Husk

by Dave Zeltserman

  I remembered one of them telling me that I should look for work as a dishwasher. That restaurants were willing to hire workers illegally. The thought of seeking out that kind of work was highly distressing. Back at my clan the women were responsible for scrubbing the pots and cleaning the plates and eating utensils, and no self-respecting man would do such a thing. I brooded on this for a while, unable to arrive at a decision. On the one hand, I was in their world, not my clan’s; and if men in their world were willing to do such work, then I should not hold myself above it even if I found the chore utterly demeaning. On the other, I enjoyed the physical labor of home-building and carpentry and repairing cars, and I very much wanted to be employed in that manner of work. But I just didn’t see how I could do it unless I was able to get a social security number, which didn’t seem possible.

  After a while, I felt drowsy and quit worrying about that problem since no solution seemed evident, at least not then. I started thinking once again about how that Brittany girl had spied on me. Because that was what she had done, even if I didn’t understand how she had done it. But for her to call Jill while we were at that restaurant, sounding as excited as she did because she believed she had discovered something damning about me, showed that she wanted to cause me trouble. As I lay on the grass, I replayed in my mind the questions she had asked me and the answers I provided, and tried to decide if she could cause me any additional trouble from this. I couldn’t see any way she could, which was fortunate for Brittany. Soon, though, my thinking became fuzzy and I found myself closing my eyes. As much as I tried focusing on other problems the Brittany girl might cause me, my mind kept wandering to nonsensical areas.

  I must’ve drifted into sleep. I hadn’t realized I’d done so, but I woke with a start as something kicked the bottom of my foot and a harsh, bright light flooded my face.

  ‘Hey, you can’t sleep here! Move your ass!’

  I was too startled and enraged to remember that I needed to keep my predatory nature hidden. Unmasked, my true self showed before I could control it. The man who was shining an electric lamp into my face stumbled back several steps. I could see fear dancing wildly in his wide open eyes as he recognized what I was. And then he was reaching for the gun that he had holstered on his hip.

  I had little doubt that in his panic he was going to shoot me. It was too late to hide my true self. He’d seen that part of me, and the terror that drove him was something primordial, something dating back more than a thousand years to when my kind lived among them instead of hiding in the wilderness. He wasn’t capable at that moment of reasoned thought. At some deep instinctive level, he believed he needed to kill me so that he could survive.

  I had moved into a crouch by the time he started to bring his gun out, and I leapt at him before he could level the gun at me. With a quickness that must’ve surprised him, I grabbed his gun hand with my left hand and gripped his throat tightly with my right. His legs gave out under him, and he fell backwards into the water with me on top of him.

  He was helpless as he thrashed about, unable to scream out for help because of how I held his throat. I could’ve beaten him unconscious and left him alive, but I’d read enough to understand how their world works. He had flashed his lamp on my face while I was asleep and had gotten a good look at me. If I let him live, a drawing of me would appear in the newspapers and on television, and soon afterwards Jill would be lost to me.

  I crushed his windpipe, leaving him dead, with his head mostly submerged in the water and only the tip of his nose and his chin sticking out. The water was clear enough that even in the night’s darkness I could see his eyes bulging and his mouth gaping open. I didn’t regret killing him. He was only one of them. But I regretted the wastefulness of his death. His body could’ve provided necessary meat for my kin or one of the other clans, but instead his death would be meaningless.

  I didn’t bother searching for his wallet. He wouldn’t have had much money on him, and whatever he had it wouldn’t have been worth the time to look for it. I quickly moved away from his body and soon saw an empty police car parked no more than thirty yards away in an area illuminated by a streetlamp. The road he was on appeared to snake around the lake, and he must’ve spotted me when he was driving by, and made the bad decision to harass me even though I was sleeping peacefully and not bothering a soul. Was sleeping outside, on grass, a crime in their world? Was something like that possible? Such a law seemed as outrageous as needing a special number in order to work.

  Other police could be coming soon. If they found me nearby in my wet clothing, they’d guess correctly that I was responsible for that policeman’s death. I started running in the direction of Jill’s apartment, keeping my body low and as much in the shadows as I could. I was able to run a mile without passing any stragglers, and I doubted that the people in the few cars that passed were able to get a good look at me in the darkness. I slowed down to a walking pace, knowing that if I kept running any further I would risk attracting undue attention. While I passed a few of them after that, they not only avoided eye contact but seemed unwilling to look in my direction. From what I could tell, they were outside for their own nefarious reasons. There was no reason for any of these stragglers to inform the police about me, so I left them alone.

  I was able to return to Jill’s apartment building without incident. Earlier, Jill had shown me a room in the building’s basement where there were machines for washing clothing. The room was empty of other people, and after emptying my pockets I stripped myself of what I was wearing. The machines had operating instructions printed on them, and there were vending machines for buying soap and for changing dollar bills into the coins that the laundry machines required, so I had little trouble using them.

  FIFTEEN

  I went into a small market, bought a large coffee and, having added three packets of sugar to it, sat at the sole remaining empty table so I could read the newspaper that I’d purchased at a nearby market. Several hours earlier, after my clothing had finished drying in the machine and I was at last able to stop sneezing from the heavily artificial flowery smell the soap had left on my shirt, I had snuck back into Jill’s apartment and scribbled a note saying I would meet her back at her apartment at five o’clock that evening, a time we’d arranged the night before as she was going to be busy for most of the day at her college.

  I was sure the body of the policeman whose throat I had crushed would have been discovered hours ago, and I searched the newspaper to see what they had written about it and to find out if anyone had spotted me. There was no mention of it yet, but I did find a story about the well-fed orange-haired man whom I had robbed. As I suspected, he had died from the blow I struck. It turned out that he was well-known and was the head of some sort of organization that people cared about. The newspaper printed both a photograph and a drawing of a man the police were looking for, and it wasn’t me. The photograph had this man in profile, while the drawing showed what the police believed he would look like if he were facing front. His head was round and heavy, and his face covered by a beard and mustache that were a light-brown color and cut so short they looked almost like animal fur. He also appeared to have small eyes and a flat nose, and he was wearing a cap of some sort. I was curious as to how this man had become a suspect, and I read the story carefully. The same witness who took the photograph claimed that she saw this man strike the orange-haired man I’d robbed. There was no mention that this well-fed man’s wallet had been stolen, and from what I could gather, the police didn’t yet know the name of this wrongly accused man and were asking the public for information.

  As I thought about what I had read, I realized how lucky I’d been. So many of them carry cameras and someone could’ve taken a photograph of me, instead of the man who was being falsely accused. I had no idea why this witness was claiming he was the guilty party instead of myself, but I was fortunate she was so unobservant. I also realized that I couldn’t rob any more of them the way I did that well-fed man, no matter
how careful I thought I was being. There was too great a chance that next time it would be my photograph that was taken and printed in the newspapers.

  I sat for a while drinking my coffee and reflecting on my good luck in the matter, and then read more of the newspaper. There were other murders and crimes that were written about, but none of them seemed to have the police’s attention as much as the death of the well-fed man. Finding the wrongly accused suspect seemed to be their top priority. A thought struck me that perhaps other witnesses had taken photographs which the police might have, and I might appear in one of them. I tried to think if that could have happened, but I wasn’t able to imagine what it would’ve looked like if it did. I knew they used their cellphones now to take photographs, and not the large bulky cameras I was familiar with from my reading. So if someone had taken my photograph, I probably wouldn’t have known it. I worried some more about that possibility, but in the end decided that the incident happened too fast for any of them to have done so. Only seconds had elapsed from the time I yelled out that the well-fed man needed help to my fleeing the circle that had formed around his critically injured body.

  Before leaving the coffee shop, I studied the map of New York that I’d bought the previous day and was able to identify the subway stop in Brooklyn I needed to travel to so I could search for the thick-jawed man who I thought might be one of my kind.

  I had more than learned my lesson from the other night and made sure to keep my true self well-hidden, both as I walked among them to a nearby subway station and later as I took two different subway cars to get to the East Flatbush neighborhood of Brooklyn.

  I spent the rest of the morning and a good part of the afternoon searching without any luck for the thick-jawed man. During my search, whenever I came across a construction site where people were working, I sought out the man in charge, even though I didn’t hold out much hope of a happy outcome. The ones that tested me seemed eager to offer me work until they discovered I couldn’t provide them with a social security number, and then I was treated the same as I was the other day. It was hard to take, and I struggled to keep my true self masked as I found myself growing increasingly bitter regarding how their world operated. One of them appeared more patient and kinder than the others, and explained that he wished he could help me but was unable to for the same reason others had given me. In my frustration, I told him what I’d told the others, that I wasn’t illegal, and then confided to him that my kin didn’t have their births in hospitals and never bothered getting legal certificates. ‘My blood family’s all in New Hampshire. I swear, that’s where we were all born and raised. There must be something I can do.’

  He gave me a confused look, his eyes squinting the same as if he were staring at the sun. ‘Is your family part of some sort of anti-government group living off the grid?’

  I wasn’t sure what he was asking, but I nodded, since it sounded most like the truth, at least in a way.

  ‘Your parents still around?’

  ‘They are.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. He clasped the back of his neck and rubbed it as he continued to give the appearance of trying to be helpful and sympathetic. ‘I guess you could try contacting a lawyer. I’m sure if your parents were willing to sign the right forms this problem could be taken care of. Good luck.’

  He offered me his hand and I took it, trying hard to hide the despair I was feeling. I accepted then that I was going to have to do work that was considered illegal. Either something demeaning, like washing dishes, or something that could lose me Jill forever. Such as robbing more of them like I did the well-fed man, except being more careful about it and making sure no one was around to take my photograph.

  Later, as I rode a subway car back to Jill’s apartment building in Queens, I continued to debate the matter, undecided which I would do. All I knew for certain was that it would be calamitous if I called on a lawyer, as that would certainly lead to questions that I wouldn’t want anyone asking or, worse, taking it upon themselves to solve. I found myself thinking about several magazine and newspaper stories I’d read in the past about people called ‘hit men’ who were paid a lot of money to kill people. If I was going to do illegal work, maybe that would be the right kind for me. While I’d regret the wastefulness of it, I wouldn’t have any qualms about killing some of them to make money if their world was going to prevent me from working legally. That type of work could be done in the shadows, with no one around to take photographs. And really, who would be more suited for it than a predator, like myself? I started warming to the idea, and even had the thought that the man named Sergei whom I sold the van to would be able to help me find that type of work. He clearly worked as a criminal, and had planned to use the van in the commission of a crime. Or, if not him, he’d be able to point me to someone who could.

  After I left the Parsons Boulevard subway stop, I continued to debate the matter in my mind as I walked toward Jill’s building. I was three blocks away when a HELP WANTED sign in a restaurant window stopped me. The thought of spending my days scrubbing pots made me feel ill, but I was struck by the realization that I’d already been lying far more often to Jill than I ever wanted to. And if I found work killing them for money, I would need to lie to her about what I did for work every remaining day of my life. Resigned to my situation, I headed inside.

  The restaurant had a scattering of customers and smelled heavily of grease. It looked dingier inside than the restaurants Jill and I had eaten in. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was a style of restaurant called a diner. I approached a heavyset older woman who stood behind the cash register, and told her I was there seeking work. She continued to stare at me in a blank, uninterested way before telling me to wait at one of the empty tables and she would have Chris speak to me.

  I sat at one of the empty tables, as she had directed, and several minutes later a short, stocky man who must’ve been Chris came over and sat across from me. He had his hands resting on the surface of the table, and I noticed that they were stubby, but strong hands. His other most prominent feature was that his head seemed much larger than it should’ve been for his body.

  He gave me an accusatory eye for a long moment as if he was trying to decide if I was worth talking to, and finally said, ‘I’m looking for a short-order cook and a dishwasher.’

  ‘I’ll work as a dishwasher,’ I said. Then using the vernacular I’d heard from the men in charge at the construction sites I’d spoken with, I added, ‘But I need to be paid off the books.’

  ‘Are you in law enforcement? You have to tell me if you are. It’s entrapment if you don’t.’

  ‘No, I’m not in law enforcement. I’m just a man who needs work.’

  His eyes narrowed as he gave me a cautious look, and I knew what he was doing. He was trying to decide if I’d lied to him. He smiled thinly as he made up his mind that that couldn’t have been the case.

  He leaned closer to me and, keeping his voice low so others couldn’t hear him, said, ‘You fooled me. I would’ve guessed you were an American.’

  I didn’t bother correcting him, and instead stared back at him. His eyes hardened as he nodded to me. ‘You’ll be here six to four Monday through Saturday, and I’ll pay you two fifty a week. If you’re late once, that’s it, you’re fired. No second chances. Same if you come here too high to work. Or you break too many dishes. Or you loaf. Or you steal from me. OK?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK. Good.’ He got up from the table, and leaned so close to me that I couldn’t help smelling the sourness of his breath. ‘Be here tomorrow morning at six sharp. One minute late, and that’s it. Kaput.’ He made a sweeping gesture that started at the middle of his stomach, using both hands, one on top of the other and each going in a different direction. ‘You get two fifteen minute breaks each day, no lunch break. If you want to eat scraps off the plates, I don’t care. Those are the rules. And don’t loaf around anymore by these tables. They’re for paying customers.’

  H
e watched me while I got up and headed for the exit. He had hired me without even bothering to ask me my name. The decision I’d made to do this kind of work left me with a choking despair in my chest that seemed to grow as I walked back to Jill’s apartment. A dishwasher. That was going to be my lot in their world. Even though I had the skill and desire to build houses and do other carpentry, because of the way their world operated I was going to have to spend my days scrubbing pots, working for someone who openly sneered at me.

  I heard music coming from Jill’s apartment. I stood listening for voices and, after not hearing any, knocked on the door and announced myself. Light footsteps padded toward me from inside the apartment, and then the door was swung open and Jill stood in front of me smiling brightly.

  ‘Charlie, you don’t need to knock. You have a key. Just use it to come and go as you please.’ Her smile dimmed as she looked at me. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘No, nothing.’ I hadn’t realized how low I was feeling until then. I was ashamed to tell Jill about the work I was going to be doing. But the reason I made the decision I did was so that I wouldn’t have to lie to her about work, so I steeled myself and told her I was going to be washing dishes each day at a nearby restaurant. ‘I still hope to be building homes again, but for now this is what I need to do,’ I said.

  Jill laughed in her soft, gentle manner, and while I couldn’t say it lifted my spirits it did make me feel less morose. She took my hand, and her eyes sparkled as she grinned at me. ‘I’m proud of you for finding a job this quickly,’ she said. ‘And come on, Charlie, we’ve all had to take shit jobs at one time or another. I’ve had my share of them. I worked the last two years as a cocktail waitress at a dive club before getting my teacher’s assistant position. And hey, it wasn’t all bad. The tips were good and it gave me a unique perspective on the human psyche, which should come in handy in my future career as a psychologist. It’s all good. You’ll find a way to kick ass at this job. I’m positive you’ll persevere, and before too long you’ll get the kind of job you want, doing carpentry.’