by Tom Rich
“Cambodian. Won’t eat seafood because the mercury.”
“I see,” said Clove.
Aly stirred her second Apocalypse.
“And this page,” continued Clove. “The endless repetition of small numbers. At first I wondered if Dooley might be working on a formula to prove computers were bringing about our final demise. But computers utilize ones and zeros. Never twos. If you look closely, you’ll recognize permutations of our fateful date. Trying to make sense of it all with numbers. Did you know that Bertrand Russell, one of our world’s greatest minds, spent the best ten years of his life working on a book meant to prove inconclusively that two plus two equals four. Patricia? Is it known to you whether Dooley reads Bertrand Russell?”
“I’d say he wrestles with two and two on a daily basis.”
“Yes. That’s probably true.” Clove reflected a moment, then returned to the ledger. “On this page we have a very detailed account of Marjory’s recurring nightmare. It’s plagued her since early childhood. You should take the time to read it this evening. The writing is so beautifully rendered. So eloquent. I’ve implored Marjory to consider writing as a profession. But she refuses. She insists her writing is for the nightmare only. To write about anything else would anger the nightmare and unleash it upon the world. The thought terrifies her so much I no longer encourage.”
“Clove, I really appreciate the, uh,” said Aly, pushing her drink forward, “but I’ve had a long flight, and—”
“Of course you have. Patricia? Another for Allison. And I’ll have my first of the evening. If you would be so kind.”
An Apocalypse and a Manhattan appeared on the bar top.
Clove caressed the next page. “This one has special meaning. It’s the work of a very famous Northside couple, Flo and Edie. Their use of the same page is symbolic of how they themselves are very much on the same page. See how the man in the drawing forces his manhood into Mother Earth. And how all his attributes of manliness, especially his manhood, are exaggerated. It’s symbolic of how the form of man has wreaked havoc upon us all. Believe me, that’s something I’m more aware of than most.”
Aly lifted her glass. Clove lifted her cocktail glass, the model for her neon sign, and touched it to Aly’s Apocalypse.
Clove downed her Manhattan. “Patricia, another round, if you would.”
Trish had another Manhattan ready in her shaker. As she poured she said, “Aly? I hope losing all that weight didn’t turn you into a light—”
Aly signaled not to give her anymore.
“Right-o. Don’t want them stacking up.”
“Here’s Swineford’s page,” continued Clove. “Swineford rode with the Hell’s Angels back in the days of the Altamont tragedy. A life of danger lived in dangerous times, our Swineford. What you see is a poem he wrote about his vision of the end. It’s a sensitive piece about how everyone gently lay their heads down to sleep one final time. When you meet him, you’ll find the disparity between poem and man jarring.”
“He still rides?” asked Aly.
“Not to my knowledge. He does continue to cultivate the look.” Clove downed her second drink. “It’s interesting how some view the end of the world as all things being gone, while others see it only as the ending of human affairs. The work you’ve been doing must have given you many unique and valuable insights. Have you an opinion?”
Aly eyed her fresh drink. She couldn’t match Apocalypse for Manhattan with Clove, but she didn’t want to appear rude. She took a sip. “Some think the world hinges on whether human corruption can be purified.”
“I see. Of course, Allison, you have your own page waiting. But if you have something really special, the cover is yours.”
Aly looked up from taking another sip. “Howzabout a title?”
“A title,” mused Clove. “You don’t believe the date says it all. But of course not. Not for those who have yet to browse through. I had thought you might want to draw something Mayan. A fierce, bug-eyed god spewing fire. Or perhaps a battle scene with hordes clashing beneath waves of raining-down arrows. But a title. That could work. Do you have this title? Or would you need time to work it out?”
“How abow-wout, The Ultimate Last Call?”
“Interesting. You know that does work with the promotion I’m conducting. If you haven’t already heard, whoever correctly predicts the method of our grand finale never again pays for their preference in Clove’s.”
“I can see you’re an atoot business woman.”
“The deal does seem to lean heavily in my favor. But don’t forget Halston once said that Cincinnati is so hopelessly behind the fashions we’ll still be standing and demanding platform heels five years after the rest of the world passes.”
Aly pulled a stir-straw out of her cheek. “Butt-clenching conservatism should squeeze us out another five.”
“That’s probably true.” Clove looked up to reflect. “Oh, Eliot. I’d like you to meet Allison. Allison has just returned from Central America where she’s been conducting very important research concerning the nature of finitude.”
Aly turned to find herself nose to nose with a slight man in round glasses, a Dali-style up-tweaked mustache, and jet black, middle-parted hair plastered so flat it looked sprayed on. His natty ensemble included cape and cane. He clacked his heels twice and bowed curtly. The hand with the cane shot up, along with Eliot’s nose. The cane rose high through his loose grip, was held firm for a moment then allowed to slide. Eliot rapped the floor twice and continued on his way. Trish met him at the far end of the bar with a pony glass and a bottle of sherry.
“Forgive Eliot for not speaking. He gave up doing so when he began composing his epic Divine Tragedia trilogy. He’ll be at work on it shortly. Ah, here’s his page. I’m afraid illustration is not his forte.”
Aly leaned in for a close look. The lone figure standing at the bottom of the page looked crude, something like a third grader’s drawing of his father. But there was message revealed in the perspective, in how God on high in the clouds with His back turned rendered the tiny man as falling toward the vanishing point.
Clove folded over another page. “This is Albert’s page. Albert is no longer with us. Sadly, Albert's contribution to the book said nothing about his own demise. See? That’s a dehydrated mushroom he glued on. Shitake, I believe. It makes me wonder if Albert cooked. It’s the cleverest of all the references to The Bomb. In actuality, though, Albert installed his own brakes, and he made a very poor job of it.
“And Davia. Also no longer with us, but in a different way. In her case, her contribution turned out quite prescient. A dalliance with Swineford degenerated into an obsession. She filled her page with silly schoolgirl doodlings, then became insufferable to everyone. No one in Clove’s is proud of what her behavior led to. I’ve thought about tearing her page out. If you happen to form an opinion on the matter?”
“Any of these people from Northside?” asked Aly.
“All of them are from the neighborhood, as far as I know. Clove’s End of the World Café does not advertise. In fact, all involved put a great deal of effort into maintaining our status as a well kept secret.”
“But I don’t know any of them. How can that be? I haven’t been gone that long.”
“Well, Allison, I couldn’t really say. I suppose it’s because you’ve never been to Clove’s. Anyway, time may prove this book to be many things. Or not. But for now I see it as the opposite of hope. Everything in here is what the child cowering under the covers imagines can happen just so that it does not happen. It’s like making a deal with fear. Imagine every fear there is in great enough detail so that it becomes real, so that it actually comes to life inside of you. Only then can what ultimately finishes you be so unimaginable you never see it coming.”
“Interesting. I’d like to tell you the story of Ukit Took.”
“And I would very much like to hear it. But just now Clove’s is filling up. I should greet my guests. We’ll talk more as the evenin
g progresses.” Clove stood and adjusted her clothing. “Patricia. Allison has endured a long flight. Her entire evening is to be the pleasure of the house.” Clove downed another Manhattan. Trish was right there to refill the glass. “Oh, and, Allison, for the moment, I must say I’m leaning away from your title. Though I really should give you final say. The book wouldn’t exist without you. We’ll talk more throughout the evening.”
Aly looked around the room. Clove’s had filled up without her noticing.
“Well?” said Trish. She set down a fresh Apocalypse.
Aly looked around the room, faced Trish and folded her arms on the bar top. “Nothing but has-beens, never-weres and ain’t-gonna-bes,” she said. “Home at last.”
“You made an impression on Clove. More so than most.”
“You can keep up with all these thirsty people?”
“Hey, I just snuck off for a tampon break and didn’t miss a twist. But you’re right, we’ll have to talk later. My clientele await.”
“If there be a later,” mumbled Aly. She looked up and down the room. The reason they call it a shotgun room is because one blast can take out everyone inside. She shouted after Trish, “No more Apocalypses, okay? Switch me to soda water.”
Aly paged through the ledger. She lost track of time while absently alternating between soda water and her cache of Apocalypses.
Then, “I think there’s something I need to tell you,” said Trish.
Aly lifted her head from the book. She looked at Trish as if wondering who the hell Trish was.
“Yeah, what I thought,” said Trish.
Aly looked to the far end of the bar. She nodded toward Eliot. He was tapping a pen on his chin. “The professor really needs a rice…a nice round bowler to complete his look.”
“Uh oh, don’t turn around,” said Trish, “but Pig just entered the building.”
“Pig, huh? Pig any relation to Mr. Swinefert?”
“Pig is Swineford. You’ve seen how Clove likes to formalize names. Tell you what, be nice to Pig and he’ll give you a ride on the Hog. Or don’t be nice. Either way.”
Aly stole a glance. “My, he’s a big one.”
“We call that great big ol’ gut of his the Bread Basket. His motto at that bakery he runs is, ‘I bake it, I eat it, I sell what’s left.’ Sit tight while I get his drink.”
Aly didn’t realize the full effect of her drinks until she stood. She steadied herself, then made her way down the bar. She found the stool next to Eliot empty. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t innerupt. I just wanted to point out that Dante and Chaucer missed being contemporaries by only a few years. I think they woulda hung out, inna place like this.You wanna know why Chaucer is my favorite outta all uvem? Because he never finished a thing. Never a one damned thing. And lookit how famous he got. Those pilgrims were s’posed to tell two tales coming and two tales going. But they only, uh…didn’t. And those big long epic poems? Never finished a one. Now, I know you probably don’t want me reading over your soul-der—shoulder—but I want to take a li’l peek. See if you’re writing in Italian. Or Middle Ingish. Huh. Whatever. Just a li’l peek.”
Eliot didn’t look up. He merely reached over, took Aly’s hand and pressed it firmly against his crotch.
“Yo! Dude!” She jumped off the stool, barely managing not to topple it or herself.
Making friends?
Aly looked around to see who’d asked. Everyone in the room was deep in the same conversation.
Quite a spurt of inspiration you just gave the professor’s pen, said the voice.
“What? No. Who said that?” Still no one there. “All right. I give. Time to go home.” The room stretched before Aly. The front door shrunk. “Just about the size of a rabbit hole.” Pig blocked the door. “Nice smile.” He was too far away to hear, yet too close. “Shit.” One long sentence curled like a ribbon from Eliot’s pen. It unfurled across the room. “Hmm. Don’t know what language that is.” Pig—tiny, tiny Pig—so far away, started singing “Close to You.” Everyone in the room joined in as the angel’s chorus. Tiny, tiny Trish, walking, walking, walking, forever walking, the sound of the room welling up around her, wearing Pig’s Marlon Brando motorcycle hat—
“Hey, girl. Something I gotta tell you. I accidentally dosed you.”
“Dosed me?”
“I meant to put it in my soda water. I should’ve gotten off by now.”
“Dosed me. That would explain a few things.”
“Girl, it’s nothing you haven’t done before. Come up by me so I can keep an eye on.”
“But you never miss a twist.”
“Hey, just be glad you didn’t get the tampon. Come on.”
“No. No, I’m good. I’m all right.”
“That’s our girl. Have fun. Talk to people. I’m switching you to bottled water.”
Aly watched Trish shrink into the crowd. She wondered if she owed Eliot an apology. She turned to see him writing furiously. “Best not disturb.”
What he’s writing may be important.
“You’re just a hallucination.”
Am I? Look around.
Eliot’s ribbon of words soared over Aly’s head, stretched across the room, turned back on itself and appeared to tangle into a hopeless knot, then straightened out and draped itself across one long wall.
“Impressive. But I can’t read that.”
But there is something familiar, no?
Aly stared at the wall. Mingling bar patrons passed in front of the words causing the words to look alive with movement. “Ehh, I still don’t…”
You have to know how to look.
“Yeah, easy for an hallucination to say.” Aly squinted. Motion slowed as people and words blurred into each other. Aly widened her eyes when everything stopped. “Shit! Glyphs!”
Glyphs that certain people were entrusted to protect.
Aly clutched her throat. “I paid the price. Almost, I did. I still have to pay?”
You and your guilt. It’s guilt that won’t allow you to see your second chance.
“For what? Cultural Integration Services? Arby? I don’t get it. I don’t…”
“You don’t what?” Trish handed Aly a bottle of water. “You dealing?”
“It’s like, um, the People of the Maize have this place where they go to see how it all ends. But some crucial artifacts are missing. I think I’ve been entrusted to find them.”
“Come sit at the bar, Nancy Drew.”
“Where’s Clove? I need to talk to Clove.”
“Right now Clove is occupied with getting her woman’s perspective on things.”
“Then maybe I should write it in the book.”
“Maybe not. Tonight’s profundity always ends up as tomorrow’s stupidity. You don’t want it carved in stone.” She took Aly’s hand.
“But that’s just it!” But Aly was no longer being pulled along by trish. She was sitting at the bar.
“What’s just it, honey?”
The woman sitting next to Aly looked wise and desert-weathered.
“It’s a tomb,” said Aly. “And the glyphs have all come to life.”
“Oh?”
“Don’t worry. I’m not making a scene. I’m just…leaving.”
“Good ni-yite.”
Aly negotiated her way to the door. She managed not to stumble or sway or ignore anyone who said hello. At least that’s how she perceived her exit. She missed the first step outside the door and fell into the arms of a man making his way in.
He said, “Whoa. Steady. You okay?”
They parted. His face was badly bruised.
“Huh. You’d make a good boyfriend,” said Aly. “Already been tenderized.”
“Oh, okay. Uh, whelp, see ya.”
Aly pointed, then followed her finger. “Homeward.”
27: “Li’l and brown.”
Aly turned to make sure the man she’d fallen into was real. She only saw Clove’s front door closing. “Guess I’d be face down on the pa
vement if he wasn’t.”
She stumbled the final two blocks. Then, finally home.
“Always—always—this problem working the key-in-the-lock-turning-left-or-right problem when drunk.” But the door practically opened on its own. “Huh. I mean, voila. Trish’s dose to the rescue?”
Aly switched on the overhead light. Dimmer than she remembered. Trish must have put in a lower watt bulb. “Proud of you, girl.”
Shadows moved in the apartment.
The dose?
More like movement in the shadows.
A man.
“Blue? Blue, is that you? It is you, isn’t it? God, baby, I missed you.” Aly’s arms went up for a hug. “You can’t believe what…I got so much…so much on my— Hey, you’re not Blue. A lilla brown, maybe. Li’l an’ brown. Ha! Shit!”
The man stepped from the shadows. He regarded Aly impassively.
That’s how they look at you when they come to kill you, Aly thought. Cold, efficient, careful not to let emotion foul things up. “No,” she said. “No, I didn’t see… I don’t know…”
She turned to the door. There it went. “What?” The door swung by again. The room was spinning. She needed something to hold on to or she would go down. “Don’t kill me,” she said. “Don’t…I…don’t kill me.” She reached for a wall. “I won’t go down. I can’t…go dow…”
~ ~ ~
An ankle went by. A bare ankle. Kind of hairy. A bare, hairy ankle in a hurry. Her eyes followed its path.
A butt. A naked butt. A man’s naked butt.
Aly groaned. She buried her face in her arms. The killers are raping me before they kill me!
Water stopped running. Footsteps. Bare feet. Voices in the other room.
Then, “Hey, girl.”
Aly’s head snapped back. “No! They got you?” She flipped over and sat up. A blanket flew off. “SHE DOESN’T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH IT!”