I collapse on the bed and a cloud of dust floats into the air. I can feel myself going under, giving up. This is what they want, so I’ll give it to them. This is all that the gods can ask of me, so I’ll surrender and pray for their forgiveness. Maybe it’s time to go home.
I sleep the black sleep of the dead. If there is a mighty wind pushing at the concrete bunker, I don’t hear it. If there are shadows at the edge of the property, pushing in and smothering me down, I don’t feel them. If there is a burning of sage and flesh at the pyre, I don’t smell it. If there is a fountain of light and the fluttering of molted wings, I don’t see them. If there is copper on my tongue, I don’t taste it.
Out the sliver of a window the rocks glow half buried in the dirt and clay, and I cough a dark mist onto the pillow.
In the morning my vision blurs and black lines dance about the motes in my eyes. I lean over and spit up blood onto the floor. I’ve made my decision now.
I leave the pigs alone. Someone will be out here soon, no doubt, or as far as I’m concerned they can eat each other. There are places on the farm that I walk to, tools in hand. The morning starts out crisp and cool but is soon enough filled with my sweat. I curse the spark of metal on rock, and I go hunting for my little red wagon. I place the first item in the back of it with a heavy thud that makes my legs tremble. The wagon bends under the weight of the rock. I fall to my knees as my stomach empties again, a heavy dark liquid pooling in front of me. I spit the bitter tar out and try to stand.
I head into the house, my heavy boots echoing throughout the abandoned home. Up to the third floor, I pull on a long metal chain, and a ladder leading to the attic unfolds into the hall.
Old suitcases, Christmas decorations, cardboard boxes, and a rusty old sled—nothing of much interest has been left up here. I walk over to a six-foot-tall plastic snowman and twist off his head. Inside is a large green duffle bag. I lean him over and pull it out. Outside I add the duffle bag to the wagon.
The other item rests down at the bar. I need to say goodbye to Ma, anyway.
I have a key to the front door—she probably doesn’t remember that. I leave the little red wagon sitting on the front stoop, that large stone rocking back and forth, and walk into the bar. It’s quiet now and the rest of the boxing ring is gone. The canvas has been rolled up and taken. There are no metal posts, no nuts and bolts, just a clean square where it used to rest, splotches of dark liquid here and there. I walk behind the bar. I do not use the long stick to reach up and take down the bottle of dark, purple liquid.
I head through the two metal swinging doors into the kitchen and over to a heavy chopping block in the center of the room and push it. It doesn’t move. I lean into it, and it doesn’t move.
“What the fuck?”
I take a step back and run at it, throwing my shoulder into it, and it kicks clear and skids across the room, leaving behind a tacky layer of grime.
Under one of the legs is a handle. I pull up on it and a small door opens. Underneath it sits a small safe. I turn the dial back and forth and swing the door open.
It’s still there. I reach down and pull out a glass bottle, exactly like the one in the front of the bar. Except this one, it isn’t filled with a purple liquid. It’s filled with a thick, black tar. I pick it up and hold it in my hands.
A knife across the throat, a piece of pipe to the neck, a needle slipped into a vein, a car run up and over a curb, a spray of bullets across a crowded warehouse, an ice pick in the temple, a machete, a bottle of acid, a flamethrower, a pair of pliers, the images unspooling one after another, my hands on a skull as the neck snaps, my hands in the middle of a back shoving over the edge of a bridge, the edge of a building, the edge of a mountain, a gun to the temple, a gun to the forehead, a gun to the gut, arms, legs, lips, ears, all of it into the pig pen, dumped in a river, down a mine shaft, into the incinerator, all of it set on fire, all of it shattering into the blackest edges of night.
When the room swims back into focus, I find some old rags and wrap them around the bottle. It’s all I can find to protect the concentrate. It took me a long time to fill it up and I can’t afford to have it break. Not now.
At the bar I root around for a piece of paper, something to leave for the old lady. SEE YOU ON THE OTHER SIDE. It’s all I can think to write. I pull a small shimmering card made out of iridescent black metal out of my back pocket and set it on the bar. When I place it on the piece of white paper the card glistens and rolls like a tidal wave. She’ll be okay.
Out back in a rotting garage is an aging pickup truck. The keys are in it. Who would want to steal it? I would, except it’s already mine. I pull down the tailgate, lean some scraps of wood up against it, and pull up the wagon, rolling it up into the bed. I tie the wagon down, grab the bottle, and hop into the cab of the truck. Time to go.
It’s a long drive into the City, but a quarter of a tank should be enough. The windows are rolled down and it’s getting cold, the rain spitting over the windshield, and I keep on driving. It doesn’t matter. The fields blur into one elongated wave of beige, the wires on the telephone poles never ending. I see the black birds for a second and then they’re gone. A couple miles later I see them again. I smile. So be it.
I let it all go, empty my head, and a weight settles into my chest. I know I’ll see Rebecca tonight, so that makes me happy. The things that have been done cannot be undone—I know that, too.
I’m in the City faster than I ever imagined. I pull the truck to the center of town, the streets that they traverse most often. It shouldn’t take long. I’m a bit of a spectacle. I park the truck at a meter and turn it off. I leave the keys in it. It will be gone soon, anyway.
I step out of the truck as dusk settles in around me. I open the back of the truck and untie the wagon. Unloading the lumber, I roll the wagon off the truck and down to the concrete. I set the bottle in the wagon with the rock and the duffle bag, and pull it to the nearest corner, standing there like this happens every day. I flip the handle back toward the wagon so it stays standing up and reach into my jacket for a pack of smokes. Been a long time since I smoked. Pulling one out, I stick it in my mouth, click the lighter, and the flame catches on the paper. I inhale and let the world come slowly to me.
The wind pushes bits of litter around, and I inhale again. A smattering of rain hits the side of a building, and then stops. I’m shaking, a rabbit kick beating out the tempo in my chest. I inhale and watch the sky begin to dim. A long black car pulls up to the curb, stretching on and on, the front wheel disappearing, the side of the car never ending, a slick of black passing by, on and on, until finally the rear wheel comes into focus and the car slows to a halt. I turn to the left and spit out a glob of red ringed with black, a tear pushing out of my right eye—a sliver of darkness running down my cheek.
“It’s about fucking time,” I mutter.
The door opens and the trunk pops up. I roll the wagon to the back of the long car and heave the massive stone inside. The car dips down, and the driver leans his head out of the window, eyeballing me. I shrug my shoulders and hold the bottle to my chest, slipping into the back of the long, black ride.
Two men sit across from me, arms crossed, dressed in dark clothes, filling up the leather. They are big and their skin is tinted yellow. It’s what I expected. They don’t say a word.
“Home, James,” I say. The driver squints in the rearview mirror and the car rolls forward. I close my eyes and they stay silent.
Through the Financial District, skirting Ghost Town, we end up at the edge of the Red Light and pull over to a club I know too well. The door is opened at the back of the wide building.
“Get out,” they say. “We’ll bring in your stuff.”
I step out and there is another man, tall and lanky, with bad skin. He is similarly dressed in dark clothing.
I hold the bottle, covered in rags, closely to my chest.
“Follow me,” he says.
We step in a door and he leads me do
wn a hallway. I hear singing in the distance, horns playing, the sharp kick of a snare drum. One left turn and we are suddenly at the end of a long hallway, another shadow of a man standing with his hands clenched in front of his thick body.
“Big man?” I ask.
“We’ll see,” my escort says.
The man at the door speaks into his sleeve and the door opens up. It’s another room with a door at the back, couches scattered around, young ladies sitting down as their short skirts ride up, men in suits standing above them, drinks in their hands. Everyone looks happy. I look like shit. But nobody says a word, the conversations grinding to a halt.
The last door opens and in I go, the inner sanctum. Never even got half this close before. A middle-aged man sits at a desk, his hands interlaced. His hair is slicked back, his skin tan. He wears a dark blue pinstripe suit, white shirt, and navy patterned tie.
“Sit,” he says. There are two enormous, overstuffed leather chairs in front of his desk. I ease into the one on my left. “Trevor?” he asks.
I nod my head.
“We have some unfinished business it seems.”
“We do.”
A door to my left opens up and a large man wheels in my little red wagon. It’s all I can do to not start laughing.
“Boss, I don’t know whose stuff this is.”
“Thank you, Jason,” he says. “You can go now.”
He turns to me as Jason walks back through the door.
“Excuse me,” I say, walking over to the wagon. I place the bottle gently inside it. “The duffle bag, maybe we should do that first.”
“If you like. I don’t know if it matters.”
“No, it doesn’t, sir. I just want to explain.”
“How about you let me explain, Trevor. You worked for us, and then you left. You caused a lot of trouble, and then you ran. You fucked the wife of one of my big dogs, knocking her up with some kind of crazy litter of mutated fucking…”
“I can explain—”
“You can shut the fuck up,” he yells, up on his hands, leaning over the desk, spittle flying.
A door opens up to my right, the other side of the room, and an elderly man walks in. The bulldog behind the desk scrunches up his face, pounds a fist onto the table and eyeballs the old man.
“Go,” the old man says.
“I’ve got this under control.”
“No, you don’t, son. My mistake. Go.”
The son turns his face to me. He opens his mouth but stops. He walks behind me and out the door he came in, slamming the door as he leaves.
Sweat runs down the sides of my ribcage, a pain in my chest slowly expanding.
The old man walks over to me and hands me a handkerchief that he pulled out of his jacket. He’s likewise dressed to kill, his suit entirely in black.
“There’s a garbage can over to your left if you need it.”
I hold the cloth over my mouth and cough, spraying it with specks of tar and blood.
“Drink?” he offers. “Can you keep it down?”
I nod slowly.
He picks up a crystal decanter off of his desk and pours us each a few fingers of bourbon.
“Good stuff,” he says. “You’ll like it.”
I take a sip and it glosses over my throat like a hot iron. I swallow again and blink.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Yes, sir. I mean, no, not really. But thank you.”
“Trevor, is it?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve never met,” he says.
“No, sir.”
“Manny. You can call me Manny.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“We have something to settle. You’re not doing well. Am I correct?”
“Yes, sir. Manny.”
“Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“First, I’d like to apologize.”
“There’s no need, Trevor. I mean, it won’t help, and I’m not sure you regret it, really. Maybe you do, but I’m in no position to forgive these trespasses. You understand that, don’t you?”
“I do, sir. Manny. I do.”
“Continue.”
I take another swallow and it burns golden butterflies down my throat.
“For a long time, I worked for you.” Manny nods, and I continue, “A long time I did good by you, everyone. I pulled my weight. I did what I was told. I moved up.”
“But something happened,” Manny says.
“Yes. My daughter.”
“Rebecca,” he says.
A chill settles over me. “You know her?”
“Of course I do, Trevor. It’s my job to know my family. Every drunken uncle and slutty niece. I do my best, you understand.”
I take another swallow and continue. “She got in trouble. I tried to get her out. She wanted to come in, you see, be a part of this, and I wanted her far away. No offense.”
A door opens at the back of the room and a tipsy girl in a sparkling red dress staggers into the room.
“Honey, I’m a little busy right now,” he says. “Can you stay in the other room, please?”
“Sure, Opa, sorry.”
He stares at me. “Go on.”
“The green duffle bag. It’s what I skimmed. Every shipment of whores, I took five grand off the top. Every kilo of weed, I’d slide a stack of hundreds into my pants. A handful of coke here and there, a bag of meth, you name it. It’s all there.”
He turns his head to inspect the bag.
“That’s a big bag.”
“It is, Manny. I’m sure that there have been repercussions over the years, fingers pointed, men blamed. I documented all of it. There’s a small binder in the bag. It may not do much for the handful of men that took the fall for me, their families, but I wanted to give it to you anyway.”
“Because of Rebecca?”
“I’m getting to that. Yes.”
I take another sip. This one is a little bitter, not nearly as sweet as before.
“What makes you think that returning what you stole from me will buy you any grace whatsoever?”
“I don’t.”
He nods.
“I do want you to help me with Rebecca, but not for those reasons, not because of the duffle bag of stolen goods.”
A tickle runs down my throat and I cough into the handkerchief. When I pull it away it’s speckled with blood.
“Refill?” he asks.
“Yes, please.”
I lean forward and he refills my glass. “The other things. The wagon?” He smirks. “That’s the Juice, the gravy?”
“You are correct, Manny.”
“And what’s stopping me from just taking your little red wagon goodies? What leverage could you possibly still have?”
I swallow again, the bourbon singeing my throat. “The wagon is the tip of the iceberg. If you want it all, we have to make a deal. You like Rebecca, I can see that.”
The old man nods.
“I’m not going to be around much longer.”
Manny shakes his head back and forth.
“I want her taken care of, protected. It’s nothing I could do when I was alive, but I’m hoping you could do this for me when I’m gone.”
He rubs his chin and sips at the bourbon, leaning back in his chair. “What else is in the wagon, Trevor?”
“Can’t tell you that, Manny.”
“No?”
“No. Not until you give me your word. Until you shake my hand and look me in the eye, and tell me that Rebecca will be taken care of. Protected. Set up for life.”
Manny laughs and takes another sip, eyeballing the wagon of garbage.
“It’s not much of a gamble, Manny,” I say. “You like her already. She’s a hard worker. She’ll earn out, I’m sure. I didn’t have to come in.”
“That’s true,” he says. And he closes his eyes for a second, and rubs his temples. “Is it worth it?”
“Yes, Manny,” I say. “It is.”
The old man leans forward and extends
his hand, and I hold it my own and shake it up and down. Once, twice, and we’re done.
“Show me, Trevor, and then we take a walk, all right? We’ll go say goodbye to your daughter. Got that straightened out too, smart guy?”
“Cancer,” I say, coughing into the rag. It’s not very far from the truth.
“Enlighten me.”
I stand up and head to the wagon, picking up the rock, turning around slowly, setting it down on the desk ever so gently, as the wood creaks under the weight of it. It emits a slight glow.
“What is it?”
“This, Manny, is a meteorite. One of many. I’m not sure where it comes from, but there is a cornfield filled with them out on my farm.”
Manny laughs and slaps his knee, sitting forward.
“It’s true. And there’s something about them, and my sickness, my gift. Watch.”
I slap the rock with my hand and rush over to the light switch to turn it off.
“What the hell,” the old man yelps.
The room goes black, except for the rock. It glows a dull green, phosphorous almost, a subtle mist seeping into the air. Doors shoot open from every side, men rushing in, the lights back on, guns drawn as eyes dart from side to side.
“It’s okay, boys, it’s okay. Trevor was just showing me something.”
The men turn to each other, back to Manny.
“Go. Out. Shoo.” And he waves them off. “Elaborate.”
“These meteorites have been crashing into the farm, the place I’ve been hiding out, for years now. I didn’t think anything about them, at first. I chipped a piece off, took it to a guy I know. He kept that piece of it—payment for something he did for me, many years ago.” I swallow, my chest vibrating, my right hand starting to shake. “It could be from floating space garbage, or from a distant planet, I don’t know. It’s reactive, cellular. It might be the most precious material on the planet.”
Soul Standard Page 19