Dead Inside
Page 6
“You shouldn’t have to ask me that, by now. I think we know each other well enough.”
She sighs and looks out the side window. We’re nearing Villa Vida now, entering the sordid kingdom of suburbia. She gazes out over the houses and cul-de-sacs, the churches and convenience stores, the sprawling schoolhouse compounds.
“They’re all just starting to wake up,” she says quietly. “All the normal people. Ready to go about their normal lives. Normal people, living normal lives, who don’t eat babies.”
“Or fuck dead girls,” I say, and then, “So what. Fuck them. And the fancy cars they rode in on.”
She looks over at me, exasperated, and says, “Do you really never think about what it would be like to be one of them? To have a normal life and do normal things?”
“We’ve already had this conversation,” I say irritably. “If you want it so bad, then have it. What’s stopping you. You already live in the perfect place for it.”
“Babies,” she says, looking down at the ash that’s fallen on her thigh. She throws the cigarette out, unfinished, and then rolls the window up. “Babies are stopping me. I just . . . can’t stop eating them.”
You can laugh at that part. I won’t judge.
We’re both silent for the rest of the drive.
Once I get off at the Villa Vida exit, she directs me to her house, which is a big, extravagant Colonial, with huge windows and thick pillars in the front. There’s a shiny black Audi in the driveway. It’s the kind of house you’d expect a doctor to have. I think about what I said earlier, about clichés.
I stop on the street, at the end of the driveway, and put the car in park. I look over at her. She looks back and smiles, but wanly. She looks tired. Not as stoned as usual, but tired. “Thank you,” she says. “I really appreciate this.”
“Yeah,” I say, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. “It’s . . . really not a big deal.” It’s hard for me to look at her when her eyes aren’t as dead as I’d like them to be. The exhaustion is in her face, around her eyes, but not within them. They’re still a little glassy, but I feel like she’s seeing me more than she usually can, and I don’t like that. I feel like a museum exhibit when people look at me, really look at me, instead of looking through or past me, like they usually do.
But no, right now, Helen sees all of me.
“I think you’re a good guy, you know,” she tells me softly. “You don’t see it, or want to see it, but you are.”
“I . . . have sex with dead girls.”
“And I eat babies.”
“I never said you were a good person.”
She winces slightly, and it seems like I’ve offended her. She doesn’t appear angry, though . . . just saddened. Like I’ve hurt her feelings. She bites her lip and looks away. “I should go,” she says. “I’ll . . . see you around.”
Now is the part where I’m supposed to tell her I didn’t mean it like it sounded, that to me, being a “good person” is a silly and meaningless moniker, no different than being a “normal person”. Society defines what’s good and what’s bad, and society doesn’t know the difference between its own anal-beaded asshole and its dick-sucking mouth. Fuck being a good person. I’m not a good person because I don’t give people enough time or acknowledgment to allow them to define me, one way or another. Labels fucking suck.
Good people fucking suck.
So, yes, this is the part where I’m supposed to tell Helen I like her just fine as she is, which says an awful lot, given the obvious fact that I hate everyone. I’m supposed to explain to her that neither of us needs to be a good person, or any kind of person. We just need to be who we are. We just need to fuck dead girls and eat babies and feel good about it.
I’m supposed to tell her all of this, but I don’t say anything.
She gives me one more smile, a tiny one this time, and I think there are tears in her eyes. Then she gets out of the car and walks up her long driveway, and into her enormous house.
I drive off to the self-imposed squalor of my home, thinking about what it would be like if Helen was dead.
***
A few nights later, I’m outside smoking when I hear the automatic doors open behind me. I don’t have to look to know who it is.
“Hey,” Helen says, coming over to stand beside me.
I hand her a cigarette and light it for her.
“Thanks again for the ride the other night.”
“You don’t have to keep thanking me. Did you get your car fixed.”
“Yes,” she says. “My . . . um, someone was able to fix it for me.”
“That’s good.”
We finish our cigarettes in silence. When I turn to go back inside, she stops me, putting a hand on my arm and looking up at me with the light reflected in her glasses. “Listen,” she says. “I know you . . . I know it’s not your thing, but would you . . . I’d quite like it if you would go to dinner with me sometime.”
I look yearningly at the open doors beckoning me away from this absurd request, contemplating making a run for it.
“One dinner, that’s it,” she persists. “It doesn’t have to be a big thing. Just dinner.”
My eyes flick from her to the door, and back to her. Back to the door. Back to her. “Listen, I don’t go on dates.”
“Have you ever actually been on a date?”
I’ll give you three guesses as to what the answer to this question is. The idea of sitting across from a living girl for a couple hours, while she chatters on about her mundane childhood and her favorite Nicholas Sparks novels has never interested me. I’d just as soon go hotboxing with the porn-quoting, pothead foreigner from high school.
Squirt it in my mouth.
Fuck me with your huge black dick.
Puff, puff, pass.
This causes me to wonder how my childhood stories would be received over filet mignon and glasses of Chianti.
“What makes you think I’ve never been on a date,” I say to Helen.
She laughs. “You’re a reclusive hospital security guard, who has sex with dead girls. That doesn’t exactly qualify you to be in the running for Cleveland’s Most Eligible Bachelor. It’s not great material for a winning online dating profile, either.”
“Then why do you want to go on a date with me.”
“You’re the one calling it a date, not me. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. It’s just that . . . I don’t know, I can relate to you. I can’t relate to anyone else. Maybe I just want to get to know you a little better.”
“There’s not much to know. And I’m . . . very busy.” This last bit comes out forced and weak, I wouldn’t even believe myself, so I’m not surprised when her face tells me she doesn’t buy it, either.
“Please,” she says.
I’m reminded of my slutty lab partner, whose sexual services of which I was quite unappreciative. Any other guy would think I’m an idiot for wanting to turn down Helen’s proposal, but unlike the college girl, she doesn’t seem offended or annoyed by my reluctance. Her expression is, instead, patient and serene. Maybe it’s the drugs.
Or maybe she really can relate to me.
Shit, wouldn’t that be a trip and a half.
“Okay,” I say, unable to stop myself from sounding begrudging. My tone doesn’t seem to bother her, though, because she smiles and reaches down to squeeze my hand. I flinch a little at this peculiar display of, what, affection? Cordiality? For once, I find myself wishing I knew why humans do these strange little things they do.
“Does tomorrow night work?” she asks, letting go of my hand and taking a small step back, as if she is relinquishing my personal space now that she has gotten what she wanted.
“Yeah,” I say. “Tomorrow night is fine.” I’m off tomorrow night. I wonder if she had some way of finding this out beforehand. I wonder if I’m being paranoid.
“Great,” she says, smiling again. “You know where I live. Pick me up around eight?”
“Okay.”
“I
assure you, it will be completely casual. I’m not like other women, so I don’t need the big romantic fairytale first date.”
I wince at the word first. “I thought we weren’t calling it a date,” I say.
“I wasn’t. You started it.” Her grin is playful, teasing.
“Look,” I say, “I haven’t done this before, and I didn’t read The Notebook. Or Twilight. Don’t expect too much.”
“No expectations, I promise.”
“Okay. I’ll pick you up at eight.” I cough into my fist. “Um, I have to go now. I have to go . . . check the monitors.”
“Right,” she says, with a knowing smile. “Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“At eight.”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
And that’s that. I want another cigarette but I have to get away; now that it’s been made definite, the whole thing makes me nauseous with unease. Legitimately nauseous. Once inside, and out of her line of sight, I have to sprint to the bathroom to throw up.
As I’m washing my face in the sink, I’m already thinking of ways to get out of it.
***
I stick to it. For reasons unbeknownst to me, I’m standing in front of my bedroom mirror, adjusting the knot in my tie.
This is absurd.
Now, I’m not much of an internet guy, but due to my unfamiliarity with the dating scene—ick, even the word “dating” makes me feel sickly—I consulted Google earlier today with the search phrase “how to prepare for a dinner date”.
As you can expect, there was an intimidating abundance of advice articles, ranging from overly simple, to grotesquely in-depth. I chose the one that seemed the simplest, because I have a limited number of fucks to give in regards to this whole thing.
1. Make reservations.
This part was easy enough. I found a nice-looking restaurant downtown called the Nabokov and made reservations for two at eight thirty.
2. Select an outfit.
The article had all sorts of advice respective to the type of establishment being patronized, and the pictures on the Nabokov’s website seemed to fit it into the category of “smart-casual”. I selected a plain black shirt, a black tie, a decent pair of black jeans, and the black dress shoes I wear to work.
I realize—sort of for the first time, since I don’t usually pay attention to shit like this—that I don’t have a single article of clothing in my wardrobe that isn’t black.
I don’t think she’ll mind.
I mean, she eats babies.
As an afterthought, I added my only sport coat to the ensemble, which had been worn on one other occasion, that being my mother’s funeral. Gallows humor is alive and well.
3. Apply a modest amount of cologne.
This was a real bitch. I, of course, am not the kind of guy who ever wears cologne, so I was required to make a trip to the Dillard’s, in Villa Vista, the uppity shopping district just north of Villa Vida. Seeing no need to drop a couple of hundred dollars on something I would only use once, I just took one of the tiny trial bottles of Versace. The saleswoman kept trying to sell me shit in her annoying saleswoman voice, and I seriously contemplated smashing her face through the glass display counter. But at the end of the day, I’m not a violent creature.
4. Buy her flowers.
I fucking hate flowers. I would have foregone this one, but there’s a flower shop down the road from Dillard’s, so I figured I’d bite the bullet and just do it, Nike-style. I wanted to get a bouquet of black roses to see how much Helen really relates to me, but the crotchety old florist frowned at this request and told me she didn’t carry anything like that because it’s “too depressing”. Stupid oversensitive bitch. I went with the tiger lilies, instead.
There are more steps on the list, but since I’m short on both time and fucks, I finish with my tie, put on my jacket, and leave.
***
When she answers the door, I look at her and it occurs to me that now is the part where my knees are supposed to go weak, and my breath is expected to catch in my throat, but as much as it pains me to disappoint all you bleeding-heart romantics out there, my knees are fine and the rate of my breathing is undisturbed.
The Hallmark Channel has my condolences.
That’s not to say, however, that she doesn’t look beautiful, because she does—about as beautiful as any woman with a pulse could hope to look. Her hair falls in cascading golden rivers past her shoulders, the color of her lips is deepened to a dark maroon, and her zombie eyes are heavily shadowed and outlined in black, accentuating their dull haziness. Her white satin dress hangs off one shoulder and stops about midway down her thigh, not short enough to be slutty, but not long enough to be modest. There’s a string of pearls around her neck, and a diamond bracelet on her left wrist.
I try not to look at her breasts so I lower my gaze and then wonder if she’s wearing underwear. Then I wonder why I would wonder that.
Shifting from one leg to the other, I thrust the flowers out at her and say, “Uh, here.”
She smiles and takes them gently. “They’re beautiful,” she says.
Now is the part where I’m supposed to say something profoundly dumb, such as, Not as beautiful as you. But that’s really not my style. All of this is already starting to edge uncomfortably toward the realm of stereotype. I think about clichés. I think about track four. I swallow thickly and shove my hands in my pockets.
“Would you like to come in while I put these in a vase?” she asks.
“I guess,” I say. Probably not the best way to phrase the response, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She smiles again and steps aside, gesturing for me to enter.
The foyer is wide and white, but the massive gold chandelier hanging from the high ceiling casts a glow that makes the walls and floor seem almost yellow.
I’m in someone’s house. I can’t remember the last time I was in someone’s house. I start to sweat.
“Come on in,” she says, heading down the hallway. “I have to go to the kitchen to put these in some water.”
“No,” I say, “I think I’ll just wait here.” I’m afraid I’ll pass out if I attempt to venture further into this unfamiliar dwelling.
“Suit yourself,” she says with a lazy smile, and I realize she’s really high, which sets me a little at ease. “I’ll be right back.”
As I wait, I stare at my shoes and try to pretend I’m not here. I try to think about anything else but the notion that I’m standing in someone else’s house, about to actually go on a date. But then my mind wanders to the fact that I’ll soon be in a restaurant, surrounded by people, and the rate of my perspiration increases.
When she returns a few minutes later, she says in a slow, lazy voice, “You’re nervous. Don’t be nervous. It’s just casual. It’ll be fun. Something tells me you don’t get out much.”
I shrug. She takes my arm and we walk silently to my car. Before I realize what I’m doing, I open the door for her—a minor act of chivalry, of which I didn’t know I was capable.
She seems taken aback, too, but pleasantly so; she gives me an appreciative smile and delicately gets in, and I accidentally look down her dress and glimpse the strapless white bra supporting the sloping white hills of her breasts. I think of white elephants, which gets me thinking, of course, about abortion.
Dead babies.
This woman eats dead babies.
My stomach quivers, but not out of revulsion.
I have anxious butterflies as I get into the car.
And I’ve always fancied myself to be a bit of a sociopath, for fuck’s sake.
***
“If you were going to kill yourself,” Helen says, “how would you do it?”
Now, while I am unaccustomed to all of this dating shit, I have seen movies, and I’m pretty sure this isn’t the type of question that’s usually asked. At least, not on the first date. I would assume that’s more of a third or fourth date type of question. But again, what the fuck do I know.
She pops a fried squid in her mouth and chews slowly, dead eyes affixed to mine in such a purposeful manner that I’m almost uncomfortable. “I didn’t ask you if you’re going to kill yourself, I asked how you would, if you were going to do it. I mean, I’m not going to kill myself, either, but if I were going to, I think I’d hang myself. I know it’s a cliché, but there’s something kind of poetic about it, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know how to tie a noose.”
She laughs and says, “It’s just a slipknot.”
“I was never a Boy Scout.”
“How about . . . cutting your wrists in the bathtub? They say the hot water prevents you from feeling much pain at all. And watching all that red bloom out of you, surrounding you and engulfing you—I think it would be beautiful.”
I think of the girl to whom I’d lost my virginity. I think of Enya.
“Never was into baths. I’m more of a shower kind of guy.”
“Pill overdose?”
I shake my head. “I don’t like drugs. The strongest thing in my apartment is Tylenol.”
She makes a face and says, “You definitely don’t want to overdose on that. Tylenol overdose is one of the slowest and most painful ways to die. It basically turns your insides to stone. If you don’t get your stomach pumped in time, all the doctors can do is watch you die. And that takes about four days. Four days of extreme suffering.”
“Well, I guess that’s out, then.”
“How do you feel about drowning? I read somewhere that people who drown experience an incredible sense of peace and euphoria right before they die.”
I raise an eyebrow. “How could they know that. Who is providing testimony for this research.”
“Hmm. Good point.”
“No drowning for me, euphoria or not. I can’t swim.”
“If you were drowning, you wouldn’t have to swim. That’s . . . kind of the point.”
I shrug. “Whatever.”
“Okay, so think. Seriously, how would you do it?”
I purse my lips and give the inquiry legitimate contemplation. I could really use a cigarette.