw more than flies; but I can play her nerve endings like Jimi Hendrix. That’s music enough for me.

  And she is Segovia, Paganini, Coltrane, you name a virtuoso and she is that thing. She elicits sensations from me so illicit, so perfect, that drugs and booze are a distraction at best.

  Beneath her touch, I feel healed, and more: I feel like I was never broken. Like I have no scars. Like my past was golden. No loss. No shame. No one to blame.

  When I touch her, there is nothing wrong with me.

  Can you feel it? she asks, and I say yes.
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br />   This is how it should be all the time, she says, and I agree.

  This is what life wants. This is what God wants.

  I am tempted to say what God? But I don’t want to shatter the moment.

  Instead, I try to imagine the world she’s implying. The world she’s described to me, many times over. It’s the Garden of Eden, in modern-day terms. Not the mythic past, but the blossoming future.

  The particulars – to hear her tell it – are really very simple.

  #1: People listen to each other.

  It doesn’t seem like much, but it is a world of difference. In fact, acknowledging and embracing difference makes all the difference in the world. When you let yourself understand how another person sees it – no matter how much you may personally disagree – you let yourself in on the larger picture.

  At the very least, you now know how to talk with that person. By seeing their side, you have expanded your own. It becomes easier to find common ground.

  Then – just maybe – they will listen to you, too.

  #2: There is enough to go around.

  This is a harder pill to swallow, when half of the world is sucking gravel for nutrients, and almost every nation on Earth is at some kind of war.

  Ideology is one thing – in fact, a very large thing – but resources are another thing entirely. Jesus and Allah –and all of the rest – might be less of an issue if people the world over weren’t struggling so hard. Struggling just to survive.

  But if you listen to my beautiful goddess-woman, she’ll explain that listening equals empathy. From there, it’s a short leap to caring equals sharing.

  If I’m not mistaken, there was a painfully saccharine kiddie cartoon show in the ’80’s that revolved around that.

  All the same, her point is well taken. If the world’s most fortunate help everyone else – and everyone else, in turn, helps each other – then there may well be more than enough to go around.

  Which begs the final question.

  #3: The Lion, laying down with the Lamb.

  And this is where the whole thing just breaks down for me. No matter how much I’d like to believe it. No matter how good this woman feels.

  Because I just don’t see it happening. I’m sor ry, but I don’t. I don’t care how much common ground you’ve established. ’Round about dinnertime, the Lion will be hungry. And that Lamb will start lookin’ awfully good.

  And even if deep, sharing, empathetic love has been established between Lion and Lamb, there’s always a gazelle. Or a gopher. Or a zebra. Or a forever-blundering wildebeest with a bug up its nose, retardedly spinning itself to death.

  Not even Angela will go up against the food chain. She recognizes death as the fate of all things. It is, in fact – to her – a transcendent transition.

  She’s not talking about the animals, though. She’s talking about us.

  And I have to admit to her point; because the fact is that, right now, we are lying together. Two people. So totally different. And yet so completely in love...

  ...and I snuggle against her, and she snuggles back, and I am suddenly confused. Am I the Lion or the Lamb? Which one of us is stronger?

  Or are we both, and that’s the trick?

  I kiss her cheek, and hear her sigh, and feel her stroke my chest and belly. I roll her left nipple between thumb and forefinger, and feel her groan, as her passion reignites.

  And I stop thinking, give way to the moment, abandon myself to the bounty of her. Devoting myself to her pleasure...

  ...as she folds herself around me, tightly...

  ...and then says, you know what makes me sad?

  I ask her to tell me.

  She shows me, instead.

  She shows me the bullet hole, blown through her forehead. She shows me the wet brains that seep through the hole. She shows me the blood that fed life through her veins.

  I wish you weren’t going to kill me, she says...

  FOURTEEN

  And then I am awake, in my unbloodied bed, at the Paradise Motel.

  All alone, once again.

  I wince at the light blaring in through the curtains. Los Angeles. Shit. Where’s my ceiling fan? I feel like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now, am too hung over to find it amusing.

  I glance at the watch on my unbloodied wrist. 10:45 a.m. Plenty of time to pull my shit together; hours to kill before I turn my aim on people. Today may be intense, but I’ve tried to keep it simple.

  Do what I came to do, and get the hell out of here.

  And may I point out: I really hated those dreams. They didn’t help. They just made me feel cranky. I am laying here – not covered with blood at all – putting the blame right where it belongs. On the booze, and my stupid addiction.

  There is, of course, nobody in the chair...

  ...though it is pulled out, and away from the desk...

  ...and there is some rope, on the floor, behind it...

  ...and that makes me feel even better, because now – on top of everything else – I’m evidently walking in my sleep. Acting out my bullshit dreams. Exactly the thing I was hoping to learn about myself.

  Booze and stress: a winning combination. Don’t let anybody tell you different!

  And THANK YOU, COZMIC CONVERGENCE! You’re making all the difference, baby! Keep up the good work!

  I get up, look around. Nobody has been here but me. Those are my bottles and cards on the floor. It looks pathetic, but at least I remember it happening.

  First things first. Some food in my stomach. There’s a Burger King right across the street; and though I loathe Burger King, it beats the shit out of nothing. Since I’m already dressed, there is nothing to impede me.

  I slap on shades, and stagger out into the glare.

  Downtown L.A. is like a cup full of forks: a tiny cluster of glistening high-rises, surrounded by acres of squat green and gray. Lots of trees, lots of streets, lots and lots of little houses, all full of little people that might as well be tablecloth. Downtown L.A.: a centerpiece of plastic cutlery on America’s picnic table.

  I cross the street, and dig in.

  Fifty mouthfuls of anonymous food later, my hangover begins to recede. A couple of aspirin are quickly popped. Then I make my way back to my room.

  Already, I have broken a sweat. It’s time for a shower. I peel off my clothes as I move through the room, tossing them on or near the bed.

  I am naked when I enter the bathroom, grab a towel off the rack...

  ...which is already damp...

  ...and move into the shower stall...

  ...which has recently been used...

  ...and I don’t have an answer for this. I stop, and think about it for a second. My clothes are not damp, so it’s not like I gave myself a drunken shower, in the middle of the night...

  ...and I never took off my clothes, so that is not an option, either...

  ...and there’s no way I could turn on this shower without getting wet, no fucking way on earth...

  ...and suddenly, I am feeling weird again.

  Now the bathroom feels haunted; and though I’m not a superstitious man, all of my sweaty hairs stand on end. I can see little goose bumps bespackle me like plague.

  I look around the room at no one, half-expecting to see you.

  But this is the thing. There is no you. It’s a figure of speech. That is all that it is. I do not talk to my guardian angel. He does not sit on my right shoulder. He does not take showers in the middle of the night, or let me tie him to my motel chair.

  I have no conscience, no little inner voice, no special inside track to wisdom. I am just me. Alone. There is no higher consciousness. There is no God above.

  I do not have to explain the pools of wetness on the tiles. It’s not my job. I just step on them, and make them scatter.

  Then turn on the water, which is supposed to feel good. But can somebody fucking explain to me why I feel so utterly terrified? Why standing here – safe, in my own hotel room – feels like waking up in my own
grave?

  I don’t understand it, but I feel it so hard that it seems like my ribcage is going to snap. Like my heart is really gonna blow, this time. Like I’m finally gonna die, right here.

  While my only real threat is that nice shower water, raining down on me from above.

  In my mind’s eye, the clear turns red. Goes from liquid to thick. Becomes a sickening meat spray.

  In my mind’s eye, I start to rot from within. Bloating up. Then squirting curds through my skin.

  But out here in the world, I’m just dandy. Got me some soap, and the water’s just fine. I stand back from the spray, and whip up a lather.

  I hate to say this, but I’m losing my mind.

  I check out of my room by noon, without further incident. I am glad to be gone. It is blazing hot by now. I really wish I had a car, so I decide to steal one.

  A couple of blocks south, I find a likely candidate. Hot- wiring is a snap, when you know how. Five minutes later, I am tooling into downtown in style, in my new vintage ’57 Chevy. Completely rebuilt. Truly super-fine wheels. David Marcus never had it so good.

  Speaking of Davey, I wonder if he made the papers yet. It is tempting to find out – and I’m thirsty, besides –- so I pull into a liquor store, grab the Times and a bottle of water. Nothing on the front page but tax cuts and war. No mention of Liam, either, or of God’s return to active duty.

  Ten minutes later, I’m at the squirming heart of downtown, and let me tell you: it gets ugly down here. You almost forget that there’s really a city called Los Angeles, till you’re right down in it. But man, these are some hungry streets, about as urban as you can get.

  I park across from the Hotel Cecil – one of the lowliest dives there is – and watch the paramedics load another dead loser into the waiting ambulance out front. Was it an overdose? Stabbing? Shooting? Slashing? Standard-issue beating to death? Or was it natural causes: liver failure, heart failure, the ever-popular failure at life? Did they take their own, with a gun, pill, or razor? Maybe drown in the toilet, or choke on their own vomit?

  I have no way of knowing, and am not about to ask. At the Hotel Cecil – if memory serves – this shit happens roughly every forty-five minutes.