Henrik picked up the next magazine, the one in the clear plastic sheath, entitled Naughty Neighbors. The cover tantalized with salacious photos and blackened-out thumbnail images that suggested on the inside some neighbors were being quite naughty indeed. Henrik wasn’t convinced. While the two girls in see-through brassieres on the cover were enjoying their bubble bath and appeared to be slightly badly behaved, he doubted very much that they lived next door to one another, or even in the same federal voting district.
He tossed the tantalizing rag aside and picked up a copy of Maclean’s. On the cover was a picture of a young man slumped against a wall, smoking marijuana. The wall was held up by a stack of red and green poker chips. In large bold letters were the words “ADDICTION: A Revealing Exposé.” Henrik got excited and flipped the magazine open. He read about all kinds of addictions — drug and alcohol, gambling addictions, sex addictions, internet and video games, even food addictions. It seemed like one could be addicted to just about anything.
A voice broke his concentration.
“Sir, have you purchased those magazines?”
The nosy bookstore employee had tracked Henrik down and was now intent on asserting some manner of authority over him.
“No, I haven’t,” Henrik said.
“Well you have to purchase items before you enter the coffee shop.” The man pointed to a sign which read verbatim what he’d just said.
Part embarrassed, part indignant, Henrik looked down at the table and hoped the man would just go away. Eventually he did, but not before collecting the magazines Henrik had unintentionally absconded with. The bookstore employee gave Henrik a scolding look and slowly shook his head with disgust as he picked up the Naughty Neighbors magazine and then seemed to hover for a while, lording a supposed high moral standing over him. Henrik wanted to grab the man by the nose and yell, “You sell this magazine! You’re equally culpable, if not more so, for selling this trash as I am for reading it!” But he couldn’t find the internal fortitude to say anything and instead sat there sheepishly looking at a discarded packet of Sweet ’N Low on the floor until the man left.
Henrik sipped his black coffee and reflected on the addiction article. For all of the negatives associated with addiction, there was also something alluring about having a driving force in one’s life. Gamblers lost their cars and houses to slot machines and blackjack tables and yet still they came back for more. Sex addicts caught all manner of STDs and exchanged phobia-breeding, germ-filled saliva with dozens if not hundreds of partners a year, yet still they cruised side streets and swingers bars desperate for someone to touch their private parts. The drug addict would rather steal than go without his fix.
Henrik longed to feel a compulsion so strong that nothing else mattered. He wasn’t about to give up his job for a life of Dumpster diving and sticking needles in his arm. Nor was he willing to gamble away what little money he had on confusing table games in smoke-ridden casinos. But perhaps there was a way he could get close enough to one of these vices to tantalize his senses with just a taste of the pressing urge these people felt every day.
But which vice? That was the dilemma.
Henrik looked around for a sign — something, anything to help him decide. He searched the faceless faces passing by and hunted with his eyes along the walls. In the background, a song about three little birds played over the corporate bookstore stereo.
The sign appeared suddenly like a beacon on a dark night, one Henrik couldn’t believe he’d overlooked. The entire bookstore tumbled down in his mind’s eye, with people and bookshelves and cash registers collapsing by the wayside like trees run over by a bulldozer. The world disappeared and all that remained was a magazine on the next table — a copy of High Times with Bob Marley smoking a joint on the cover.
Henrik picked up the magazine and an insert fell out. He gazed at the 4x6 piece of orange paper with wide eyes and then tucked it discreetly in his pocket. Henrik stood up. In his haste, he knocked over his cup of coffee. It spilled off the edge of the table and burned the chubby ankles of the woman with the iced macchiato. He ignored his natural instinct to stop and apologize. Henrik walked out of the bookstore and into the street in search of euphoria. He was headed to the docks to buy himself some marijuana.
The docks were a scary place. Henrik had only ever been there on weekends and statutory holidays when the community fishermen’s fair took over the area. He arrived to find a desolate wasteland of rusted cargo vessels, drunken hobos and random fish carcasses strewn across the pier. The Ferris wheel and cotton candy machines he anticipated, the families strolling around with little girls on their father’s shoulders and boys pedaling Big Wheels, the all-ages fun and carnival games were absent. Even though it was well into the daylight hours, Henrik felt a dangerous foreboding about this place.
His mission was simple: purchase the marijuana and get the hell out of there in enough time to start work in an hour and fourteen minutes. He wandered around aimlessly for a while, careful not to make eye contact with any of the street people lurking in alleyways, before he saw a lone man sitting on a bench at the end of the pier. Henrik promptly walked over and introduced himself. The man had a long beard and a dark overcoat covered in fishing lures. His red face was partially hidden by his jacket and he didn’t look up when Henrik said hello.
“Do you know where I might procure myself some Mary Jane?” Henrik said.
The man turned his head a fraction of an inch. His voice was whispery and full of needles.
“Do you mean a hooker?”
“Goodness no,” Henrik said, flustered. “I’m looking for some grass. You know, some reefer.”
The man stared straight through him. Henrik pulled the orange piece of paper out of his pocket. On this insert taken from the High Times magazine were all sorts of nicknames for the drug. Henrik’s courage received an immediate boost as he was pretty sure he was less likely to get arrested if he spoke in code.
“Some Indonesian Bud. The Devil’s Lettuce. You know, some Giggle Weed.”
The man stood up slowly, with some effort. He was barely two inches taller than Henrik but in his dark cloak with its hundreds of hooks and lures, he towered in the air. “Giggle Weed?” the man said.
Henrik glanced around. The beach underneath the pier was deserted. There wasn’t a single child building a sandcastle or a pair of lovers out for an early morning stroll. The wind whispered eerily in his ear and the rank smell of fish was coated in death. Henrik watched the water churn crisp against the dock and wondered how many bodies had washed up along this shore. Worse yet, how many hapless souls had been thrown to a watery grave from right here at this very spot? He stood absolutely still, too afraid to move.
“Yes,” Henrik said. “Giggle Weed.”
The man’s mouth spread into a gray-toothed grin.
“We all buy our weed at the bait shop,” he said.
Henrik followed the man’s pointing finger with his eyes. He’d walked right by the bait shop and its Open for Business sign.
“Thank you, good sir,” Henrik said and hurried off the pier as fast as he could.
Henrik entered the bait shop. A young girl was chewing bubble gum and standing behind a sign that read “Fifty Worms For Five Bucks.”
“I would like to buy some Mary Jane,” Henrik said. “And I don’t mean a hooker. I mean Giggle Weed — marijuana or whatever the kids are calling it these days. I have seventeen dollars to spend.”
The girl pulled a single joint out of her pocket and set it on the counter. She blew a pink bubble and let it pop before pushing the gum back into her mouth.
“That’ll be seventeen bucks,” she said.
Henrik tucked the marijuana into the breast pocket of his security guard uniform and headed to work. He was positively giddy, like a schoolgirl with a secret she was dying to share. He stood at his post nodding his head at the business-people who walked by, just as he’d done five days a week for the past twenty years. The only difference was the si
lly smile on his face. Occasionally when he thought nobody was looking, Henrik would place his hand over his pocket like Gollum cradling his precious ring.
When it came time for his break, Henrik practically skipped out the doors. He purchased a pack of matches for two cents at the local mini-mart and found a secluded spot behind the building. Henrik lit up the joint and took his first puff. He immediately coughed out loud. Not once or twice, but a few dozen times. Henrik shook his head in amazement at the dedication it must take to smoke several packs of cigarettes every day. One really had to commit to getting one’s throat used to this corrosive pain.
He sucked in again and this time he inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs. It was sickeningly sweet, not enjoyable at all, and the worst part was, he didn’t feel any different. Henrik polished off a full two thirds of the joint before he just couldn’t take it anymore. He tossed the remains down a drain and stood beside the Dumpster waiting for the pot to take effect. One minute passed and then another. Henrik didn’t feel different at all. The more time that went by, the more it appeared he was entirely immune to the effects of marijuana. Henrik instantly regretted the addiction he’d chosen and was busy making plans to try either irresponsible gambling or perhaps an incremental dependence on peach schnapps when he took a single step forward.
Henrik’s foot felt as light as a feather. He took a second step and then a third. His legs, those short, stout tree trunks that had always affected his ability to play sports, suddenly filled with pins and needles. Henrik walked around, tentatively at first and then with confidence, his feet gathering momentum with each consecutive step. Henrik was truly amazed at this thing called walking. He imagined his ancestors from millennia ago, having crawled on all fours for centuries, finally discovering this mode of two-legged transportation and what a liberating feeling it must have been. Henrik felt as though he were walking on water. He glided along the surface like a back-alley Jesus while all manner of slippery eels and automaton fish swam underneath the concrete.
Had an outsider happened to walk by and spot Henrik at this exact moment, they would have seen the most peculiar sight — a bald, middle-aged security guard with a look of unrestrained glee on his face, skipping around the alleyway, swinging his arms and stopping every few seconds to look down and imagine what kind of aquatic vertebrate lived beneath his feet.
Henrik stopped abruptly to gaze up at the tall buildings. “Gravity,” he said. “Gravity doesn’t seem to be doing its job.” Why were all these buildings standing tall in the city when gravity was so powerful it could pull meteors out of the sky? Shouldn’t it have torn these skyscrapers down long ago? Concrete and pillars, glass windows, men in ties and women wearing pantsuits — all these things lived in the offices above and here dwelling on the land was Henrik Nordmark with his water balloon–shaped pot belly and ambitions to become unique. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine why things weren’t constantly falling out of the sky.
He checked his watch. The face looked huge, like someone had strapped a wall clock to his wrist. It was time to head back.
Henrik took his post by the door and stood like a statue watching people go by. Even as he marveled at the strange sizes of their heads — some round, others bumpy, some that seemed to be missing chins and still others that had foreheads like battering rams — he regretted that he had yet to feel the pot take effect.
Henrik was lamenting the loss of seventeen dollars to ineffective marijuana when suddenly the world slowed down to a standstill. Like molasses, the businessmen and couriers moved as though they were striving to climb steep hills. Henrik wanted to help them, to run over and push them in the small of the back. You can make it to the elevator! Keep trying! All is not lost! But Henrik couldn’t move. He froze in place, his mind occupied by whether or not he really had to pee. He was counting how many times he’d used the lavatory today when a police officer entered through the front doors. This cop walked at a different pace than everyone else. His stride was fast and hard, a hare leaving tortoises in his wake. He extended his hand to Henrik.
“I’m Constable Sullivan.”
Henrik stared at this man’s formidable moustache.
“Security Guard Henrik Nordmark,” he replied.
“We got a call from one of the merchants on the third floor. The smell of marijuana smoke entered through their windows. Usually we wouldn’t investigate something like this but the mayor introduced a new Say No To Drugs campaign just last week and my sergeant’s been on my ass.”
Henrik’s heart skipped a beat. He tried to swallow but the saliva got lodged in his throat.
“How may I help?” he said.
The constable took off his hat and held it in his hands. “Have there been any teenagers hanging around the building? Do any street people sleep out back?”
Henrik could barely catch his breath. A single bead of sweat originated from somewhere atop his vast scalp and careened down his forehead. It was the first drop in a torrential downpour.
“No sir,” he said. “No unruly teenagers or hobos.”
The officer placed his hand on Henrik’s shoulder and took him aside. “Are you all right?” he said. “Your face is all red and you’re sweating pretty bad. You look like you’re about to have a panic attack.”
Henrik could barely pay attention to the man’s words, so chaotic was the swell in his brain. He kept replaying a television commercial in his head from twenty years ago in which a man held an egg to depict the regular human brain and then cracked the egg into a frying pan to show what your brain looks like on drugs. Months after that commercial aired, a poster in the supermarket took the metaphor a step further by showing your brain on drugs with a side of bacon. After having only a fuzzy recollection of this poster for the past decade, Henrik suddenly thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. He stifled a giggle. Henrik tried his best to hold in the rest but he laughed out loud in spite of himself.
The constable was still staring at him. Henrik needed an excuse. Not just any excuse, but a really good one that would both explain and mystify.
“I ate some bad roast beef this morning,” he said.
“You have to take care of yourself, buddy,” the cop said. “Get some fresh air and exercise.” He tapped Henrik on the shoulder and walked out the front doors.
Henrik returned to his post and stood there for the rest of the day. At some point — he really wasn’t sure when it happened — the marijuana wore off and only then did he realize how high he’d been. The remaining hours of his day were a torture session revolving around staring at the clock and counting the seconds as they passed. The minute hand labored as it clicked and Henrik felt the day would never end. When it finally did, he headed home with a strange compulsion to listen to the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper and eat a plate of bacon. Neither was immediately available so Henrik listened to what he thought was a Ringo Starr solo track on the radio and ate some green ham that had been sitting in his refrigerator for a month. The song turned out to be an unmelodic Elvis Costello B-side and the ham was convincingly inedible.
He passed out on the couch that evening, his head aching and his stomach in knots.
Henrik awoke with a start in the middle of the night. He stood up and walked in a zombie-like state to the bathroom where he found a sample-sized packet of expired Anacin in a drawer by the sink. Henrik popped the two little white pills in his mouth, shot them down with a glass of water and brushed his teeth by the open window. He looked up into the sky and took in the stars. They were bright tonight. Even the city lights couldn’t obscure them. Had his eyes not been so tired, he could have stared up at the stars for hours. Henrik glanced at the clock on the wall. His shift at work started in six hours. He shut his blinds, the night sky disappeared and Henrik went to bed.
Across the city at that very moment, a young man was sitting on his windowsill, staring up at the same stars. He couldn’t sleep, he was so excited. “I’m rich,” he said to himself. “My life is going to change.”
<
br /> That young man’s life was indeed about to change.
But not, as he would learn, for the better.
eleven
The next morning, Roland headed to the office dressed in a T-shirt and a pair of casual Banana Republic pants. There was no way he was going to wear a suit on his last day at work. Besides, it was casual Friday and most of his clients would be wearing jeans. He walked up to his desk and sat down.
Mason’s seat in the cubicle next to him was still conspicuously absent. Roland imagined Mason sitting on the company vice president’s jet surrounded by gorgeous flight attendants, a cognac in one hand and a cigar in the other. Just days ago this image would have haunted him like no other. He would have been plagued by night sweats and bitter to the very core. But karma had risen and fallen like the tides and he barely gave Mason’s empty chair a second look.
Taped to Roland’s monitor was a note he’d left to remind himself to visit his grandmother. “All in good time,” Roland said. He tossed the note into the recycling and started composing a resignation email addressed to the entire company:
Dear Heartless Bastards,
I won the lottery. I’m rich as fuck and I hope you all rot in hell . . .
He’d barely finished typing the first sentence when his phone rang. It was Kara, his girlfriend of several months. Kara was a nice woman, fairly pretty and quite capable of making small talk in any social situation. She would have been perfect for Roland if not for the fact that her occupation gave him the out-and-out willies. Kara worked in the city morgue as a mortician’s assistant and her chief responsibility was to prep the deceased for autopsies. Just the thought of her stripping down dead bodies made Roland shudder. If that wasn’t evidence enough that he should find a new girlfriend, there was a single incident that had been nagging in the back of his mind. A month ago Kara made a comment and waved her hand in front of her nose after Roland stunk up her bathroom. She’d had friends over and everyone started laughing at him as Kara loudly talked about the smell and how no one could enter the bathroom for the next hour. Roland knew his resentment was unreasonable — absurd, even — but he’d never quite been able to forgive her for the fuss she made.
The Three Fates of Henrik Nordmark: A Novel Page 7