Mad, Mad World

by J. D. Sloane

  “Sure you want to do that? I’m more than happy to deal with your boss if I have to, but something tells me I have exactly the right guy.”

  Noah lowered his hand, his brow furrowing and felt his pulse deescalate a little as the man gave him a short nod.

  “Good. Glad to see you’re on board. We don’t have a lot of time so let me tell you how this is going to go. You work the Belle Isle route on Wednesdays and Fridays, isn’t that right?”

  “Yeah. I guess…”

  “No need to guess, Noah. We have your schedule down pat. And that schedule takes you past Connor Penitentiary at 11 am both mornings. On the dot.”

  Noah’s eyes darted over his face and he swallowed as he noticed a dark, late model sedan idling behind them, its wheels turned outward behind the wide steel ramp of the boxcar.

  “Look if you’re going to rob me, just rob me, man. I won’t say anything. I fucking swear. As far as I’m concerned, I was around back taking a piss.”

  The man in front of him smirked and then lowered his gun a little more, looking him over slowly before glancing around the cab of the truck.

  “You know how to drive this thing, or do you just come along for the ride?”

  “No, I can drive it. I don’t but I can.”

  “And what do you make? Minimum wage? A little over?”

  “I don’t know. Three hundred a week. Something like that.”

  “How would you like to make half a year’s pay in one afternoon? Hmm? Does that sound like a pretty good deal to you?”

  Noah looked down at his gun as the man glanced at his watch again and then gave him that same mellow look.

  “If not, I’m prepared to improvise,” the man said mildly. “But I’d really prefer you just to say yes.”

  “Who are you guys?” Noah asked as the car behind them flashed their lights once.

  “Just guys like you, Noah. Men who used to be where you are. The kind of disposable help they leave alone in the cab of the truck with too much cash and an unloaded gun.”

  Noah’s eyes widened as the man tipped his gun towards the glove compartment and then cocked a brow at him.

  “Or did they tell you it was loaded?” He said, his voice sounding almost sympathetic. “Go ahead. Take a look. Don’t take my word for it.”

  Noah ran his hand across his upper lip, wiping away a smooth film of sweat and then opened the glove compartment and pulled out the old-fashioned revolver. He tipped the gun back towards him, beginning to crack the cylinder and then felt his stomach clench in anger as he saw that it was unloaded, the flat blue fabric of his pants plainly visible through the empty chambers.

  “In or out, Noah? I need an answer.”

  Noah sat with the gun in his lap, his anger catapulting by leaps and bounds and then set it back into the glove compartment and slammed the door shut.

  “What would I have to do?”

  The man smirked at him and then made a quick gesture in the window as he cracked his door open.

  “This Friday,” he said, sliding out of the driver’s side as the car behind them reversed quickly and then did a tight U-turn towards the outlet road. “When your boss goes inside, stay in the truck. We’ll be waiting for you.”

  “You got a name?”

  The man looked up at him, his face softening with something a little harder than humor and tucked his gun back into his jacket as he glanced over his shoulder.

  “Call me Jaxson,” he said, slamming the door shut behind him.

  Alicia’s eyes followed the line of dark stone buildings down the street as the taxi rounded the last corner on the block, one cracked and peeling ’24 Hour Martinizing’ sign running all the way to the rooftop. She watched it go dark for an entire minute before sputtering back to life and then looked up at the narrow-windowed apartment above it, her eyes running from one cracked set of blinds to the next as she pressed her lips together.

  Doesn’t look like there’s anyone home, she thought, fingering her worn deadlock key mindlessly through the thin fabric of her jacket. But that doesn’t mean anything. Maybe he changed the locks. Maybe his new girlfriend can’t stand the street sign. Maybe he doesn’t even own the place anymore.

  She rapped her knuckle against the window and then pointed to the long line of spaces in front of the dry cleaners.

  And only one real way to find out, she thought as the driver craned around to look at her and then tapped the meter. Like it or not.

  “Right here,” she said, scrolling her fingers slightly as she reached for her purse. “This is just fine.”

  Alicia did a quick calculation in her head as the driver pulled to a stop just beyond the fire hydrant and sighed as the he threw his arm over the back of his seat and fixed her with a worried look.

  “Are you sure, miss? This neighborhood is pretty rough. If you need something cleaned or something I’m sure…”

  “Nope,” Alicia said tossing two twenties into the sliding metal slot before tapping the door open with the tip of her boot. “I’m good. Keep the change.”

  Alicia stepped out onto the sidewalk as the driver looked at her skeptically for a moment, the bulbs from the long marquee sign above them bathing his skin in erratic bursts of light.

  “Want me to wait?”

  Alicia slammed the door shut and then looked up at the building, the spinning racks of clothing in the lighted front window an oddly cheerful note on the battle-scarred sidewalk.

  “Do whatever you like,” she said without turning as she adjusted her bag on her shoulder. “I doubt you’ll pick up many fairs on this side of town though.”

  The driver gave her a little salute and then pulled away from the curb as Alicia passed the front window and did a quick turn down the alleyway, her wide gold eyes reflecting the dim light around her until they were practically glowing. She pulled out her key in the darkness, stepping up to a bruised steel door half hidden in the alcove beneath the fire escape and then glanced in both directions as she let out a quick breath.

  No use putting off the inevitable. If it works, it works. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t. Just head into the dry cleaners and wait for another ride. No big deal. You’ll think of somewhere else to go. You’ll eventually think of one other person in your life who cares enough about you to put you up without making you go through the humiliating ritual of full, tearful, hand-wringing disclosure…

  Alicia slid her key into the lock and then made a low noise of surprise as it turned without a hitch, the outer door to the upstairs studio apartment sighing open on its hinges. She stepped inside as the wind gusted the door backwards and heard her heels clicking on the tile landing, her fingers reaching for the light switch as if she’d never been away. She flipped the switch once, looking up as she tried it a few more times and then sighed and shut the door behind her, reaching for the arm rail as the stairwell dropped into total darkness.

  Guess it’s too much to ask that he left the electricity on, she thought, ascending the steep stairs carefully in the darkness. Which means there won’t be any lights in the apartment either. Oh well. At least I probably won’t be walking in on some other wide-eyed, third year TA with some less than repressed daddy issues and a shotgun full of birdshot. Take what you can I get, I guess. They don’t call them squatter’s rights for nothing.

  She felt for the upstairs lock with one hand as she reached the top of the landing and felt a strange jolt of foreboding fill her as the door whispered open before she had even pulled her key out of the lock. She stepped inside, listening for the sounds of the dry cleaner’s below her and then dragged her teeth over her bottom lip as she yanked the door shut, the neon sign outside lighting the long rectangular room in a listless pulse of blue and white.

  Home sweet home, she thought, her heart twisting with a painful rush of nostalgia as she dropped her duffel bag onto the floor and wandered over to the heat exchange. She flipped it on with one hand and then glanced towards the furnace closet at the
end of the wall when it didn’t immediately whir to life.

  And looks like we’re roughing it all the way this evening, she thought letting out a low sigh as she flattened her hand against the wall and pulled her heels off one by one. Good thing the temperature isn’t supposed to really drop for a few more days. And won’t Mr. Baccala be thrilled to see his all-time favorite tenant back in her old digs? I’m going to go with a great big resounding ‘No’ on that.

  Alicia shrugged off her coat and felt that whisper thin shudder of sadness again as she realized that the place was still decorated just the way it had been when she left, a long L-shaped sofa bed eating up most of the living area. She walked across the plush teal and gray rug, the pattern picking up the cheerfully girlish blue of the sofa and felt her mood darken as she stepped into the kitchen, wondering one time too many which of her former professor’s girlfriends had decorated it and how long ago that might’ve been.

  Not that I ever complained, she thought, stepping up to the counter as she surveyed the empty fridge and then pulled open the cabinets above it. I swallowed this place hook, line and sinker. Couldn’t jettison my miserable little dorm room quick enough once I’d seen it. Which is exactly the way Professor Fuckalot liked it. No threats, no demands, no foolish teenage fuss.

  Alicia smiled slightly as she felt a half-empty box of votive candles slide towards her palm and pulled it down from the top shelf, pulling out the junk drawer next to the stove as she felt around for a lighter.

  Especially not when he keeps the whole thing in his name, Alicia thought, pulling out a pack of matches and flicking them in the darkness. That seems to keep things nice and simple. Don’t like the arrangement, honey? Well, here’s your coat and what’s your hurry? It must be in some kind of secret handbook they give out to Big Ten graduates near the end of their tenure. Always keep the apartment in your name. Not a lot of relationship leverage among the residentially challenged.

  Alicia struck a match and then juggled the three votives in the box to the middle of the stove, lighting them all in a row as the kitchen area jumped into sudden stark relief. She looked around the small open nook, testing the water with a turn of her wrist and then darted her eyes towards the living room as a constellation of sticky neon hearts lit up above the sofa in a sudden eerie arc. She spied one cracked ceramic spoon holder sitting in the middle of the counter and placed one of the votives into the short, dimpled end, picking it up like a gas lamp as she walked it over to the dresser at the other end of the wall.

  Simpler times, she thought, setting the makeshift holder down on the top of the high, narrow vanity. She paused as she saw what the flickering light did to her reflection, her fingers going to her hair in an automatic flutter of adjustment. She tilted her head as she did it, catching herself before her fingers made it through the ends of her hair and then shoved her bangs behind one ear as she opened the middle drawer.

  And a much simpler wardrobe, she thought, cracking the ghost of a smile as she saw that there was still a neat stack of her old clothes shoved up against one side of the drawer. She pulled out one of her old college staples, a long white sweater dress with a tattered hem and held it up to her reflection in the candlelight, feeling around for her black vinyl leggings as she shook her head.

  She placed her clothes on top of the vanity, looking through each drawer for some kind of cardigan to pull on over her work clothes and then froze as she opened the top drawer, her fingers pausing over a dark lacy bra set, set delicately over what looked like bowed black garters. She ran her tongue over her bottom lip, her brow furrowing with a strange thrill of annoyance and danced her fingers over them indecisively for a second before shutting the drawer without touching them. She blinked at herself in the mirror, the look of wounded surprise on her face angering her for no reason she could easily place and looked over her blond hair carefully as she brushed her bangs back around her chin.

  Matt thought he was the first man to play Pygmalion but that wasn’t exactly true was it? No, not even close. Not by a long shot.

  Alicia ran her tongue over the front of her teeth, trying to bite back her sudden wave of revulsion and then shrugged off her coat, letting it pool at her feet as she untied her conservative gray dress and then opened it slowly in the candlelight.

  Nope, you were about four years too late for that one Matt, she thought pulling her ratty white sweater dress over her head and yanking it down around her thighs, the tattered hem ending right at the edge of her fingertips. Because if you’re going to go to a school you can’t afford with a bunch of kids who treat you like a fucking charity case well you might as well look the part right? I mean, what’s the point of being the tragic, token head case in a place if you can’t dress like one?

  She pulled on her skin-tight vinyl leggings, a petty thrill of excitement running through her when she saw that they still fit and then brushed her hair behind her shoulders again as she ran her fingers over her lips, her round gold eyes darting around the room.

  Don’t even know why it bothers me so much, she thought, walking back to the kitchen as she jerked the junk drawer open and started rummaging inside it with her left hand. Of course the professor kept up his mentoring program long after I graduated from it. Didn’t even bother to clean the place out first. Probably just told his next girlfriend that his niece liked to use it when she flew in from England. Why quit a good story when it’s working?

  She pulled out a pair of metal scissors, looking the edge over in the candlelight and then juggled the other two candles into one palm as she walked over to the vanity.

  “Dammit,” She mumbled as a narrow stream of wax leaked onto her wrist and grabbed one as it started to roll off the edge, her bad mood escalating in leaps and bounds. She lined the candles up beneath the mirror, the light now solid enough to make out her entire face and swept her hair in front of her shoulders with both hands as she reached for the scissors.

  No, Alicia thought running her hand through the ends of her hair until she had two inches sandwiched between her fingertips. Not the first. And the professor wasn’t really the first either, was he? He was just the first to notice how out of place I was. And then the rest was easy, wasn’t it? Just slide up behind the bright girl with the chip on her shoulder and start reinventing her from the ground up.

  Alicia snapped the scissors through the ends of her hair in one curt, decisive motion and then examined the effect with narrowed eyes as she reached for the handful beneath it.

  The master artist with his protege, she thought. Teaching her how to see herself- one careful brushstroke at a time.

  Not strange. Eccentric. Not rude. Discriminating. And certainly not moody. No, no, no, Alicia thought snipping her hair a little shorter. I was simply artistic. And once someone begins to paint you that way it’s almost impossible to resist. Impossible not to want to see yourself the way they do and cling to them like some kind of funhouse mirror that only reflects the right version of yourself if you stand at just the right angle.

  Alicia rolled her jaw in annoyance as she snipped through the opposite side of her hair, turning her head from side to side swiftly in the darkness.

  But it didn’t end there did it? She thought. No, because then there was Ben. Good old Ben and his beat-up guitar case. For Ben she had dyed her hair jet black and straightened it every single day. Not because he ever asked her to, but because Ben was a guitarist in a well-known local band. And although the professor’s sunny blond make-over had attracted him in the worst kind of way, he never could really be trusted to keep his eyes to himself, could he? And all the girls he seemed to follow had long, straight black hair.

  The kind of tragic, empty-looking girls who seemed to ooze sexuality and bad poetry in equal measure, she thought her eyes beginning to blaze with a strange internal light. And isn’t it funny how quickly he lost interest in that particular brand of crazy the second I got on board? Talk about the nature of the beast.

  And can’t forget Phill
ip, she thought as she slid the shaft of the scissors up to chin length. And wasn’t he a blast? So sweet, so understanding, so environmentally conscious that I had to start dying my hair with henna just to shut him up. And henna is pretty close to the messiest fucking beauty routine ever dreamed up by man. Which is ironic, because men never actually use any of it, do they? No. They just sit around and make their petty demands and ignore everything you’re trying to do to please them as if it all is supposed to come naturally somehow. As if the hours you spend in the bathroom with your head wrapped up in cellophane is just par for the course, and never mind the next two weekends you spend on your hands and knees trying to scrub the cranberry red splatter out of your bathroom grout…

  Alicia paused as her bangs swung forward and hit the front of the scissors and lowered her hand as she looked at her reflection, her gold eyes widening as she tilted her head to one side. She had cut it shorter than she meant to. Alicia set the scissors down on the edge of the vanity and pushed her hair behind her ears, liking the way her bangs were slightly longer than the longest part of her hair which curled just below her jawline, the ends a little ragged. She played with her bangs at the front, some strange feeling curling in the pit of her stomach and then walked over to the wall and knelt down in front of her purse, rooting around for the darkest eyeshadow she could find.

  Alicia bit her lip as she leaned towards the mirror and swept a deep shimmery shadow along her lid, continuing it below her lashes as she tilted her head up to admire the effect. She wiped her fingers across her lips, lowering her head as she began to smile and looked herself over like some interesting new stranger, her hands dropping to her sides as she took a step backwards.

  And there she was all along, she thought, rubbing her fingers through the back of her hair in a sudden burst of energy. Hiding behind a clever dance of veils even I forget I’m doing half the time. Strange, rude, moody Holly Gale. The girl no one wanted.