Dregs of Society

by Laimo, Michael

  It was quite a picture. Carolyn was laying on the floor next to the wall, curled in a fetal position, knees tucked tightly against her body, head tilted awkwardly against her right shoulder. Her infamous yellow silk robe lay draped across her body in untidy twists, leaving unflattering portions of her body exposed. The visible skin looked sallow, reddened in blotches. Her hair was a disheveled mess, tangled clumps torn from her scalp and lying on the floor beside her.

  But even more so alarming than her wretched appearance was the apparent loss of motor functions she suffered. Saliva coated her chin and neck, the stains on the carpet by her lower torso suggesting to Gary that she had defecated herself. And then the sudden odor that emanated from her: unspeakable.

  Here and now, in great contrast to last night, Carolyn nearly made him throw up.

  She peered at Gary, her eyes loose and floating.

  He was speechless. Paralyzed.

  "I-I...n-need...the...m-mon...money."

  At once a terrible reminder of his simple past assaulted him. All of a sudden Gary had never felt so confused and lost in his entire life...

  ...the homeless man in the alley yesterday morning. Or was he really homeless? His suit and coat was new, his hair trimmed as if he'd had it cut just a week ago. Drool layered his lips, and he asked for money through it all. Not, "spare some change mister," or "help a wartime vet" but "I need some money." Like Carolyn just said. Wearing her new yellow silk robe...

  Gary broke his inaction. "I'm taking you to the hospital, Carolyn." She shook her head in defiance, eyebrows arched in fear. Through a sudden cloud masking his rambling thoughts, Gary moved to search the apartment for a phone, but the blur in his mind's eye expanded too quickly, like a great wave, holding him back. A surge of dizziness consumed him. He lost track of his purpose, and suddenly found himself leaning against an end table, shaking away the mass of cobwebs in his head, trying to figure out what it was he'd just set out to do. He turned, saw Carolyn sitting against the wall, staring up at the door as if frantically waiting for someone to arrive.

  The scene around him grew surreal. He stared at the woman on the floor in the corner of the room, Carolyn her name. He could remember that. Something about her was different than normal though, and that was why he was here. He studied the apartment. It looked familiar, but none of it held any true personal value to him. He didn't belong here. He needed to go back home. And wait.

  He walked by the woman on the floor--what was her name again?--and exited the apartment. He looked down the hall and saw a man walking towards him. He knew this man from somewhere. The man stopped in front of the woman's apartment, looking back at him. The man smiled, nodded. He nodded back. The man entered the woman's apartment, shut the door behind him.

  Gary went to the door across the hall, the one to his apartment. Locked. He pulled out his keys but could not remember which one opened it. He tried one. No good. Another. Again, failure. Frustration beset him. He panicked. What's wrong with me? Lucid thoughts crept back into his mind, replacing portions of the numbness supplanting his previous state of superiority. Dear God, what's happening? He found the right key, entered, closed the door and collapsed to the floor, grasping his head. He began to cry uncontrollably, sputtering sobs. Fleeting memories reminded him of everything: the smart pill he took twenty-four hours earlier. His trip through omnipotence.

  Now it was wearing off.

  Damn!

  He needed another pill.

  And he knew just where he could get one from.

  The man that just entered the apartment across the hall.

  Brett Hogarth. The man from Smart, Inc.

  Wednesday Evening, 7:19

  Gary had just enough smarts to keep his eye pinned to the peephole, an almost instinctual action he'd carried out many times in the past. He needed to speak to the man behind the door across the hall.

  Over the last hour, waves of intelligence flew in and out of his mind like wisps of wind-swept fog, the sensations of greatness he experienced intertwined with not only the normal abilities he maintained as Gary Riddell the regular guy, but also with crippling proficiencies much less efficient than he ever experienced. Not only was the smart pill wearing off, but it was leaving him even dumber than he was prior to taking it.

  Finally, he appeared from the apartment across the hall.

  Gary pulled the door open, his muscles tingling with the promise for atrophy.

  Unspeaking, the man walked right in, shut the door, leaving Gary pressed against its surface.

  "I need another pill."

  "So it seems," Hogarth said. "I didn't expect this."

  "What?" It took great efforts just to speak.

  "Your pill wore off rather fast. It should've lasted another day, at least."

  Gary reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. From within he dug out all his money. "There should be a hundred dollars there. I can't...can't count it right now."

  The man smiled. "What's that for?"

  "It's for another pill."

  The man took the money from Gary and counted it. "You're a bit short."

  "How much is there?" Gary's heart pounded, his emotions still running at full force.

  "I count one hundred seventeen dollars."

  "So, the pills are a hundred. That's enough."

  Hogarth shook his head. "One hundred was only for the first one. The second pill costs five thousand."

  Just enough smarts remained in Gary's head for him to understand the sudden predicament the man thrust upon him. He fell to his knees in utter frustration. Five thousand.

  Can I borrow five thousand dollars?

  I n-need the m-money...

  "I'll be back tomorrow," the man said, placing a Smart Inc. business card on the floor in front of Gary.

  "And Gary, if you don't have the money," he added on his way out, "just get someone else to join us--the smart society--and I'll give you a pill for free."

  Damn you Carolyn...

  Thursday Morning 8:56

  The wind whipped around the corner with the ferocity of a lion, nearly toppling Gary over as he staggered along the New York City street. The names of the streets held no true meaning to him, and he found no alternative but to allow his instincts to guide him to the place--and person--he felt he needed to see. Two things stuck fresh and clear in his mind, as if somehow planted there by the man with the pills: one, five thousand dollars to purchase another shot of omnipotence, lest he remain in a state of idiocy for the rest of his life; he knew he had the funds left in the bank for one more go-around. At that point he would have to make good use of his time, properly utilizing his intelligence in order to capitalize financially--enough so that he would be able to keep a healthy supply of smart pills readily available for when he'd need them most.

  Secondly: the man had said that a free pill would be given to those that found someone else to join up. That seemed easy enough. Or was it? Given his current state of low intelligence, it would probably be damned near impossible to convince anyone to try it. He'd have to be smart while he did it, display the goods so to speak. Just like Carolyn did.

  Park Avenue. It had taken him all morning to find his way here. People hustled and bustled, their ordinary work days just minutes away from starting out. Gary wondered for a brief moment what it would be like to have a simple ordinary day, just like everybody else. To be a common man, he thought, would be a wonderful thing right about now.

  His subconscious mind guided him to the building he'd spent the better part of six months at, and he waited out front just feet from the revolving door for that familiar face to cross his path: fat jowels, beady, rat-like eyes, a forehead that perspired even in the coldest of temperatures.

  Gary felt a sudden rush, a glimpse of the omnipotence that once filled his mind. He nearly lost his balance at the sudden, yet welcome intrusion, and staggered sideways, nearly tripping over his own shoes.

  He bumped into someone.

  "Watch where you're going, jerk!"


  Gary didn't have to see the man's face to recognize the voice, and in this brief resurgence of normal intelligence he spun around to face the loudmouth.

  "Hey there, Stroebecker." He let his voice stretch out in a mocking, derisive manner.

  Stroebecker froze for a moment, then said, "We have nothing to speak about, Gary."

  He tried to push past Gary. Gary blocked his path. "I-I just wanted to l-let you know that I got a new j-job."

  Gary could feel his intelligence slipping down again, and the grimace on Stroebecker's face showed that he had noticed his slur. "Are you drunk, Riddell?"

  Gary reached into his pocket and pulled out the business card that Hogarth dropped on the floor. He felt his mind seeping back into a blur, and started to panic. "I-I need help. Please, m-my good friend works here. Could you call him for me? Please?"

  "What's wrong with you, Gary?" Stroebecker shook his head, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone.

  "I-I'm sick. I need my medicine."

  "What's your friend's name?"

  Gary smiled a tad. "Hogarth. Brett Hogarth."

  As he dialed the number on the card, he asked, "Smart Inc.? What kind of company is this?"

  A woman's voice came on the phone. "Smart Incorporated. How may I change your life?"

  One Month Later

  Gary rolled over, pulled the worn blanket aside, then stretched and rubbed his eyes as the daylight impinged upon them. He thought of Carolyn--as he did every day--and wondered if he'd ever see her again.

  The day had begun like every other. Groups of people coming and going, all on their way to determine their net worth in life. Gary didn't share in this activity, though. He didn't work.

  He crawled up and paced awkwardly from the place he slept, rubbing his eyes and mouth and nose, trying hard to wake up.

  He made it halfway across the alley, then fell down, his ability to properly use his muscles a fleeting memory.

  In a desperate attempt to build income for another pill, Gary reached out toward the street, wanting to grab the ankle of the first passerby. It was futile.

  Hours passed, and he grew hungry. He wondered how he managed to stay alive all this time.

  Suddenly, a man entered the alley.

  He walked over to Gary and looked down at him. Something familiar about him. His face. Fat. Rat-like. Gary knew what rats looked like. He slept with them every night.

  "P-Please. I-I need the money." It was the only phrase he knew how to say.

  "I've been looking for you Gary. Hogarth said I might find you here. The man is amazing. He can read minds. Did you know that? With a bit more practice, I'll be able to do the same."

  The words really didn't make sense to Gary, but he recognized the name "Hogarth."

  "Listen Gary," Stroebecker said, "You introduced me to Smart Inc., and because of that I've been able to increase my business nearly one thousand percent. Royce Mills has become one of the biggest textile mills in the industry. And now we're branching out, Gary. Sure, it costs a pretty penny to keep up my intelligence, but the extra income I've earned, well, it's more than made up for it. Much more, and it feels so great to be smart. You knew that once, didn't you?"

  A string of drool fell from Gary's mouth. What is this man saying?

  "Anyway, there's plenty of job openings now, if you're interested, of course."

  Gary could only stare up at him blankly.

  "Oh..." Stroebecker reached into his pocket. "This is for you. Your commission for getting me to join, so to speak."

  He fingered the pill in front of Gary's face, then gently placed it into Gary's mouth.

  A little more than an hour later, Gary and Stroebecker exited the alley.

  Gary was smart again.

  "Shall we get to work, Riddell? You'll have to earn your keep in order to pay for those pills."

  Gary nodded. And for the first time in a month, he understood.

  Standing Silent, Without Heart

  For Keith Caputo

  The record company studio threw a somber shadow over Nicolas as he left a trail of boot prints in the snow blanketing the parking lot. The sun had begun to set behind the cloak of winter clouds, his lanky physique nearly camouflaged by the trees bordering the dividing curbs. Tottering from dizziness that refused to let go, he appeared as a giant leaf fallen from the trees, billowing in the wind.

  A car door opened nearby. He stopped, leaning against the barky surface of a tree. Standing silent, without heart.

  "Hey Nick...you need a lift?"

  Nicolas craned his neck around the tree, saw Vernon next to his car. The bassist slipped his instrument in the back seat then stood, arms crossed, shivering in the cold and staring at Nicolas.

  Why is he offering me a ride? What the hell does he care? He's probably the one that put everyone up to it.

  "I'll walk," Nicolas replied harshly. "If I go with you, then we'll end up talking about me. You know I don't want to do that." He spun and performed a staggering march back towards the studio, shoulders shrugged in defiance. His head swam and he had to make an effort to keep his balance.

  The car door slammed. Nicolas heard Vernon's footfalls rapidly approaching. He shuddered as a hand grasped his shoulder and spun him about. The environment smeared in gray tones as another wave of dizziness took hold, then gently let go.

  "Nick...look at you man, you're all strung out." Vern shook him gently. "You have to understand that our decisions were made in the best interests of the band. I've said it a million times before, we're not kicking you out. We just want you to take some time off so you can get your wits about you again. You haven't been able to get your leads down in months, and it's costing us and the record company money."

  Nicolas shot Vern a frightened glance. "It's their decision, isn't it? The record company. Tell me, Vern. Because if it is, then I know I'll never be back."

  Vern blew out a frozen cloud of air. "Take some time off, Nick. Rest up a bit. Get some help. Then maybe you'll find that magic you once had. DreamTime wouldn't be the same without you."

  Nicolas felt sick, head spinning in nutty circles—the last fix starting to wear off. Tears filled his bloodshot eyes. "I'm living in hell Vern, and now the band wants me out." He looked up, nearly pleading. "DreamTime's all I've got. Don't do this." He turned a cold shoulder, facing the wind. Pain ripped at his gut. "How can you expect me to just walk away from the only thing that holds any true meaning to me?"

  "Nick, DreamTime is a business, one that needs to be run correctly and efficiently. Each member has to be there one hundred percent. No less."

  Red anger rose inside Nicolas, fueled by dependency. He turned back. "What are you? The rescuer of the music world? Who made you God?"

  Vernon shook his head, disappointed. He turned the collar on his denim jacket, chunks of long brown hair falling across his face. The inevitability of the moment had come to fruition: the loss of his guitarist and friend. "You'll always be with me," he said, tapping a fist against his chest. "Right here." He turned and paced back to his car just as the tears began to well in his eyes.

  Screw you, Nicolas thought harshly. Convincing thoughts absorbed his harried mind, the image of him no longer in need of a band. He didn't need friends or business people to take care of him anymore, leeches sucking at the successful career that he himself created. He shuddered at the mere thought. "To hell with you!" he blurted as Vernon stepped into his car. "I don't need you! You need me! DreamTime is dead! You hear me, Vern? Dead! Tell the record company, the critics! I'm gonna make music that no one's ever heard before. I'm gonna be huge!"

  Vernon rolled down the window as he backed out. "I hope you do, Nick. Stay well." He drove away.

  Nicolas stood silent. Without heart. Only soul and nothing else. He stepped onto the snowy sidewalk, cold breaths unfurling from his mouth. "I'll show you, I'll show the world."

  He watched Vernon's car pulling into the street, leaving slush tracks in its wake. A wind picked up,
whipping stale icy flakes into his face, chilling and numbing his skin. For a moment he stared at the traffic, the cars drifting, the trucks gliding, all going somewhere, their operators guided by purpose, minds set with goals. Nicolas listened. The combined noises emanating from the vehicles created a symphony of disorder that somehow gelled together to create a single orchestral composition, each discharge—a horn, a rev, a squeal of tires—unique and understandable in its singular, yet synchronous as a fragment of the whole. He relished in the moment, then made his way home.

  38 Harris Avenue was a modest dwelling, one half constructed into a smallish yet comfortable apartment, the second half walled off into a sound-proof studio that Nicolas built after the first record went gold. He disengaged the alarm before entering, then tossed his jacket to the floor and unlocked the studio. The door opened with a screech. It slammed shut behind him as he turned on the lights.

  The studio had sucked up much of his earnings from the first album, the profits from the equally successful second release going towards maintaining, upgrading, and purchasing supplies. All of Nicolas' intentions had been good: to create DreamTime Studios for the private sole use of the band. But by the time its construction had been completed, the band was a quarter of the way done with their second album. Unwilling to move, the remaining members of DreamTime elected to keep themselves situated under the guidance of the record company, unconvinced of their capacity to branch out on their own. They were also reluctant to give in to Nick's whims, whose dependency at this point had become a public nuisance.

  The distinct odor of plastic saturated the room, bringing inspiration to Nicolas. Now this was luxury, gray carpeting kissing the white walls: a soft landscape for the union of instruments filling the studio. Pearl drums, Gibson guitars, a Rickenbacker bass, Korg synthesizers, a cluster of Shure microphones held in position by a queue of shiny metal stands. A floor-to-ceiling cabinet at the rear, holding a grand supply of guitar strings and picks, a variety of gauges utilized for the most sought-after sounds befitting the work in progress. And then, beyond the glass partition segregating the room, the brains of the studio: the control room. Here the latest music-making technology thrived, recording equipment only the most seasoned producer could adequately operate.