Prelude to a Scream

by Jim Nisbet

Since when?

  Since I’m leaving.

  What do you mean you’re leaving? You’ve been gone all night. Just when a man gets used to having somebody to talk to when he talks to himself—.

  My sentiment exactly.

  I don’t get this.

  Bullshit you don’t get it.

  All I get is I get into these useless arguments with you and you start disappearing.

  Yeah, well, that’s not going to be a problem much longer.

  What’s that?

  Nothing. I don’t mean nothing. I just mean you’re not going to have to worry about pissing away your life with me sittin and watchin from the prime vantage point of your inner barroom. That’s all.

  But I like my inner barroom.

  Well, it’s closed. Empty. Deserted. It’s dark in there and it smells weird. You got it all to yourself. It don’t agree with my aesthetic.

  Aesthetic? What aesthetic?

  You shouldn’t have done it to her. Simple as that. But it’s done and I’m movin’ on to greener inner barrooms. Maybe head out West.

  We are out West.

  Further west, then. Where West becomes East. The Sunset District. Maybe Australia.

  I don’t fucking believe this. Except she’s a goddamn scar-licking pervert, Iris is fine. She’s going to wake up with a scar all to herself. She’ll spend her days happily, filling out insurance forms with a Get-Well Bear in her lap.

  Silence.

  Wait and see. We’re gonna wind up living together.

  You lost me there, Pard. That’s totally over my head. But I guess now you joined this club, you can handle it all by yourself.

  WHAT FUCKING CLUB

  The club that pulls the trigger to get what it wants. That fucking club.

  The sensoria flooded back in. The light brightened to a curious ochre, as if he were looking at the world through pricey Porsche sunglasses. Somewhere something dripped. His nose made little snerks when he tried to breathe through it.

  Hey, he abruptly thought. You don’t think I’m going to pull this trigger now, do you?

  Well? Aren’t you?

  Now? Why?

  The question is not why, it’s why not?

  Hey.

  You got nothing to lose.

  Yeah.

  You lost already.

  Sure.

  You been trying to kill yourself for three years. Why not now?

  Yeah. Why not?

  Stanley laughed.

  He pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Thirty

  DO YOU HEAR ANYTHING?

  No.

  I pulled the trigger.

  Bullshit.

  No. No, I did. Nothing happened.

  Have a look.

  No, you have a look.

  Me? I’m incorporeal.

  We’re all going to be incorporeal if somebody doesn’t have a look.

  Plus, I’m leaving. I’m already gone. You’re talking to yourself.

  So?

  So have a look for yourself.

  Stanley opened his eyes.

  Two green eyes stared at him.

  She’s still there.

  What? There should be little pieces of meat hanging off that duct tape.

  I know.

  Shoot her again.

  Okay.

  He pulled the trigger.

  Well?

  It didn’t go off.

  Try pulling the trigger.

  I pulled the goddamn trigger! Twice. I pulled it…

  Somewhere something rattled.

  I better get my stuff.

  Hey. YOU CAN’T LEAVE ME LIKE THIS.

  Says you. What do you know about moral imperatives?

  The WHAT? First it’s aesthetics, now it’s moral imperatives. Make up your mind.

  It’s made up. I’m gettin my stuff.

  No, no. Make up your mind about…

  Whispering. Outer whispering.

  Shh! Outer shushing.

  Well? Outer voice.

  Well what? Another outer voice.

  What do you think?

  I don’t think. This is strictly empirical.

  SO? Djell.

  Shh! So keep cutting. Lopez.

  For Christ’s sakes, I’m almost through.

  In a pig’s eye.

  Silence.

  He’s not moving.

  So? That’s good. If he moves he blows Sibyl’s head off.

  But I don’t think…

  I thought you said this was empirical.

  True. I did say that.

  So don’t think. Is he out, or is he not out?

  No. He’s not out. But the arm might be.

  Now you’ve said it! There’s only one way now for any of us to find out!

  You said this was empirical…

  Silence.

  A moan.

  What’s that?

  That nurse. Don’t worry about her.

  I got so much sweat in my eyes I can’t see.

  Here’s a sponge.

  Check the machine.

  Christ, I have to do everything…

  Silence. A squeak of casters.

  It’s okay. You ready for it?

  I don’t know. My hands are shaking.

  Want some blow?

  Did he give it back?

  I took it.

  You’re kidding.

  Guy had his mind on other things. The scalpel, too.

  You’re amazing.

  I know.

  That trick with the heroin…

  It almost worked.

  It almost got us killed.

  Silence. Rustle of plastic. Metal dicing on metal.

  I can’t hold the straw.

  Manny, Manny, Manny. Are you worried about sepsis? You? Of all people.

  No. But I bet he is. Hold the straw.

  Sounds of snorting.

  Whew. Shit.

  The other one.

  Ack…

  Now me.

  Snorting. Silence. More snorting.

  You know, who are we kidding? He can hear us. If he was worried he’d have done something by now.

  Ask him.

  You ask him.

  Ask him what?

  I don’t know, I’m in surgery! Ask him how he feels.

  Ahem. Ahearn.

  What.

  Ahearn?

  What?

  What’s his Christian name?

  Which one is that?

  The first one.

  The nurse called him Stanley.

  Right.

  Try it.

  Yo. Stanley.

  What, goddammit.

  Stanley?

  What?

  Hey. Hey Manny. I think he can’t respond.

  You think?

  It worked, Manny. It worked. He can hear us but he can’t respond.

  How can you tell?

  Look at his eye. Hey, Ahearn! See? His eye knows his name.

  What’s that prove?

  Hey, Ahearn. Fuck you, Ahearn!

  Cut it out!

  He can’t do anything! Don’t you see? Hey, Ahearn. Pull the trigger, motherfucker.

  I did pull the trigger. I am pulling the trigger.

  You’d shoot if you could, wouldn’t you Ahearn? Huh? Wouldn’t you?

  Don’t touch him!

  What’s the big deal? He’s paralyzed!

  He’s still got a gun in his hand, goddammit. It could still go off.

  Oh. True.

  Silence.

  So now what?

  Silence.

  Catbird…?

  Silence.

  Hello?

  Silence.

  Casters on tile. Instruments on cloth.

  Whispering.

  Louder, assholes. No secrets. No secrets or I blow the dame’s head off. Got me? Got me?

  Okay.

  He could hear the perfusion machine. It sounded like boiling porridge. A moan.

  Can’t you do anything about her?

  You mean oth
er than steal one of her kidneys?

  Yeah.

  Well. She’s kinda cute. If I weren’t so thoroughly queer…

  Jaime, try to take the situation seriously.

  Hey, Manny. See this syringe?

  Sure.

  Where is it?

  Well-ll… It looks like it’s firmly embedded between the T-5 and the T-6.

  Oh yeah. Right. He’s—.

  He’s frozen. Paralyzed. And I’m staying here to see that he stays that way. You want something done about that nurse, do it yourself.

  Can he see?

  Barely…

  They fucked me. Now would be a good time to pull the trigger. Now. Right about right about now now now. He pulled the trigger. Now now. He pulled the trigger. Now.

  Iced or not, we still have to get that gun out of his hand.

  I have an idea about that.

  Did you say something?

  No, I—.

  Let me show you what I think.

  Silence.

  Laughter. Quiet at first, a quiet laughter. Then the laughter became louder. Mentally disturbed laughter.

  You laugh like you just escaped to Costa Rica only to find a letter from the IRS.

  I always pay my taxes.

  Yeah. This isn’t funny. Hold it like this. No.

  Oh. Sure. Of course it’s not funny. Don’t twist it…

  Silence.

  We’re completely screwed, here, aren’t we?

  Silence.

  AREN’T WE—

  Someone slammed a big metal door to an underground parking garage.

  What metal door?

  What parking garage?

  I could certainly use a conversation with myself right about now, Stanley thought. Maybe if I take a little rest…

  “Well,” said a gravelly voice. “What have we here? Ain’t we met before?

  Stanley said eagerly, “You’re back — you’re back!”

  “I’m back?” The voice was suspicious. “I never left. You’re back.”

  “Oh. It’s you. I was expecting — a friend of mine. Catbird. You seen him?”

  “Don’t know no Catbird. I don’t see nothing but a purple sleeping bag. And—.”

  “What.”

  “Is that blood?”

  “Where?”

  “What do you mean, where? You’re swimming in it.”

  Stanley laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Drowning,” laughed Stanley. “You swim, you drown. What a relief. Drowning’s about the easiest way of dying I’ve heard about lately. Drowning, did you say?”

  “Swimming.”

  “Drowning.” He chuckled. “It sounds downright civilized. I hope it works this time.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Say—.”

  “Yes?”

  “Is your name Jasper?”

  “Right in one, mister.”

  “Have we met before?”

  “I was wondering the same thing. You eat at St. Anthony’s?”

  “Where they serve meals to the homeless? No. No, I… I was almost homeless, once. But say, where is this?”

  “St. Anthony’s?”

  “No, this. Here. Now. Where are we?”

  “Why, mister, this here is the Panhandle of the Golden Gate Park in fabulous Californ-eye-yea, U.S. of A, World, Solar System, only four and a half light-years from Alpha Centauri, as the stoned crow aviates.”

  “Jasper…”

  “As for the Now of it…”

  “Yes…?”

  Laughter. Slow at first, and deep. That is to say profound laughter. Increasing tempo, getting louder, lowering in pitch to a belly-combusted cackle.

  “Jasper…? Jasper…”

  Throw it over there.

  Buddy, that’s cold.

  You don’t know the meaning of the word.

  That voice… A woman’s voice…

  My Christ, said Djell. What next…

  Pain is next. Why don’t they ask me? Stanley could hear irrigation sprinklers. He could smell juniper and eucalyptus and diesel fumes. For that matter, he could smell Jasper.

  “Got to get you out of here. Say, haven’t we met before?”

  “I think I was here once already. Couple months ago.”

  “Say, that’s nothin’. I sleep here most nights. Ever since word got out about a guy I found in a sleeping bag… kinda like the one you’re in now… nobody wants to camp here anymore. Plenty of room.”

  What’s that smell?

  Blood.

  I think—.

  Don’t. Just do it.

  Dragging me around a tremendous exploding fire door.

  “—know you from—”

  Just the majority of it.

  “No, no. Can’t say as I remember.”

  Leave just enough to aim with.

  A tremendous exploding fire door won’t stay closed.

  A resonant boom in an underground parking garage, onto which the metal door closed. The echoes fade into the ragged buzz of a single fluorescent tube.

  Somewhere something dripped. Something whined. Caster clatter. After tremendous concentration he realized the colors he was seeing were somehow tuned to the music he was hearing. Oh, yes, there was music. Plaintive trumpet. He couldn’t tell where it was coming from. An irrigation sprinkler rotated by, a jet of water shot through the juniper. In the grass just beyond the skirt of water two seagulls stood watching him. They were interested in his eyes. Eye. Jasper was telling him a story about the bus system, while Stanley wished Jasper was… what? Who? Although vice versa would do. Someone To Talk To. Women don’t count. Do I think that? Stupid. Stuck on stupid. Dumb as a box of rocks. Laughter sounds like a Chihuahua locked in a closet. Acts like. Sounds like. Walks like. Quacks like. Must be laughter. Or a Chihuahua. Scar tickles, of course. Pink tip of wet tongue on purple ridge of scar, glistening radioactive under hand-held black-light. Smoldering incense smells like guano, two-and-a-half units. Tree roots exposed and peeled. Gravel and burnt matches. Empty cellophane bag labeled RED HOT. Taste of acetone. Somewhere something hit a floor with a sickening thud, a watermelon dropped from a great height. No more slamming doors? A conversation, then, while we wait. A little one-on-oneself. The beep of a video game. Must score. Oh yeah? Explain the game. Well, I hate to tell you this, but it’s called The Moral Imperative. Beep. The what? “They got that at St. Anthony’s, too.” Deconstruction. “They gave it away.” We Can Build You. Damn. Philip K. Dick had to get in here somewhere. If they can build you they can take you apart. “Come on let’s get us a coupla transfers and— say.” Say? “That’s blood.” Mine. Whose. Theirs? Whose? Mine and theirs. Hers, too. Iris. The girl gave her all. Talk her into it. Just ask her. We Can Build You Something To Live On. It’s only the spare. Her spare. Afford it. Over the top vis-à-vis methods of self-preservation. Ditto, pre-spousal altruism. Bartendress! A drink for every concept! Ice in a glass. Purling uisge beatha. Somewhere something screams. Maybe car alarm, maybe robot, maybe neighbor’s television. If things made sense at this point, they might not make sense later. Let’s see you get out of that one. Oh my god, it’s Gray Eyes. She brought the kids! Come on in, honey. Join the party. What do you say to a kid? Ahm, this is Dr. and Mrs. Djell, and that there with the blood all over him is Jaime. My surgical team. I’m going to be okay, aren’t I fellas. That’s Iris. Oh, she’s going to be okay, too. Just napping. I just know it. And Jasper. He—. What do you mean, this all looks familiar? If that’s so, why don’t you explain it to us? Typical? Typical? I’ll show you typical—. Mary? (her name) Mary. Let’s don’t fight. Please God, after all these— let’s don’t.… Her name aloud in years. Silence heard me. Not until pock… I didn’t know Lieutenant Uhura made it with—Pock-pock… To go where no man has— pock—. Is this Thursday? Night? Pock… You got a lime? Pock-pock-pock: Oh for the wand of non-awareness. Pock… How genuine a night is the night when all life’s aspirations become glandular, announcer holds up envelope, and the Secret o
f Life, which is pock fill ’em up, on me pock No, no let me get this round, four rounds left, no ammo and enemy activity just beyond the bridge, sir, if they’re from Berkeley, throw cigarettes at em, you can see the whole East Bay from up here… How much is the complete Flammenwerfer Surround System anyway? Not so much as a single kidney. Installed? The Big Head shakes No, the Big Hand slams dice on the bar — Bam! Still in the box comes the pock mortal coil, good for heating coffee, my coil and them Louis L’Amours, craps again. Inner voices travel light. But Shane, Shane… Face it, boy. Should have married that girl when you had the chance, Lt. Corrigan, still in police school. What chance did a man have? No bankroll, big Catholic wedding. She always ran after the wild ones, the mutts, the no-goodniks. — Additional dialogue by the man who brought you Absalom, Absalom — Oh yeah? voice, falling off a building: Who’s thaaaatt… Skip to random select. How much of real life do movies make up, anyway? This much, buster: pow-pow, pow!

  “And now, The Edge of Night…”

  Exactly…

  Chapter Thirty One

  HIS RIGHT ARM WAS GONE. THAT WAS THE FIRST THING HE NOTICED. He reached for the TV remote and there was nothing to reach with. It was that simple.

  There was a smell of disinfectant, too. And IV lines attached to the remaining arm. A tube climbed the side of the bed like a Virginia creeper and disappeared beneath the sheets, waist-high.

  Except for the television the room was dark. But that didn’t make any difference. A man can tell when one of his arms is missing. For one thing there’s a shallow depression under the sheet. If there had been a tattoo it would be gone, too. You can always feel it, a tattoo missing. Like it was stippled on water. There would be the necessity of carrying around safety pins, to pin up the empty sleeve. And compassionate women would light cigarettes for you in bars for up to two years after the fact. Just as soon as you take up smoking.

  “Damian,” said a woman on the television. Beneath her voice a synthesizer pulsed insistently.

  Damian is propped up on a couple of pillows in a hospital bed. Plastic tubes probably should have been spilling out of his nose like petrified mucus, but that would have spoiled his looks, which are considerable. He lies in enough light to bleach a whorehouse bed sheet but he says, “Berkeley. Is that you, Berkeley?”

  Reverse angle, close-up on her face, where glycerine tears agglutinate. “Yes, Damian,” she sobs. “It’s me.”

  “Wh-where are we?”

  “St. Vincent’s, Damian. On 6th Avenue. The Village?”

  “Wh-why? Wh-what happened?”

  Berkeley is not a day over twenty and has cheekbones like Carrara has marble. A tear launches off her cheek and out of the shot. “Oh, Damian. I— You.…”