by Jon F. Merz
He looked haggard and unrested. His eyes were baggy and his clothing was wrinkled. And on Arthur, being as large as he was, the unkemptness of his appearance was magnified to dramatic proportions. He looked at me and sighed.
"I should have listened to you, my friend."
It took me a moment. "What do you mean by that?" And then suddenly I knew what he meant. "Arthur! Have you-"
"Yes...I mean, I think I did. I cannot be sure. It took me awhile to summon up the courage to do so, but then one night under the influence of alcohol, I hauled down my books that Aristhius had left behind. His legacy. And then, if it was not all a bad dream, God help me, I broke the seal."
"What happened?"
"I have no recollection of events after the seal broke, except for a stench like I have never borne witness to before. It made me pass out. When I came to in the morning, the trunk was as dormant as ever, and looked as though nothing had happened. I thought it all to be nothing more than drunken hallucinations."
"But..."
"It was not." He cast his eyes to the heavens and began crying. "My god, Caleb, what have I done? I was so sure I could do it. So sure. It seemed so easy. I practiced, I did, as god is my witness, I practiced for hours. But then I threw it away. Your wisdom fortified me against the temptation I was feeling. I took to the streets and found my way to a bar and there I drank like a fish. And when I was so drunk that time had no meaning, I stumbled home determined to go to bed and sleep it off.
"But that trunk, that trunk, I swear it taunted me that night. Taunted me and chided me over and over again until I thought I was invulnerable and even the worst demons inside could do me no damage. And so I got the books and did the deed. But in my drunken state, things may not have been stated as they should have been.
"And I know now that this is the case. The dreams, Caleb, the dreams are the same as his were. The demons lurk on the fringes of my subconscious. They're so terrible looking, but they won't stay there for long. Already I can feel them haunting me every step I take. In every shadow they seem poised to jump on me, maul me and drag my soul's carcass down into oblivion." He looked at me with pleading eyes. "What can be done to save my soul, Caleb? For the love of god man, you must tell me!"
I looked at him with sympathy, but in truth there was little I could tell him. Try as I might, there was no knowledge I possessed that could aid my dear friend in his darkest hour. I could do nothing for him and said as much.
"There must be someone, someone who is skilled in the ways of demonology." He ran to a bookshelf and hauled won several copies of occult works and began racing through them. Finally he found something and he grabbed the phone and made a call. I listened as he explained the problem. When he was done, he listened for a time, and then hung up.
A change seemed to come over him, though slight. He now had the appearance of a man with hope. "There is a chance," he said. "There is a man in New York who says he can help me. But I must hurry."
He dashed around the store then and hurriedly grabbed his coat and wallet, starting for the door. "Caleb, call me in a day and I will tell you if all went well."
"Let me come with you," I said.
He stopped me. "No! You cannot. The danger is too great. If things are happening as I believe they are, then you must go home and stay far away from me until the danger is gone. I will not have my closest friend put himself in peril over my foolhardiness."
He gripped my hand and we shook. Then he was gone.
Days passed. I called repeatedly, but to no avail. No one could find Arthur anywhere. And then I wandered down into the small New Hampshire town that serviced my needs and picked up a copy of the Boston Globe.
It was in the Metro-Region section.
New York-Local Antique Dealer Found Dead
Local antique dealer Arthur S. Loring was found dead of an apparent heart attack late Wednesday night in a New York city church. Witnesses say Loring, a well-known Bostonian, had been kneeling in prayer for the better part of an hour when he suddenly seized up and collapsed. Several bystanders attempted to resuscitate Loring but all efforts failed. He was later pronounced dead at a local hospital.
I let the paper slide from my hands and went home. Several glasses of brandy warmed my skin but I was still cold at heart. My friend was gone, but I had a bad feeling he was not at rest. I had seen many things in this world that defied simple explanation. Things that could never be explained in any way that man could rationalize. If Arthur's suspicions had been correct, he had forfeited his soul for eternity.
The letter arrived earlier this morning. It was hastily scrawled in Arthur's script. I read it only twice before throwing it into the fire. The flames devoured it savagely and it popped in the heat. I watched the only testament to Arthur's demise get destroyed by the fire.
Then the phone call came. Arthur's lawyer informed me I was the sole beneficiary of Arthur's estate and by Arthur's direction, several items were being shipped up to my home.
And now the trunk is here.
It sits motionless in the middle of my study, like an obelisk or some other monument to man's temptation to control that of which he has no knowledge. The trunk knows the truth of Arthur's death, but I will never ask for its answers.
For try as I might, I can never forget the look in my friend's eyes as he hurried away to his destiny. Or for that matter, ever forget the single scrawled line in his last letter to me:
It didn't work!
Charity Work
And last but not least, a story that has disturbed a whole lot of people who read it. It’s not pretty, but then a lot of things in this world aren’t. Most recently published at “The Swamp” in March of 2002.
I am a bastard.
The cast-iron dumbbells in my callused hands clang together once more at the top of the rep before I lower them back down in a slow arc, suckling the burn like a newborn on its first breast. Sweat cascades down the valley between my pectoral muscles before running off onto my washboard abdominals.
I drop the weights to the rubber-matted floor and sit breathing for a minute. Sweaty. Smelly. Slimy. I run my hand over the top of my bristling short gray hair and down the side of my face. Slick and smooth. Not a single follicle of stubble shadows my jaw line. No razor could be trusted to do such a good job.
I never shave.
I pluck. With silver tweezers. Each and every little hair that pokes its way through the pores of my face. Each one. Gone.
It takes a while, granted, but I'm a patient man. And you can always get used to the pain.
Speed metal rumbles out of my speakers positioned at each corner of my workout room. I have a two-bedroom apartment here on Mission Hill in Boston. It's a tough neighborhood.
Funny, I never have any problems.
I step into the shower and crank on the hot water. It helps open the pores and get all the sweat off of me. Once I've soaped and rinsed, I turn the faucet the other way and needling frigid droplets pelt my hardened skin. I close my eyes, breathe, and stand under the freezing onslaught for five solid minutes.
The sweatshirt I slip on afterward is black with small lettering over the left breast. It reads De Oppresso Liber. Freedom from oppression. It's the motto of the United States Army Special Forces.
I was one of them. For a time. Humped my way through basic training, advanced infantry training then Ranger School and an attachment to a special forces A team. Ever heard of us? We are the original bad asses in the armed forces. Go anywhere, jump any time, kill anyone, fuck anything - you name it and we've done it.
It's something I'm kinda proud of.
But only just.
I left the army some time ago, but the discipline I earned with my blood and sweat will stay with me forever. It's why I still work out and push my body to the limit. I heard a saying once: the more you sweat in training, the less you bleed in battle.
I like that.
So I sweat. A lot. And I hardly ever bleed.
Personally.
&nbs
p; I draw on a pair of baggy Levi's and my black boots from Timberland. Soft soles that are thick enough to protect my feet, but quiet enough for...well, we'll get to that.
I left the army, did I mention that? Wasn't sure much of what I wanted to do with myself. Needed some kind of divine inspiration, I guess. It wasn't financial motivation, hell, I had enough dough from my twenty years in the service. That gave me a nice pension. Not great but not bad.
I don't need much.
Outside today is gray and foggy. Drizzle falls like a trickle of urine at the end of a late night piss. Sporadic and clumsy. But just enough to soak everything through and leave a lingering stain.
My car is a maroon eighty-eight Buick Skylark. The engine's been modified slightly by an old buddy of mine in Northampton who knows something about armoring cars. Needless to say, the car runs great.
Inside the radio is still cranked from when I last left it. The station's got some dumb commercial about corporate recruiting. I slide in a tape of Stabbing Westward and listen to the lyrics. I love these young bands who cry about death and destruction without ever having seen any of it. People shouldn't fantasize about witnessing the awful stuff humans can do to each other. Take my word for it. I used to be one of them.
Still, the music's decent.
Most of the time nowadays, I work out in the morning and then go for a drive. Around four o'clock I'll come home, make myself some lunch. Maybe a Mama Celeste pizza for one. I only eat cheese pizzas. I'm a purist.
I got to bed around eight. I get up at five in the morning.
Today's different though.
Today, I've got a job.
Excitement never registers on my face. Emotion was something I learned to control a long time back. Nothing about me betrays any hint of what I am, what I was, or what I might be.
Except the sweatshirt. It's the only trace of nostalgia I allow myself.
I told you I was a bastard, remember? It's why you started reading this in the first place. Who would ever admit that?
Well, it's the truth. I am a bastard. In every sense of the word. My mother was a whore. I've got no idea who my father was.
You might be shocked I'd use "whore" to describe her. Maybe "prostitute" would have been a kinder choice? I'm not into "kind." Whore's what she was. She spread her legs for money and somewhere down the line she got knocked up and shat me out nine months later. She died when I was four. That's not a lot of quality memories and Kodak moments, you know?
I spent the rest of my childhood touring one orphan home after another until I was old enough to drop out of high school. Divine inspiration in the guise of a vagrancy charge led me into the only family I've ever known: the US Army.
I learned respect. Discipline. People even began respecting me. Eventually, I got my GED, even my college degree. In psychology of all things.
Why are you laughing? You think I have problems?
Well, maybe I do. I'm not above admitting something might be wrong upstairs. You see, I have a certain obsession about some things. I guess you could say it stems from my past.
Like the work I occasionally do.
I'm obsessed about that. It's the perfectionist in me, I suppose.
Driving down Huntington Avenue, I bank left at South Huntington and continue toward Jamaica Plain. Ever been to Boston? It's a confusing city. Before I moved here, I lived in New York. Now there's an easy town to find your way around.
But Boston? Boston's like Tokyo. Stab at the map and start praying.
I've got a lot of time on my hands so I do some volunteer work. Although truth be told, I don't think you'd find this kind of charity work in the dictionary.
At the junction of South Huntington and Centre Street in Jamaica Plain, I turn left again and head into the predominantly Spanish-speaking section of town. Further down Centre, I turn right again on to Mozart Street and stop outside of an anonymous address that could just as easily be in any city or any town.
The house is a triple-decker with green aluminum siding that's peeling back by the third floor dormer. A chain link fence with a broken latch still tries to bar my way up the warped wooden steps. At the doorbell, ten names scrawled onto bits of notebook paper and taped above the gray buzzers stare at me. A violation of zoning laws? Nahhhh.
I ring the first floor.
Two minutes pass. The door cracks.
"Si?"
I smile. That's important. "Senor Banez?"
"He lives here, yes."
"He's here now, then?"
"No."
I smile again. "He'll be home soon?"
"Soon."
I nod. "Thank you."
Back in my Buick, Stabbing Westward continues its assault on my skull. Lyrics crawl inside my head and tumble about like cereal box philosophy until I shake them loose and continue my vigil outside this low-income neighborhood awash in a day's worth of insidious drizzle.
At four o'clock, a pine green Toyota slows by the Buick before pulling in sharply across the street from the house. The door opens.
Senor Banez is home.
He's short. Maybe five feet five inches. One hundred and thirty pounds. Trim and lean. And from the jaunty walk, he's got all the wisdom in the world crammed into his twenty-eight year old body.
So he thinks.
I open the door and he turns. He's alert in the way most urbanites are. Spend enough time in any city and you develop that radar.
I smile again. Like I said, it's important.
"Senor Banez?"
He stops, suddenly wary of the gringo who knows his name.
"Yeah."
I move closer. Still smiling. "You are Willie Banez? Graduated from Umana High School in 1988?"
"Yeah."
Of course he is. I already know it's him from the small photograph I was given. But talking is key to drawing down the distance. I have to close the gap.
This is my specialty. I did it for many years in special forces. They called it my forte. They praised me for it. I doubt very much they'd praise me now.
I offer my hand as we close to three feet. Human instinct takes over and he relaxes slightly, extending his own hand to meet mine.
Bad move.
My hands shoot up to grab his jaw and I jerk his head to the left hardly breaking my stride. Three separate muffled pops tell me I've successfully broken the vertebrae that control his critical life functions.
Willie Banez slumps to the ground even as I turn around and walk back to the Buick. The engine's still running.
I'm not concerned about discovery. As many times as I've done this, I've never been caught.
I sweat a lot in training. You see?
My day's not finished yet. Got another stop to make. This time I wander over to Roxbury and down Blue Hill Avenue. The asphalt playground with old wooden benches seems like an oasis in the midst of red brick graffiti-sprayed buildings and mildewed porch stoops. Ten kids are playing basketball as I pull up.
There's no net on the hoop. Just a lonely metal rim.
The kids are all about twelve years old One in particular stands out in his baggy jeans and bright red sneakers. He notices me and saunters over. Even at twelve, the kid's already a pro. He's got more going for him than some of the adults I've worked for.
"How'd it go?" He asks by way of introduction.
"It's done."
He nods. "Good. I'm glad that's over."
I watch him, searching his eyes for some sign that this is affecting him. He stares back at me without so much as a blink. Hardened to violence at such a young age makes me sad. But only for a moment. Emotion-you know?
He looks back at the game still in progress. Watches as one of his teammates put the ball in from the three-point line. "Got another one for you, if you're interested."
A police car slows down and gives me a once over. White guys like me are rare in this part of the city. I frown and wave them on. Racism pisses me off.
"Same story?"
"Yeah. Guy walked when my man
was only two. Beat his mom and left them for dead."
I frown. Another abandoned family. Abandoned by boys who thought they were ready to fuck but not ready to be fathers. And when reality came calling with seven and a half pounds of human life, they ran.
Like I said, I am a bastard.
So is the boy in front of me.
I killed his father this afternoon. His biological father. Another slacker who wouldn't cough up any child support. Another coward who backed out of his responsibilities when things got too tough.
Now, he was just another dead loser.
There's an awful lot of men just like the recently deceased Senor Banez.
So far, I'm the only volunteer in this crusade.
But who knows? Maybe some day there'll be others like me.
"So whaddya think?"
I turn back and nod. "No problem."
He hands me a photograph and it disappears into my pocket. He looks up at me and for the first time since I've known him, smiles.
Sometimes, that's the best thanks you can ever ask for.
Connect with Author Jon F. Merz
Official Website:
http://www.jonfmerz.net
Facebook Fan Page: http://www.facebook.com/jonfmerzfans
Twitter:
http://www.twitter.com/jonfmerz