Assimilation

by James Stryker

  “I do care about him, I—”

  “Save it for someone who buys it. You feel guilty. You feel obligated. You don’t want to see him run over by a train, but you aren’t kissing the ground he walks on like you were before.”

  Natalie averted her eyes.

  “It’s not your fault. They did this to you. You don’t have to feel bad. Well, you do have to feel bad. It doesn’t get better.” Oz pulled out his wallet and retrieved a business card. “But, you don’t have to feel like a freak alone.”

  He placed the card on the table. Taking a pen from the pocket of his white coat, he wrote a pair of lines on the back, only stopping once to flex his hand and relieve the writer’s cramp. He handed the card out to her.

  “I have friends like us. We meet to talk, be ourselves for a while, and be pissed about what happened to us. We play snooker, get drunk, and occasionally smoke some weed.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  “You’re never going to get through this if you don’t have an outlet. Look at yourself.” He traded the pen in his pocket for a cigarette. He lit up without hesitation.

  “I may not be the one who gets to decide if you’re the same person, but I’m not blind. You’re failing, and you’re going to continue to fail. And then where will Billy, or Johnny, or Yahtzee, or whatever the fuck his name is, be? And where will the hubby be?” He dashed a small crumbling of ash on the table corner. “Take the card and think about it.”

  She picked up the card and looked at the name of the bar, date, and time he’d written. Then she turned it over.

  “Osborne.”

  “That’s the first name my parents gave me, the name I had for twenty-one years. Then I died, and when I came back, I decided to call myself Oz. I’m that fucking creative.” He breathed smoke into the air in waves. “And what should I call you, doll?”

  “Not doll.” She placed the card in her pocket and turned to the door.

  “One more thing,” Oz added. “This isn’t a family support group. Don’t bring little Tommy or the hubster. And it’s not a CryoLife rim job party either, so your conservator or other CryoLife tools aren’t welcome.”

  “Is CryoLife aware of your get-togethers? They told me—”

  “If they aren’t, I’d prefer to keep it that way. And if they are …” He ground the cigarette butt into the table and held his chin in his hand. “Well, I don’t give a fuck.”

  There was silence before she put her hand to the door.

  “Don’t flick your cigarette into those oxygen tanks, and stay away from my apartment.”

  Oz laughed as she left. She was a welcome addition to his group, even if she hadn’t accepted his rat brain.

  Chapter 13

  “I’m telling you, brother, she’s going to come.” Oz curved his hand over the side of the billiard table, his fingertips touching the green baize. He shook the stiffness from his left hand and slid the cue shaft through the loop of his first finger. “And you’re gonna like her.”

  “I like everything that’s dead. Or was once dead.”

  “That you do, my friend, that you do. You depraved … twisted …” He broke eye contact with his opponent to give the cue a quick stroke, trailing off to see if his aim had been true. But he’d created a sidespin that only served to line up Santino’s next move. “Fuck!”

  “You make it way too easy, Oz. You’d do better if you kept your mouth shut and concentrated. At snooker, and at everything else. You know the best way to improve accuracy, don’t you? You shorten the distance between the balls, and …”

  Something so easy, calculated in a millisecond ten years ago.

  His friend banked a shot that potted two balls before giving him a wicked grin. “Get bigger balls.”

  Oz pulled a cigarette pack from his back pocket. It was brand new, and breaking its seal made a satisfying, crisp sound. “My considerable talents are wasted on this tedious game. Tinks, tag in for me.”

  He thrust his cue into the hands of a small man with coiled hair who’d been watching the game before tilting his head to light a cigarette.

  “Beat that son-of-a-bitch into the ground.”

  Santino moved to another end of the table, ducking his head around a high-hanging pendant light. He pulled a blue cue chalk from the pocket of his cardigan sweater and nodded toward a distant table. “Go huff in your corner and wait for your mystery woman. Slowly killing yourself.”

  “It feels spectacular.” Oz inhaled deeply and sauntered to a round table set with drinks.

  He sat with his back to the wall and leaned his chair on two legs, propping his feet on the table. Folding his hands behind his head, he surveyed the bar.

  Oz was confident Natalie would come since she’d been interested enough to seek him out about the rat brain.

  If someone leaving you animal organs in jars only pissed you off, you’d go to the cops first. You wouldn’t find the person to ask why.

  Natalie had also thought it through and realized that having requested her identification, he would’ve read her address. He liked clever people. He considered his friends in their group to be clever and inquisitive. They weren’t intimidated enough to be complacent, but were cognizant that nothing could be done to improve their situation.

  Except to become one of those fucking drones who forgives and forgets. Too afraid to confront the reality of the situation, he’d brought more than one person into the group only to have them concede and slink back into their holes. These were the people CryoLife liked best. The ones that ended up in their positive testimonials and on their brochures.

  But I don’t forgive, and I’ll never forget what they did to me. Oz thought of arranging the medication on his shelf and of the pool table. Such simple, simple things. He drove the dying butt into an ash tray and lit another. I’ll never forget what he did to me.

  His nerves felt calmer after the new cigarette was half spent, and he watched his friends at the billiard table. They were good men. Like he used to be.

  “Where are your friends? Or was this another stupid trick?”

  Oz nearly lost his balance when Natalie appeared next to him. “They’re playing snooker.”

  “Why aren’t you playing?”

  “They like to have some sport out of the game. It’s not fun when I take every shot and clear the table before they get a chance. I’m a considerate person, you see.” He brought all four legs of his chair to the ground and slid out the seat to his right for her. “I pull chairs out for fair ladies, I leave extraordinarily thoughtful gifts for them, I invite them to raucous, glittering parties …”

  Natalie scowled and pushed the chair back into place. She removed her own on the opposite side of the table and sat with a grimace.

  Oz smiled and waved his hand for service. “What’s your poison?”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Holly Housewife. No place for booze in our quaint world, is there?”

  He didn’t know for sure that she was a housewife, but as loudly as her current look screamed “dumpster hobo,” the vibe of pre-reanimated Natalie had been “professional snot wiper.”

  Oz turned to the waitress. “Another gin for me and a club soda for my friend.”

  “I can order for myself,” she said sharply. “Just water with lemon.”

  “Water. With lemon. And don’t forget the lemon,” he repeated to the waitress, who walked away. “What a housewife thing to order. Watching your figure? Master doesn’t want a chubby wife?”

  “If you’re going to push my buttons, I’ll leave.”

  Oz tapped his cigarette ash into the tray. “Sometimes we have to laugh at these beasts we’ve become so they don’t consume us.”

  “I’m not a beast.”

  “But you feel like one. And that’s what matters.”

  Natalie said nothing and there was silence until the waitress set the drinks on the table.

  “So, what excuse did you give your master in order to get out of the house? Qu
ilting bee? Book club? Carving Jesus statues out of butter?”

  “I told Robert I was having dinner with a friend. And he’s not my master.”

  “Oh, yes, he is. You have ‘Property Of’ written all over your forehead.”

  “I’m free to go anywhere or do anything.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell him you were meeting a guy in a bar? A guy who left a rat brain on your windowsill?”

  Oz took a sip of his gin and watched her squeeze the lemon. She didn’t milk the edges of the rind together gently. She crushed the wedge between her thumb and forefinger – popping three seeds into the water. She clawed the rest out with her finger before they fell to the bottom. It made him smile. Delicate people irritated him.

  “Here’s why you didn’t tell him: Master would’ve said, ‘Oh no, Honey Bunny Stinky Poo. I don’t think that’s a good idea. I need you to stay home, make bread, and hold still while I tank you up with fifty more fucking brats.’”

  “Enough!” Natalie slammed her fist on the table.

  “Wow, chill. Chill.”

  Santino stood behind Natalie’s chair. He placed a large hand on her shoulder, which appeared to startle her. When she looked at him, he gave a wide smile and removed the hand.

  “Don’t let Oz rile you. He zeros in on every vulnerable spot and tries to pick you clean. He’s like a vulture with sonar.”

  Oz felt moderately guilty. He liked to antagonize people, but not make them genuinely upset. Many in their situation were miserable, but so wrapped up in trying not to be wretched, they needed a shove. Not to be pushed over the edge, but to feel they were about to be. Hitting their pressure points was a stark reality check. And he wasn’t about to apologize for being the one who regularly gave it. Instead, he used his thumb and first finger from both hands to form two circles which he held in front of his eyes.

  “Caw! Caw!” He laughed.

  “See?” The man offered Natalie his hand. “I’m Santino. Keeper of the peace, and apologist for the Grade A jackass you see before you. My services are ever in high demand.”

  She smiled and gave her hand to him.

  There was a time I could make a woman smile – when I wanted to make them smile. But even if he was no longer interested in pretty women, there was something about Natalie that he liked. And this mysterious quality made him want to kick Santino under the table for trying to be a charming dickhead.

  “And I’m Tinks.” The man with wired hair offered his hand, which she also accepted.

  You didn’t take my hand either time I offered it to you …

  They waited for her own introduction but after only receiving silence, the two men sat on either side of her.

  “Not a problem. We know how it is.” Santino gestured for a waitress. “I remember being intimidated myself.”

  Natalie shook her head. “I’m not scared of you.”

  “Scared and intimidated are two different things. And I didn’t mean of me, or any of us.” He folded his fingertips on the table to form a triangle. “Realizing you’re not alone isn’t daunting?”

  “I knew there had to be others. That I had to be walking past them.”

  “But as you realized that, can you honestly say your next thought wasn’t, ‘but they’re not like me.’”

  She gave a slow smile in response, and again Oz wanted to slug his friend.

  “I’m sure there may be some ex-patients out there who genuinely believe their lives were saved by the reanimation process. But we are the proof that CryoLife ruins as many people as they get right.” Santino placed his glass on a coaster. “There may not be much we can do except to support each other in not feeling so alone in this world, but that does help. Sometimes anyway.”

  Truer words have yet to be spoken.

  The sentiments appeared to resonate with Natalie as she looked up from her ice water. “Will you tell me what happened to you, Santino?”

  “Of course.”

  Chapter 14

  “So before, since the before always influences understanding the now – you know the clean cut, conservative, choir-boy type? That was me. My father was an assistant pastor, and I was engaged to the girl who’d sat three church pews behind me my entire life.” Santino leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “I thought she was the most beautiful girl in the world. She had green eyes and cinnamon colored hair that—”

  “That smelled like roses and sunshine and the diarrhea that drips out Cupid’s ass.” Oz lit another cigarette. “Get on with it already.”

  Why do you have to be such a fucking asshole?

  Andrew gave Oz the glare that Santino didn’t. Many things had aroused his curiosity, and driven him to lie about going out with Shelly in order to attend tonight’s gathering. While the scent of Santino’s presumably ex-fiancée’s hair wasn’t something he cared about, perhaps it’d help to “not feel so alone in this world.”

  “I didn’t see it coming. The semi swiped me and rolled my car above the rail.” Santino made a shoving pantomime with his hand. “I remember feeling weightless – held into place by the seatbelt, but my back off the seat. I heard metal crunch and everything went black.

  “I was reanimated three years later, and God’s honest truth – I felt exactly the same. I walked out singing the praises of CryoLife. And I was their most loyal, ardent supporter for most of the drive home.” Santino paused before continuing. “Are you familiar with Daffin Park?”

  “Sure.” Andrew pictured the park’s rows of oak tree lined allées. Natalie had taken her children there.

  “If you continue on Liberty, my folks live a quarter mile down the road. But there’s a stop sign right across from the park. We’re at that sign and I’d been leaning out the window. I look at the gutter, and there it is: a cat. Now, I’d seen dozens of dead cats before, but this one—”

  Dead cat? Without turning his head, Andrew glanced at Oz and Tinks. Neither of them reacted, so perhaps he’d misheard.

  “That cat was gorgeous. It was lying on its side – fresh. Pink and red intestines had rolled out onto the asphalt like sausage links. And its mouth was open, caught in this last agonizing yowl. I could see its teeth and tongue, and its glazed eyes.” Santino shivered, but smiled. “I had to have it. To touch it. To take out its organs and arrange them on a table. There was a drive to do it. It had to be done. Had to happen.”

  Andrew wasn’t sure he had any “drives.” Maybe the pacing, except that had gone away. He liked watching the frat house across the street as part of his daily routine, but he wasn’t compelled to do it. There was art. From Jackson Pollack floor tiles to the Matisse-ish looking lights over the billiards table. He couldn’t help but see that everywhere though, so it wasn’t the same.

  “I knew it sounded crazy and I had to let my father drive on. But God, I thought about that cat the entire day. I couldn’t concentrate. All I could see was maggots destroying it before I could get back. Or a crow pulling it into the park where I’d never find it. The thought of losing it twisted my heart to pieces. So as soon as the house went quiet for the night, I unlatched my window to get it.”

  “Didn’t the alarm go off when you left? The ankle monitor?” Andrew asked. Before his own had been removed, he’d thought about testing its limits, but never had. It was such a relief to have it gone, even if he still hadn’t ventured any farther than the pharmacy before tonight.

  “Yes, but I didn’t care. I had to have that cat. This was the plan:” He leaned his elbows on the table. “I was going to secure it, hide it in the garage, and then go out for them to find me. By then I’d be taking a stroll, having innocently forgotten about the perimeter boundaries.

  “So I have a pair of tongs and my mother’s turkey roaster under one arm. When the ankle monitor started beeping, I ran faster. And the cat was still there! I can’t tell you how ecstatic I was.”

  Oz pulled a new cigarette from his pack. “Over-the-moon like a limpdick discovering an empty park bench. Piss-in-your-pants excited like a starving
trash man jumping on a Christmas—”

  “Do you want to tell this story?” Santino snapped.

  “You clearly said you couldn’t describe how ecstatic you were. For the convenience of our guest, I was merely providing examples to convey your level of enthusiasm. Picking up where you fall short in most things. As usual. And despite this heatwave.” He pushed his lighter into the pocket of his jeans and winked at Andrew. “You’re welcome, doll.”

  It grated him to be called that, but in a different way than “Natalie,” “Mom,” or other pet names. Maybe because he now knew that in some hidden way, Oz was like him. Even before Santino’s assertions of them being evidence of CryoLife mistakes, Oz’s word for them – freaks – had been one Andrew had used to describe himself often. And “freak” wasn’t “I’ve been reanimated and enjoy Western movies.” Freak was serious. Freak had profound, disturbing flaws.

  Something had to be wrong with Oz. He didn’t look it, but he couldn’t be a perfect specimen. There had to be something.

  And when I find out what your secret is, I’m going to relish in it. I’ll reduce your pain to one word and throw it in your face. See how you like the jabs, you fucking asshole.

  “Silence from the peanut gallery moving forward would be much appreciated.” Santino turned his attention back to Andrew. “I take the tongs and fit it around the cat’s head. I lift it to go in the turkey roaster, and its guts start falling out around me. It was magnificent – these spiraling ribbons on my shoes. And the smell was perfume. There’s this sweet spot of death where it’s a sour, teeming smell of life! Of microbes living and feeding! And this cat was curving into ambrosia.”

  He inhaled deeply as if reliving it, and Andrew tried to keep the disgust from his face.

  “I got as much into the roaster as I could before running back. And every other part of the plan went off perfectly. You’ve probably discovered this by now, but in most cases people are so glad to have you back they overlook a lot of things.”