Seven Deadly Pleasures

by Michael Aronovitz

  "Come with me, Bladnestannabellshannah. For now, you are mine. Your deeds have given me the right to escort you to the hall of thoughts. It is the second of many . . ."

  Melvin began to exit Floyd's consciousness. The retreat was achingly slow. The jackal tensed on its haunches and looked. Its ears whipped back close to the head. It bared its teeth, showing spotted gums.

  "It sees me!" Melvin thought. "Oh hurry, please!"

  The jackal howled. It snapped at the air and clawed at its own nose. Melvin was almost to the archway. The jackal screamed and elongated its face. The jaws stretched and chased Melvin the length of the hallway by themselves. Melvin felt its scalding breath. Then it was gone. The whole corridor was gone.

  Melvin was back in his bedroom, floating behind the version of himself that was about to press the button to initially activate Passive Passenger. The clock ticked right up to 9:10 A.M., but just before the rejoining he heard something. A voice, faint like an echo on damp cobblestone.

  I'll be waiting for you . . . Melvin.

  The joining was complete. Melvin shrieked, shoved his chair out of the way, and crawled under his desk. He curled to a ball and jammed his knuckles into his mouth. His eyes stayed wide open.

  He did not come out for a long, long time.

  1:40 P.M.

  Melvin reached for the carton of Tropicanna. He would simply go back to his room and unplug the computer. End of conversation. He popped the bird-beak of the container of orange juice and brought it to his lips. He wiped his moustache on his sleeve. The side door opened, and he heard Dot come in. He heard the crinkle of brown bagged packages being thrust onto the kitchen table a few feet behind him, and he slowly took another swig of juice.

  "Look at you," she said. "How many times have we talked about leaving the refrigerator door open? And if you are going to drink your juice, the rule is to use a glass, remember?"

  He heard her start reaching into the bags and then heard her stop.

  "Did you call the plumber like I asked you to?"

  Melvin kept his glance focused into the fridge. The door shelves boasted a museum of crudded Dorothy shit; old balsamic vinaigrette, a quart of soy milk with dried wavery stains around the opening, a six-pack of Promise Activ peach drink that actively lowered cholesterol, and a Tupperware tub filled with salmon croquettes floating in two levels of oil, one gray and the thinner one on top almost maroon with small white fat-bubbles skimming the surface. Melvin took another slow swig, then spoke at the fridge.

  "Fuck the plumber, fuck the orange juice, and fuck, y'all."

  "What?" she said. "Wha . . . what did you just say to me?"

  Dorothy's voice was a symphony, an auditory kaleidoscope of emotions, all the colors. There was anger, frustration, righteous defense, and absolute disbelief, but also undercurrents of doubt. Melvin liked that texture very much, but he was filled with complex emotions of his own. Clearly, Floyd Lynch had left a residue. That was a concern. Slowly he turned to face his wife.

  Her mouth dropped open.

  "My God, what happened to you?"

  Melvin looked at her in disgust and her right hand flew up to her face. It fluttered around her cheek.

  "What?' he said. He pushed an impatient whistle through his teeth, slammed the fridge door, and bent to look at himself in the reflection of the toaster. He nearly gasped. The image was warped and slanted like a funhouse mirror, but the distortion did not alter the facts. Some of the little hair he had left hanging over his forehead was simply lost, and his eyebrows had gone from graying to bright white. His wrinkles had deepened and his eyes were sunk back in their sockets. He looked insane, as if he had recently seen something not meant for human eyes.

  "I want you out of here, Dorothy. I don't care where you go or what you do, but I want you gone now. I want to be alone today."

  She put her hands on her hips.

  "You know, Melvin, this is all a result of the way you feel about yourself. If you had stuck with engineering and dismissed these silly ideas of becoming an academic—"

  Melvin's eyes got huge.

  "Don't y'all try that ole psychologic bullshit with me, girl! I said get out, so git the fuck out!" He reached into the sink and grabbed a tablespoon. "Just don't make me use this, you hear?"

  Dorothy retreated to her bedroom, eyes locked on Melvin, feeling her way like a drunk. She slammed the door. Melvin could hear the nervous bumps and shuffles of clothes being yanked from hangers. When she emerged, she was wearing an older, heavier winter coat than she had used for the trip to the supermarket. Probably going on an outdoor shopping spree now. The witch. She brushed past him toward the side door, and he growled at her. She slammed that door behind her, oh yes, a great ole door-slammer was she. He watched through the laundry room window. She backed out of the driveway haphazardly, and then she was gone. He tossed the spoon on the counter and stomped back to his own room.

  I'll get some order around here, just wait and see!

  He opened the bedroom door and the computer was waiting for him.

  You'll have to get past me first, you leech!

  Melvin shook his fist and stormed through the room. He dumped drawers, upended boxes, and routed the shelves in search of his Stanley clawhammer. He crawled on his hands and knees and swiped at the piles of National Geographic and Scientific American stowed under the drafting board. He shoved over a few Hills Brothers coffee cans that threw splashes of bolts and ball bearings to the carpet. He spied the hammer stuck under a snaked pile of twelve-gauge extension cord, and gripped the handle. Face red, he backed out and stood up. His knees popped. He approached the computer and raised the hammer over his head.

  You paid two thousand dollars for that computer, don't smash it. Be sensible.

  Hard breath swelled in his chest and he dropped the hammer.

  I'll unplug it right now. Boom-boom, out go the lights, Passive Passenger gone for good.

  He did nothing.

  Suddenly Melvin threw back his head and laughed like a stoned junkie who had just gotten a crazy urge to go straight and dump an ounce of prime blow down the toilet. But Melvin knew better, hell, he'd seen all the movies.

  You don't quit until the stash is gone.

  Melvin sat in front of the terminal and let his mind wander the path it truly desired. It took all of three seconds.

  What's next? No, who's next? Who is my next subject?

  But that was not quite right either. Entertainers, daredevils, politicians, pick a card, any card, they all seemed insignificant. Hell, who's next was not even the right question.

  The right question was lurking beneath the surface and Melvin almost dreaded its acknowledgment. Almost. True, this morning he had been frightened straight through to the marrow, but the events had been a surprise. Now, he was better prepared—that was a cold hard fact. And was he not a symbol of education? Did he not stand right here, right now at the very state of the art, at the cutting edge, at the brink of greatness? Did not the movers and shakers of history press on through the unexplained until it was reshaped by their genius into manageable terms? It was his duty to press on. It was his duty to ask the question,

  How many corridors are there, and then, what's beyond the dove and the jackal?

  He put his hands on the desk to push up, go get the newspaper, and scan the obituaries. His face went red hot. He fought a dark urge to strike something.

  I can't use the names in the paper because they will have been stiff at least a day already. Passive Passenger only goes back five minutes in time. That leaves twenty three hours and fifty five minutes of post mortem that I'll miss.

  He grabbed both his earlobes and pulled.

  A true scientist observes the entire process from front to back. A true scientist returns to the experiment at the exact place he left off!

  Melvin balled his fists and rubbed his knuckles in his eyes.

  Think! We left Floyd Lynch at the point of two minutes into the hereafter. To logically continue the process we nee
d someone freshly dead, seven minutes dead to be exact. But how will I know when the right moment hits? I'm not clairvoyant.

  An old, buried exasperation washed through him. Melvin turned and swept a wild glance across his collection of inventions. In disgust, he went to shove at his radio scanner and noted the yellow tag on it. Captain Hugh McNulty.

  He knows.

  Melvin froze.

  McNulty can show me "who."

  Melvin smiled and turned back to his computer to tab through the subject directory of Passive Passenger. He found Hugh McNulty's social security number and entered it into the Subject mode after entering his own in the Operator space.

  The scanner will tell me "when."

  His system was ready. He fired up his homemade radio. He sat. He listened. He patiently waited for someone to die.

  "Box 2173, Five Star Refinery. Reported to be oil tank on fire. The following companies will respond. Engines 38, 44, 29, 32, Ladders 15 and 23, Medic 4, Battalion 6, Deputy 1, respond, over."

  Melvin bolted upright in his chair. It had been a two-hour wait, but the fire at the oil refinery was perfect.

  "Engine 38 responding to Five Star Refinery, second in, over."

  "McNulty," Melvin whispered. He scrambled to the computer and hovered over the RETURN button. The scanner was silent for twenty minutes.

  "Engine 38 on location. We have a heavy fire, one tank. Unit has been ordered to northwest side to lead off with master stream devices, over."

  Ten more minutes ticked by. Melvin was salivating. McNulty's voice suddenly shouted over the tinny speaker,

  "Fireman down! Northwest side! Send rescue squad now! Fireman is down, respond!"

  Melvin silently cheered.

  I'll see it happen all over again through McNulty's eyes. I'll know the circumstances of the accident and the severity of the injury. And if the poor guy does kick the bucket, I'll know that dead man's name!

  Melvin struck the RETURN button.

  Captain McNulty hopped out and watched Zac pull a five-inch hose from the back of the truck.

  "Tie it tight, kid," he said. "Signal when it's firm." The young fireman ran to put a wrap on the hydrant and Tommy Green followed with the wrench. The kid had forgotten it. McNulty turned to his driver.

  "Eddie, once the hose is secure drive straight eighty feet up to that big black gate valve by the cooling tower there. Get parallel to it." Old Eddie waited for a thumbs-up from the kid and McNulty turned with the stiff wind to eye the tank of crude that was active. It was the worst fire he had ever seen. Oily heat blanketed the air in ripply waves, and flecks of black ash swirled in the sky. Melted snow ran down the gradual three-inch grade and made small whirlpools under the grid work of piping. The oil tank towered over it all and was speaking in smoke signals.

  It's my party and I'll bitch if I want to!

  A football field high and ninety feet across, "Crude #43" vomited upward a furl of black smoke thick as chocolate mousse. The two-inch-thick steel at the top was melted, split, and bent inward with the iron spiral staircase swung out to the side like a loose strand of hair.

  The wind shifted and a dense wave of smoke splashed the equally large naphtha gas tank thirty feet to the left. The thick plume stained it spotty black.

  "Just in time," McNulty thought. It was their job to protect the exposure of that tank of naphtha, so close to #43 that they shared the same dike. Seven engines were already on the front side of #43 with deluge and foam units, and McNulty had been ordered to put up a defensive stream on the neighboring tank. Fast.

  McNulty spun around to check the progress of his two field men and glanced up to the Rt. 95 overpass. A news van had pulled up on the shoulder and its crew was setting up tripods.

  Great. To the uneducated eye it will look like we are spraying down the wrong tank.

  It should not have bothered him, but it did. He still had a foul taste in his mouth from being selectively edited on channel 9, and his boys deserved better. Tommy Green had been with him for fifteen years, he was family. Old Eddie was six months from retirement and though Zac could be a bit of a wildcard, he listened pretty well under pressure. They were a rare collection of men that this business hadn't turned sour. They all deserved better than this and they were heroes just being here.

  Melvin agreed. Though he felt relatively safe inside the brave exterior of Captain McNulty, there was something absolutely terrifying about that smoking tanker. It was a god, and Melvin could draw enough from McNulty's experience to know that the neighboring tank of naphtha was the angel of death.

  Still, the scene was mostly chaos to Melvin's unpracticed eye and the old professor understood only parts of it, especially as McNulty began running his drill. McNulty's mind was far advanced when compared to that of Floyd Lynch, and much of his decision making was based on an instinct of expertise rather than a visible hierarchy of principles. Melvin went through the motions and only caught some stuff on the surface. Time flew.

  Eddie drove the truck and that motion unsnapped the hose. They set the pressure at 220 psi. With help, McNulty struggled a thing called a "Stang Gun" off the roof of the truck. Zac went to set up the water cannon and Tommy Green shouted orders at him concerning locking devices, wheel locks, and pins.

  McNulty was checking off Tommy's commands in his head, and he stole another peek at Naphtha #2 and Crude #43. The conditions had not changed, but the sloped eight-foot dike surrounding the bottom perimeter of the two seemed awfully full. McNulty went up on tiptoes. The water and foam units from the other engines had been overpumping Crude #43 and the collected water in the dike was far too high. It was five feet deep at least, with a layer of foam floating the top.

  It seemed significant for some reason, but McNulty could not nail it.

  "Pressurize," he ordered. Eddie worked the controls and the hose fattened with water. Thirty feet east of the truck, a burst of spray suddenly came through the nozzle in Tommy's hands. Zac helped him stabilize and McNulty looked at his watch.

  Four minutes. Battalion Chief Romonosky would be proud.

  "Four minutes," Melvin thought. "Here we go, oh boy, oh Jesus."

  Commotion. Tommy and Zac were shouting in each other's faces and fighting for control of the live nozzle between them.

  "Report!" McNulty yelled into his radio. The plea was ignored.

  "They're not fighting for control!" Melvin shouted to no one. "Tommy's trying to hand it over, and Zac won't take it. Oh boy, which is going to get it, the vet or the kid, oh Lordy!"

  Zac lost the argument. With obvious protest, he took hold of the nozzle and fought for a moment to keep it controlled. Tommy broke away to a run and made straight for the tanker, his boots kicking up dirty splashes. McNulty looked to where Tommy was headed and frowned. A refinery yard worker in brown coveralls was crawling atop the lip of the dike.

  "Damnit Tommy, hurry," McNulty thought. His best fireman reached the foot of the dike and pawed up the slope. The yard worker cradled a scorched hand and made his way along the crest in a three-legged crawl. Disoriented, he went up on his knees. His hair was matted with blood.

  Tommy straddled the lip of the dike, ran along it and reached out his hand. They clasped palms, and that is when the top of Crude #43 exploded.

  There was a whoosh and a huge thwack. The ground shook and an orange, mushroom-shaped flare rocketed up against the gray sky. Then came a hearty bang that pressed McNulty's eardrums and rattled his skull. A tremendous wave of white heat followed and he fought to keep his eyes open against it.

  Shrapnel flew everywhere. Small pieces whizzed overhead and a star-shaped hunk at least twenty feet square spun across the parking lot like a jagged Frisbee. It smashed into a guard shack and turned it to splinters.

  A boiling sheet of black crude rained down over the dike area and ignited the ground in a ring of blue flame. The yard worker went up like parchment and rolled down the slope. The hot blaze swarmed the crest of the dike, grew, and caged Tommy Green in a wall of combustion.
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  The very air was on fire. Tommy's dark outline of headgear and long black fire-retardant coat danced and jerked within the orange shroud and even back where McNulty stood, each breath tasted like a hot spray of Quaker State. He gave a desperate look back to Zac and saw the young man working the Stang gun to an alternate position.

  "Yes," he thought. "It's our only chance."

  "No!" Melvin thought simultaneously. "Whatever it is, futz it up please! We are so close!"

  Zac aimed the bullet-like spray and hit Tommy square in the chest. It knocked him into the dike and he haphazardly splashed through the foamy surface of water. But what happened next made no sense to Melvin or McNulty. A flame at least thirty feet high shot up from the water where Tommy had broken the surface. It whooshed up like a huge torch and then vanished.

  "But water and foam are not flammable," McNulty thought.

  He dropped the walkie-talkie and threw his hands on the stepladder.

  "There's a leak in the naphtha tank! There's a layer of flammable gas in the dike between the water and the foam!"

  McNulty mounted the top of the truck and shaded his eyes. Tommy came up for air and broke the plane of foam. He'd lost his helmet and mask, he was exposed, he became a fireball, and McNulty caught a glimpse of skin melting on bone just before Tommy went back under. But the Captain's mind did not allow him to move toward sorrow. Not yet. He was steel. He jumped off the truck, he twisted his ankle, he threw Eddie aside and reached for the engine radio.

  "Fireman down! Northwest side! Send rescue squad now! Fireman is down! Respond!"

  McNulty fumbled for the dashboard controls. He hit the siren, threw on the flashers, and put the high beams on alternate blare. An audio-visual epitaph.

  Tommy was gone. It hit him and he fell to the ground on his butt. He felt his throat closing with grief.

  Melvin left McNulty's body and began his ascent. At the top of the raging tanker he looked down and silently applauded. Tommy Green was floating face down. Fire pools still burned the ground all around like jungle death candles.