by R. W. Ridley
“They don’t like you.”
The man’s voice comes from my right. I am too startled to scream or shout for help. I manage to say “Wha...,” but nothing more.
“Relax,” the voice continues.
“Who’s there?” I search through the grayness of the room. In the corner across from where the dead boy disappeared, I spot him, Scoop-face.
“It’s just me,” he says.
Somehow the knowledge that it is just him does not relax me. “Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you?” He steps toward me. He moves like a man who can see.
“No,” I answer.
“A long friggin’ time.” He laughs. “’Cept in my case, it ain’t so much looking as it is searching.” He points to the vacant area on his face.
“Do I know you?”
He sits on the edge of the bed. I move as far away from him as possible. “Used to... I think.”
“How did you get in here?”
He tugs on his left ear. “I heard Chester punching in the code to your door this evening. I got ears like a dog now that my face is gone. I can pretty much hear anything.”
“How...”
“How did I get this hole in my face?” He chuckled. “You know what they say.” He leans in closer. “Don’t ever try to remove a shunter from the host’s face.” He laughs and a wad of spit drips out of his mouth and rests on his chin.
I don’t react. My mind has been playing tricks on me all day. He didn’t say shunter. I wasn’t going to fall for that again. I was tired of being my demented brain’s whipping boy.
“You ain’t got nothing to say?” He cocks his head. If he had eyes, I would no doubt see a puzzled look on his face.
“What’s to say?”
“Hell, boy, I just confirmed what’s been whirling around in that pointy head of yours. This ain’t no hospital. They’s inside of you.” He reaches out and cups the top of my head with his thick hand. “They’s crawling around in there, ‘tween the grooves in that squishy brain of yours, and they’s trying to find what they ain’t got.”
I knock his hand away. “Oh, what’s that?”
“The Source.”
I swallow hard. “This is a trick. You’re crazy. We’re both crazy.”
Scoop-face thinks it over. “Well, hell, yeah I’m crazy. I had my eyes ripped out, and my nose tore off by some slimy little face sucker with about a thousand tentacles, and I lived to tell about it. That’d make anyone crazy.” He laughs and chokes on a wad of mucus stuck in this throat. He hacks and coughs so loud I wait for nurse Kline to appear at the window, but she doesn’t come. He catches his breath and wheezes, “We’re all crazy, kid. You, me, and everyone whatever survived the end of the world.”
I scoot to the end of the bed. “The world didn’t end,” I say as I stand.
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Stand. Move around. My quilibrium’s all shot. I get nauseous if people move around.”
“Quilibrium? You mean equilibrium?”
“Whatever the damn word is, I ain’t got none of it.” He sounds angry for the first time. “Now sit”
I comply although I’m not sure why.
“The Délons is real. The Takers is real. The Silencers is real.” He leans in and whispers. “The Pure is real.”
I start to sway. I desperately want him to shut up.
“You got to snap out of this fool business here. This is the part that ain’t real.”
I feel a pressure in my throat and chest. It’s panic. I will burst into tears soon. I have done this before. Many times before. I whimper.
“Don’t you do that,” Scoop-face insists. “Don’t you set off to your balling again.”
“Again?” What does he mean?
“Yes, again. We go through this nonsense pert-near every night, and I’m worn to my last nerve. We are running out of time. You forget a little bit more every day.”
Confused I say, “You said you’ve been searching for me for a long time. Now you say we’ve been through this before.”
He shakes his faceless head. “We have, and we haven’t. You got to stop thinking like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like time ticks away on a clock. It don’t. It jumps and stops and starts, goes all over the place. You do things for the first time over and over again.”
“I don’t know what to believe.”
“The purple dead-eyed pigs whittle away everything you got in here,” he points to his head. “’til there ain’t nothing left, but the Source.”
“I don’t know what the Source is!” I scream and the tears follow a snot bubble shooting out of my nose.
“How do you know?”
“Because,” I chuckle madly, “I know what I know.”
He chuckles back. “Not for a long time, little Oz. Not for a long time.”
“Leave,” I demand.
He sighs in frustration. “Do me a favor.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m an old-fart without a face. Life ain’t been exactly Santa Claus to me. The least you can do for me is one stinkin’ favor.”
I mull it over. There is a long penetrating silence between us. Finally, I say, “What?”
“Ask Doc Graham for a GP pass tomorrow.”
“A what?”
“A general population pass.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
Without turning toward him I say, “What makes you think he’ll give me one?”
“Cause they’re getting impatient. They’ve drilled and drilled and drilled into that little pea brain of yours, and they ain’t come no closer to finding the Source than the day they started this whole mess.”
I clear my throat. “Will you leave if I agree?”
“That hurts my heart, kiddo. You and me are friends from way back, and this is the thanks I get.” He stands. “I’ll leave if you agree.”
“I’ll ask for a GP pass.”
He shuffles toward the door, talking as he walks. “There’s a janitor’s closet three doors down from the doc’s office.”
“What of it?”
“Be in it at 11:00 tomorrow.”
“What for?”
He stops and grins, “Because Lou wants to say ‘Hi’.”
TWO
The dead do not leave until morning. I have not slept for longer than a ten minute stretch in... years. I cannot remember a time when I was not tired. I cannot remember a time when I was not scared. I cannot remember a time... clearly. That’s the problem. If I am the age Dr. Graham says I am, I have lived an entire life without one single shred of a memory to hold onto. It doesn’t seem possible.
Yet believing that I battled an army of slobbering, greasy monsters and purple dead-eyed freaks seems even more preposterous. I am crazy. I am insane. I am out of my ever-loving mind.
For all I know, nothing is real. I am neither who Dr. Graham says I am nor who Scoop-face says I am. I am a dream. A twisted, grotesque nightmare inside the head of some bratty kid who watches too many scary movies or plays too many zombie video games. I will be gone as soon as he wakes up. God, how I wish he would wake up.
I lie in bed and do not move. I stare at the ceiling... through the ceiling, really. If I stare hard enough, maybe I can see the beady little eyes of the spoiled turd who is making me live this horrible nightmare.
The familiar tone of numbers being punched on the door’s keypad diverts my attention from the ceiling. Nurse Kline enters carrying a tray of food.
“Breakfast is served,” she says setting the tray down on a table near the bed.
I stare at the oatmeal in a plastic bowl.
“You best eat up.”
I look at her. My eyes burn from lack of sleep. “Do I like oatmeal?”
She smiles. “Don’t you know?”
“I don’t know anything.”
“You love it.” She walks back to the door. “I’ll bring you some juice if you want.”
I shake my head. “I want to see Dr. Graham.”
She shakes her head and considers my request. “You’re not on the schedule today.”
“I don’t care.”
“You might not, but his other patients...”
“I want to see Dr. Graham. He’s my doctor. I want to see him.” I am much more abrupt with her than I’d intended.
She considers arguing but, to her credit, doesn’t. “I’ll see what I can arrange.”
“Now!” I bark.
Her jaw sets as she mashes her teeth together. She wants to let me have it with both barrels, but she backs off. “Very well.”
She shuts the door. The lock tumbles into place. I hear the muffled sounds of a conversation. It’s heated. Chester’s face appears in the window. I have never seen him with such a serious expression. He grunts and moves down the hallway.
I lie back down and stare at the ceiling again. The patterns in the tile begin to take on shapes: a cat, a tree, a bus. A scene begins to form in my head, a thought, a memory.
I’m on Westwood Avenue in Tullahoma. The dogwoods are in bloom. The smell of honeysuckle is in the air. Hummingbirds feed on a nearby bush. The sound of their wings ripping through the wind is deafening. I sprint out of earshot of the tiny little noisemakers. Ahead I see Gordy. A young spry Gordy. He’s no older than six. He’s talking to another boy. I dig my feet into the ground as I pump my legs faster and faster to reach them.
I get to my old friend and quickly identify the other boy, Stevie Dayton. His eyes are puffy slits. Gordy is laughing.
“Look at the retard cry! Look at the little retard baby!”
“What...” I want to ask what’s going on, but the words aren’t coming out. I walk up to Stevie and slap him across the face. What am I doing?
“Little retard! Little retard!” I hear the words come out of my mouth. Stop! Stop! My mind is about to explode. I can’t be doing this. I’m not doing this.
“Punch him, Oz,” Gordy says. He scans the immediate area. “Ain’t nobody around.”
I can feel myself hesitate.
“Do it, chicken head! Do it!” Gordy is bouncing up and down in an uncontrolled fury. “Punch the cry baby retard!”
I watch in horror as my fist flies forward and lands squarely on Stevie’s nose. Oh, God no. No, no, no. Stevie, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry...
Blood drips from Stevie’s fat nose. Tears well up in his eyes. He cups his hands over his face, but he doesn’t run. He looks at me. “It’s o’day, Oz. I see you in dere. It’s o’day.”
“Hit him again, Oz!”
“You see what in where?” I ask Stevie. I ask, but I know the answer. He sees me. Not the bully pounding him in the face, but me, the guy who so desperately wants to take back everything I did to him. The guy who wants to be Stevie’s hero.
“I see it,” he says.
I pound him in the nose again. “You see what?”
He’s terrified, but still he doesn’t run. “I see,” he says between breaths. “I see da magic in you.”
***
The door to my room opens and Dr. Graham enters. I am still caught up in my vivid memory or hallucination or whatever it is. I do not acknowledge the doctor.
“Oz?”
I am stuck... in those words... “da magic in you.” What did Stevie mean?
“Oz, I don’t have time...”
“Pass,” I snap.
“What?”
“A GP pass. I want a GP pass.” I turn to him, eyes still glazed.
He clears his throat and turns to Chester. I have never asked for this before. I can tell by their expressions that they don’t know what to make of it.
“May I ask why?”
“I... I’m tired of this room.”
He nods. “Understandable, but still. You’ve been reluctant to venture outside this room ever since you arrived.”
“People change.”
He purses his lips together and rubs his chin with his thumb. “Alright. I’ll give you a restricted pass. You’re not to go off the yellow path. Understood?”
“The yellow path. Right.”
“This is a test, Oz. You play by the rules and do as I say today, who knows what tomorrow will bring.”
“Tomorrow. Got it.”
“I’m not kidding,” he says with a smile. “I’m cautiously optimistic about this request. It shows progress. Something you haven’t shown before.”
I smile this time. “Take a bow, Doc. You’re a miracle worker. Next thing you know, I’ll be running for president of the yellow path people.”
***
What I soon come to find out is the yellow path people are really just a multitude of crazies who barely qualify to be human beings. They come in all shapes, sizes, colors, and ages. The only thing they have in common is the winding yellow line that divides the corridor floor throughout most of the hospital. There are other lines, red, green, blue, but I never see the people that inhabit those corridors. I see the occasional shadow of the blue crazies or red crazies or green crazies where the yellow line briefly dissects their paths, but I never get a close look.
A patient with leathery skin and walnut-sized lumps across his forehead stops me on my way to the janitor’s closet.
“New?” he mumbles.
“I... I’m not sure,” I answer
His stubbly chin quivers as he stutters “P-p-p-p-pudding.” “What?”
“P-p-p...” He gulps to right himself. “Pudding to p—p-pass.”
“Pudding?” I say as if this is a crazy request. Of course it’s a crazy request. He’s crazy. “I don’t have pudding.”
Upon hearing this, the leathery little man screams and rams his head into a nearby door jamb. The origin of his lumps suddenly becomes very clear. “Pudding to pass! Pudding to pass!”
As I stare at the man in disbelief, a bony hand appears in my field of vision holding a cup of chocolate pudding. Bones smiles back at me as I try to piece this scene together in my cluttered mind.
“It’s his favorite,” Bones says.
I don’t respond. I’m seriously regretting my request for a GP pass.
“Take it. Give it to him. Before Chester comes.”
I still hesitate. Bones slams his hand into my chest. I take the pudding and hand it to...
“Gator.”
“What?”
Bones sighs in frustration. “His name’s Gator. On account of his skin is all wrinkled and leathery. That’s what they do in this place. They call you by what you look like instead of your real name. They call me...”
“Bones.”
“That’s right, Bones.” He looks at Gator as he rips open the pudding cup. “He’s harmless, ‘cept to himself I suppose. He was a great man once... well, he claims he was anyway. I didn’t know him ‘fore they stuck me in here.”
“Where is here?”
He looks around. “I don’t really know. It’s just here.”
We begin to walk down the corridor. “Where do you come from?” I ask.
He thinks about the question. “I’m not sure. Still trying to figure that out.” He leans in closer and whispers. “I’m your lookout.”
“What?”
“Archie sent me.”
“Archie?”
He reaches toward his face and mimics pulling it off. “Archie.”
I nod. “Ahhh, yes, Archie. How come he has a name?”
He shrugs. “Guess don’t nobody want to call him what he looks like.” Bones scratches his head. “He says you’re the key.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Neither do I, but if Archie wants me to look out for you, that’s what I aim to do. Won’t nobody hurt you long as I’m around.”
I look at his skinny frame and fight the urge to laugh at his bravado. He senses my skepticism. “Snarkel, snapper momma, jaws, spot, jumper, hambone, Charlie boy,” he says with a smile. “Long as I got that, I’m friggin invincible. You understand?”
I
don’t have the heart to tell him “no” so I nod as if it makes perfect sense.
We reach the janitor’s closet. We both stare at the door as if it might explode.
“No matter what you hear in there, don’t come out,” Bones says staring at the doorknob.
“What am I going to hear in there?”
“Don’t know, but Gator was normal before he went in there.” I look at him wide-eyed.
“Gator?”
He looks at me for a split second before he busts out laughing. “I’m just yanking your chain. Gator ain’t never been in there... or normal, far as I know.”
I look to my left and then to my right before putting my hand on the doorknob. Slowly I pull the door open and step inside the surprisingly roomy closet.
Bones gives me one last reassuring grin as the door slowly closes. “I got your back,” he whispers. As the door clicks shut and I lose all light, I try to convince myself that it’s reassuring to have Bones right outside the door.
I stand motionless, not knowing exactly what to expect or do. The sound of muffled voices comes from the back of the closet. I carefully step toward them. They are high up, toward the ceiling. My eyes adjust to the darkness , and I can make out a vent. The sounds of a conversation escape the metal grate.
The first voice I can make out is Dr. Graham’s. “The other patients look up to you,” he says.
“They’re idiots,” his companion answers back. “It’s kind of like being looked up to by a pack of greasy rats. It don’t mean much.” I know by the comment more than the voice that it’s Archie Scoop-face.
“You shouldn’t dismiss the others so easily.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Yap, yap, yap. For a shrink you sure do talk a lot. Shouldn’t you be listening?”