Live, From the End of the World

by William Vitka

  I hire a car service to get home. The subways were finally shut down to check for more signs of infestation. Read that as: The subways were shut down so that working class dudes can be forced by their MTA overlords to shove their hands into dark holes and see if something bites em.

  There’s a game I wanna play called “FrankenDrink.” I made it up somewhere between the second and third flight of stairs to my apartment. The idea is to combine as much booze as possible and fill a big glass without opening any new bottles. Granted, it’s probably a ripoff of something that already exists. I doubt I’m the first shithead to consider the awesome destructive power of mixing a whole lot of alcohol together.

  A headache pounds in my brain. But that’s pretty normal for me. I’ve gotten bad headaches my whole goddamn life.

  Helene is there when I open the door to my place. She stands in the hallway between the living room and the kitchen. There’s a smile on her face. She’s holding a fresh bottle of Jameson in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other.

  I spread my arms wide and shoot her a grin. “Momma Bear, I have devised a new game. We shall merge all of the available drops of alcohol together into one horrifying Alpha drink and proceed to get sick.”

  Helene laughs. “Okay, Poppa Bear. It was a good trip to work, then?” She’s shy about nicotine stains on her teeth and giggles through her fingers.

  “Fuckin awful.”

  Helene steps to the side so I can drop my bag and fall onto our stained second-hand couch. She puts two American Spirits in her mouth. Lights em at the same time. Passes one to me. She sits. Rests her head in my lap. She takes a long drag. “The bugs?”

  I shake my head. “Fred and I didn’t have a problem. We took the Yellow then Orange line, R to the D—you knew that. No other options from down here.”

  “Well, who knows? I was worried. And you didn’t call. But I figured you’d be okay.” She reaches a hand up and scratches my chest.

  I exhale. Watch her. She has her cigarette perched perfectly between her lips. Helene holds it still so that none of the ash from the tip falls into her face. She slides the smoke from her lips and taps the end into our ashtray without looking. I bend and plant a kiss on her forehead. Her grey eyes gleam.

  She’s the ballsiest woman I’ve ever met.

  And she manages to tolerate me.

  Once, when Helene and I met Fred at the Wicked Monk, our local bar, and Fred had a few too many, he nearly got us beaten to hell. Cuz he drunkenly wanted to flirt with one of the boozed-up troops from the nearby Fort Hamilton Army base. It was harmless. But a few grunts didn’t feel the same way.

  I never raised my fist against the grunts angry with Fred, but I never had to. Helene took care of that.

  Fred tends to get touchy after a few drinks. Barriers come down. Inhibitions are erased. And so on and so on. On that particular night at the Wicked Monk, we’d been knocking drinks back with a serious intent to kill brain cells.

  Helene and I were chuckling about a resolution that was being voted on in the United States of Christ which would revoke various rights of Atheists and bar em from holding office. Taking after Texas. We weren’t sure if it would pass or not (it did, actually), but we found the mere fact that it was being proposed depressing enough that our only response was to laugh.

  Fred was sitting with a burly kind of dude who had a shaved head. So close to an Army base, it was safe to assume the guy was a trooper. The combat boots reinforced this idea. The two of em were tittering about something, and in an act of friendliness tinged with affection, Fred laid his hand on the guy’s knee.

  Rather than simply brush Fred off, the trooper panicked. He leapt from his seat and called to his Army buddies in the back. He shouted: “Get your faggot hand off me.” Then waved more grunts forward.

  Fred didn’t move. He started making nervous apologies. Presumably cuz he wasn’t sure why those guys were flipping out. The cadre of over-anxious commandos cracked their knuckles and puffed their chests like baboons.

  Now, you gotta wonder what latent fear gets guys like this going. The anti-gay jock mentality is frequently present in men for whom showering with twenty naked dudes is considered “bonding.” The anti-gay mentality was always present in men for whom a pat on the ass is a good thing during a sporting event. But a hand on the knee? A drunken slip or flirt? That calls for posturing and threats!

  I wasn’t sure what to do. Getting into a fist fight with a group of troopers seemed detrimental to our health.

  And in that moment when I considered what action to take, it was Helene who jumped to Fred’s side with an empty beer bottle in her hand ready to take em all on. The tendons in her skinny little arms jumped and twitched. She was holding the bottle so tensely that I feared she would shatter it and flay the skin off her bones.

  The grunts stopped, taken aback by her ferocity. They tried to stare her down—while seeming totally uninterested in me as I stood behind her, readying my trusty brass knuckles.

  She snarled. “You touch my friend and I’ll hurt you in ways that’ll make you useless in bed.”

  The trooper whose knee Fred had touched bent forward, towering over Helene.

  He made a kissy face.

  Helene cracked the bottle over his head. She threw its splintered neck at another goon in the group. He tried to catch it and sliced his hand open. The trooper that Helene had brained fell off to the side and split his eyebrow open on the bar. She grabbed Fred’s half-empty beer bottle. Poured its contents onto the dazed grunt’s head. Then readied it as a bludgeon.

  It was insane. And fast.

  “You can pick him up and leave,” she told the gaggle of guys, pointing to their fallen friend, “or I can split someone else’s head open while my boyfriend goes to work on your faces.”

  I smiled.

  The bartender, our friend since we were locals and regulars (there’s something to be said about being well-known in a sovereign city-state like NYC—even if that infamy is limited to a few pubs), racked a shotgun.

  They left.

  Afterward, Helene and I humped like manic rabbits.

  And we didn’t want to let go.

  I clap my hands together. “Let us begin the experiment.” I nudge her so I can stand up and move to the kitchen.

  The mess of empty bottles around my sink is apocalyptic. The FrankenDrink is gonna be harder to cobble together than I thought. Not much left to play with.

  Helene and I go through all the Ninety-nine percent empty bottles of liquor in the apartment and pour every minuscule drop into a tall tumbler. It ends up being comprised of Jameson, Wild Turkey, Jameson, Smirnoff, Evan Williams, a shot of Kahlua and a touch of something I assume is either alcoholic or poisonous.

  I set the FrankenDrink down. A cockroach skitters across the counter. I mean a regular cockroach. Not one of the behemoths in the transit system.

  No, this six-legged sucker seems benign.

  Helene moves to smash the little critter. I hold her hand back and slowly maneuver a see-through plastic container around it. It scurries around the Tupperware’s circumference. Checks for holes. Its feelers flip back and forth like over-excited radio antennae. I can see a little mouth chewing nothing. It tastes the air and the counter.

  I move my face closer. It stops. The roach freezes. Watches me back.

  I point my finger at the cucaracha. “You! You little fucker. What do you know of the subway attack! Tell me!”

  Its antennae flick to the left once. Then to the right. Then center.

  Helene chuckles.

  I feign some machismo. “Won’t talk, eh?”

  The bug scrambles to the right a little. The voice in my head squeaks:

  “Please, mang! Please! I’ve got like three hunnerd kids to feed! Those guys, fuck, mang I don’t even know those assholes! I don’t know nothing about no subway attack. I don
’t know nuhhteeng!”

  I tap the counter. “We shall see, little filth monster. We shall see.”

  Helene tosses an arm around my neck and kisses me hard. She strokes my hair. Presses herself against me. “I love you, my crazy man.”

  I kiss her back. “I love you, too.”

  We grab our FrankenDrink and walk into the living room for a night of video games and horror movies.

  When we stumble back into the kitchen for some ice, the roach is gone.

  I say, “Sneaky motherfuckers.”

  Helene shrugs.

  My FrankenDrink burns like good booze and gives me a buzz, but I can feel my liver dying.

  We open a new bottle of Jameson an hour later anyway.

  Chapter 6:

  Paging Dr. Romero

  If you want to tell the truth, you have to lie.

  Especially to authority figures.

  On the other hand, there are three groups of people that you can never lie to: Your readers, your editor, and yourself. Arguments can be made for significant others.

  Either way, you better be willing to do whatever the fuck it takes to get the story.

  Thus sprach Faulkner:

  The writer’s only responsibility is to his art. He will be completely ruthless if he is good. He has a dream. It anguishes him so much that he can’t get rid of it. He has no peace until then. Everything goes by the board: Honor, pride, decency, security, happiness, all to get the book written. If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the “Ode on a Grecian Urn” is worth any number of old ladies.

  I hate semicolons myself, but it’s a good quote.

  Anyway, that’s the reason I’m considering stabbing the receptionist at Bellevue Hospital instead of chatting with her. I have a feeling that murder will be easier to deal with than bureaucracy.

  She chews absentmindedly on a pen. Declan and I march up to her desk. She doesn’t move. Her jaw just keeps working like a cow gnawing cud. “Can I help you?”

  “I’d like to see Jonathon Schneer, uh—” I glance at her name tag “—Colleen.”

  “It’s after four. Visiting hours are from—”

  “I know. Still, I need to see him.”

  She bites down on the pen. Its casing cracks.

  Declan snaps a shot of the foyer. Then he takes one of her. He tries to nudge me out of the way to get a different angle and I push him back. Fucker.

  “Nobody told me anything about this. Mr. Schneer isn’t to be disturbed or upset in any way. He is in a very volatile state.”

  My editor never booked a time or told anyone that matters that I was gonna be here. Great. Maybe my editor is just fuckin with me. Giving me a test.

  Declan gets in my way again trying to shoot down the hallway.

  That cocksucker.

  I poke him. “Excuse me. What are you doing?”

  Declan looks at me like I’m an asshole, which I kind of am. “I’m taking pictures of the hospital.”

  “Well, you’re being extremely rude. You’ve been pushing me and taking pictures where maybe you shouldn’t.”

  “Wait, what?”

  I turn to face Colleen. Grip the top of her desk. I try to look earnest. “Ma’am, I don’t know who this guy is. I came here as a friend from Mr. Schneer’s congregation. As someone to make sure he’s all right and keeps the hope of our Lord. This man, this liberal media parasite, he’s just here to exploit the sick and the weak. We at the church are all praying for Jonathon, hoping that he gets better. He was a stern Catholic, as you must know.”

  Colleen says, “I thought he was Jewish.”

  “Oh, no my dear. Catholic to the end.”

  She rubs one of her chins.

  Colleen is an Irish name. So I’m hoping this lady’s Irish. And I’m hoping even more that she’s Irish Catholic. The gold crucifix dangling around her neck gives me some reason to think so.

  Her eyes dart over to Declan. “Why are you here, sir?”

  “Well, I’m here to get pictures of Schneer. I’m with him.” Declan points at me.

  I shake my head gravely. “Colleen...” I lean in closer. Make a tsk tsk noise. “How do we know that this guy even believes in God?”

  Declan screams. “Oh, holy shit. You dickbag. What the fuck?”

  I smile at Colleen. “Well, he isn’t with me. We don’t use that kind of language in my house.” It’s a sweet smile. An innocent smile. I’ve practiced it for occasions similar to this. Cuz I’m a bastard. “Would a good Catholic talk like that? Someone here to fill the soul of a terrified man with the Lord’s message?” I reach down for her pudgy hand and pat it. “Don’t you think Jonathon is scared? A man who carries the same name as Jesus’s cousin at least deserves the respect of a comforting voice.”

  Colleen returns my smile. Then she frowns at Declan. “Sir, please, I think it’s best that you leave. None of us want this to go any further than it already has.”

  I feel something that could’ve been remorse for duping this dopey lady, but I ignore it.

  Declan glares at me. He opens his mouth, but doesn’t say anything. He gasps at the air. Grabs my shirt. “What are you doing?”

  I don’t fight back. I just hold his wrist and act stunned. No violence, I remind myself. I gotta be a good Catholic. “Sir, please.”

  “You evil cocksucker. You’re gonna fuck me out of this?”

  As a freelancer, Declan only makes money if we buy his photos. So far, he hasn’t gotten anything. And he has more than one habit that needs funding.

  Colleen hits her intercom button and bellows into the microphone. “Security to the front please. A patient is in need of restraint.”

  Declan’s grip on me loosens. “Patient?”

  Panics hit his face.

  Two enormous men, one black and one white, emerge from a puke green door behind Colleen. They strut with absolute determination and look angry enough to kill anything smaller than they are.

  White, whose wrists are the size of his neck, grabs Declan. Declan clings limply to the front of my shirt. He doesn’t make much of an effort to resist the guard. He understands that the security mutants are here and any fighting will be responded to with fists and face demolition.

  Black growls and snaps up Declan’s left arm.

  Declan hangs low between the two mountains of muscle. He starts crying. “I’m gonna fuckin find you and murder you.” He points an unsteady finger at me.

  I’m terrified beyond the capacity for rational thought.

  I glance at Colleen. “What are they gonna do with him?” The guards haul Declan off. I don’t really care about what happens to him unless there’s paperwork involved—something else I hate with a great passion.

  “Oh, he’ll be fine. They’re going to hold him until he calms down. And, provided he doesn’t do anything stupid, he’ll be released lickety split. I just wanted to spook him and get him away from you. Since you are such a brave darling of the Lord. Coming here yourself to speak with Jonathon.”

  “Are they gonna eat his head? They look like they want to eat his head.”

  Colleen laughs and jiggles. “No, silly. Our security staff was bred specifically for this position.”

  “Those guys are clones?”

  “No, no, cloning is immoral. They’ve been...indoctrinated from an early age.”

  “How early?”

  “From several moments after conception was confirmed.”

  “How is that even possible—”

  Colleen leans back and lifts the front of her dress. Her gelatinous belly is crisscrossed with cesarean scars. She lets the tips of her fingers dance across the pale dents and stretches in her flesh. She flashes a big smile. Slides a visitor’s pass my way.

  I scratch my chin. “Hooooooo-kay. I gotta go.”

  Colleen hands me a sl
ip of paper. At the top is Schneer’s room number. “Since this wasn’t expected, we haven’t prepared the visitor’s area. You’ll have to be content with his room. But be careful... Actually, I’ll call an orderly for you.”

  I hold up a hand. “No, no. I’ll, uh, I’ll find one. Don’t worry your little head.” I know that my friend Bill Duffy is in the building somewhere. I called him last night to make sure he’d be my inside man. We didn’t set up a definite time, but he owes me a favor or three.

  Colleen’s face is still a toothy grin.

  At the bottom of the piece of paper is her phone number.

  I nod to her. “Keep the faith, sister.”

  How do Catholics do that thing?

  North, South, Left, Right.

  I cross myself. Hurry through the security gate behind her desk.

  The place smells like...I can’t quite describe it. Anyone who’s ever been inside a hospital takes immediate note of that specific hospital smell. But this is different. There’s something hidden in the reek. Despair and loneliness.

  The interior is an arena of dread. The air is heavy with an urge to escape. The halls are eerie. Light dances around em but fails to illuminate any corners. It’s all shadow. As soon as I get ten feet, I want to turn around.

  I pull out my datapad and ping Duffy. If he doesn’t answer I’ll track him down and wedgie him before the interview.

  I lean against a dark wall. Wait.

  Alzheimer screams echo down the hall.

  Duffy’s voice is laconic. “Sup dude?”

  I cringe and turn the volume down. It’d be stupid to give myself away. “I’m in your hospital,” I whisper. “And I am very goddamn uncomfortable. First floor. Near the doors. Gotta find the skullfucker.”

  “You’re cutting into my break.”

  “You sperm. This is important. You owe me. Remember that campaign protest a few years back? Remember how I was the only human being for a hundred yards who wasn’t stoned out of their gourd? Remember that I’m the only reason that you didn’t get your hippie face stomped in by overzealous Giuliani Academy cops?”