Body of Immorality

by Brandon Berntson

  He smiled.

  A memory came into focus—an old dog, a white house he might’ve lived in at one time. Didn’t he have a wife, too? What had he come down here for anyway? Coffee? Milk? The photo album?

  Eric didn’t know, couldn’t remember. Instead, he focused on the surrounding, impenetrable black and smiled.

  He had resolve, a plan! He would get that little bastard, the origin of sound, the one who’d called to him, led him down here in the first place! To get there, he had only one thing left to do…

  He tried to nod, but his bleeding head swayed back and forth.

  Eric Durgess launched himself over the edge and into the dark…

  He would find it…He would die trying…

  The bottom became his goal. Whatever, whenever that was…the sound he would make when he got there…

  If you reach the bottom, he thought.

  But he didn’t listen.

  “Yessirree,” he shouted, plummeting through the dark…

  Big, white, beautiful paradise…

  “Bam! Bam!” he cried.

  But only the endless wind rushed coldly by.

  Dreams of Blood

  It was still light outside, despite the gray, bleak February, a cold, lazy afternoon on a Tuesday. He was home already from a long hard day at work, a rough day trying to keep his eyes open as he drove the trucks.

  But it was like clockwork now. When Harper Ellis came home, he went right to the couch, plopped his length upon it, and threw his arm over his eyes. He was asleep in seconds.

  You’re always so tired anymore, Harper, he told himself. What the hell’s the matter with you?

  He didn’t know. The sleepy bug had bitten him. The sleepy bug had come and taken his life away. It was biting him when he woke up, and it was gnawing at him throughout the day. It had been going on for months now.

  You should start exercising, he thought.

  The thought of exercising made him tired. Where was he supposed to get the energy to exercise? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d made dinner, watched a football game, or read the morning paper. How long did a guy have to sleep, for God’s sake? Wasn’t fourteen to sixteen hours enough? Why did he need more?

  The sleepy bug’s made you a zombie. You are not in control of your body! Quit distracting me! Can’t you see I’m trying to get some shut-eye?

  Harper listened to his body, did what it told him. Was that so bad? It was telling him to sleep now.

  Body talks, he thought. Shut-up! I don’t want to miss this!

  Sleep, Harper. ‘Sleep and dream. That’s all we crave. We travel far across the Milky Way.’

  He’d been singing the lyrics to “Love Comes Walking In” by Van Halen for a while now. The line ran through his head more than The Bug Who Ruled Sleep.

  Maybe he was ill.

  And where was Helen lately? Didn’t she care about him? Was she somewhere beyond the walls of sleep, trying to get through? Was she…naked?

  The thought put a smile on Harper’s face.

  He wasn’t hungry anymore, either, but he looked just fine. He looked fit. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten was all. Harper Ellis went to the store sometimes to purchase food, reminding himself he needed to eat, only to watch it expire and turn to mold in the fridge. He knew he must be hungry. His stomach would start growling any minute, any second…

  But no. Never.

  He was content to lie sleeping, going to McDonalds late in the night without realizing it, apparently. He was sleepwalking. That must be it. He’d never thought it possible, never believed it, but here he was now. He was a sleepwalker. He was a drive-thru guy by night, taking the Volvo to Micky D’s in a sleepy, hungry blackout, pigging out on Big Macs and fries.

  The worry (He didn’t have time for it because of sleep.) began when he forced a chocolate bar down his throat. Minutes later—body rebelling—it came back up: an eruption of acid and chocolate staining the shiny white porcelain toilet in a sick, brown splash.

  Sleep had taken over. He wasn’t hungry, yet he wasn’t losing any weight. If he could stay awake long enough to realize it, he might begin to worry.

  Best to sleep…

  Harper waited, looking for Helen, but she never came by, either. When she knocked on the door, he slept right through it. When he did hear the knocking, he covered his ears with the pillow. He dreamed dreams without Helen. She’d be furious.

  He awoke with the same exhaustion after sleep, as if he’d been awake for days and hadn’t slept at all. He knew it happened. Too much sleep often caused more fatigue. Shouldn’t enough rest eventually keep him from sleeping at all?

  It was troublesome, but he wasn’t awake enough to realize the trouble he was in. He had enough sense to get up and go to work. That was all. Harper was dedicated to his job.

  Sleep, perchance. My lifelong lover. You were my benefactor all along.

  Sleep, for Harper Ellis, became an entity.

  He looked forward to it. He loved sleep. Craved it. He built his life around sleep’s philosophies. He’d paint the words on the front door in large, impossible-to-ignore-letters: DO NOT DISTURB!

  He lived his life swinging from hotel doorknobs. Sleep and dream, all he craved. Harper smiled. He knew that song better than anyone else.

  Where was Helen?

  You know, sometimes you just have to sleep, honey. Fourteen to sixteen hours is okay. It’s healthy. Doctors say not living a life is actually better than if you had lived one. Go figure, huh? That’s just the wild, mysterious universe we live in, sweety! I knew you’d understand.

  Maybe Helen wouldn’t see it quite like that. How would he react if it were Helen sleeping all the time? She might’ve forgotten about him by now, started seeing someone new.

  You’re going to lose your girl, too.

  Harper knew what she’d say. She’d tilt her head, lovely, liquid green eyes looking into his—pretty, roseaceous lips trying to grin.

  “What are you trying to do, babe, sleep your life away?” she’d say.

  Harper had lost his sense of self. He questioned the person in the mirror every day now. He didn’t know who he was anymore, when the bills were due. He’d forgotten every priority.

  He hated being bothered, too, as if his solitude (the perfect thing for sleep) was a problem for everyone but him.

  Of course, we can get along. If you leave me the hell alone, we’ll get along great! We’ll be pals! We’ll be fine! See how easy it is? See how things work themselves out?

  Sleep had a redeeming quality: he simply didn’t care. In all actuality, it wasn’t a bad way to live.

  It’s liberal, Harper thought. The way I like it.

  Because of sleep, it was impossible to worry.

  I’ll get a check-up later. Can’t you see I’m trying to sleep!

  Helen would find a way to jimmy the lock. She’d rouse him from his perfect wonderland. She’d wonder why he hadn’t taken himself to a doctor.

  I’m too tired to go to a doctor.

  Her voice came to his mind:

  Jeez, Harpsey, a cup of coffee? Something? Anything to get you motivated, get you moving and out the door! Turn on some lamps. Just because its winter doesn’t mean the sun doesn’t shine. How can you stand all this gloom?

  He enjoyed sleep was the thing, something peaceful about the dead winter landscape, as if a part of him were reaching out, an eternal connection.

  What month was it anyway? Did it matter anymore? The snow fell, still heavily. What more did he need to know than that it was winter?

  How long had this being going on, he asked himself?

  Sleep replied:

  What the hell did I tell you about that worry-crap?

  Just some privacy, some respect to drift away and never come back. Why did people always have to ruin a good thing?

  He was (no pun intended) getting tired of it.

  Silence alone and the darkness of sleep.

  Harper let his thoughts go, a mentor heeding
his every command.

  Yes, no worry, not now. Leave worry for the waking world.

  On the living room couch, Harper fitted the pillow comfortably over his eyes, and drifted away…

  He was asleep in seconds.

  *

  It was good he couldn’t remember his dreams because they were ruinous. When he awoke, blood dripped over the world he knew.

  Did he play some bloody, amphibious role while he dreamed?

  He had gills. He was a blood fish, wading through red currents of water.

  That isn’t me, Harper told himself. I don’t normally wade through rivers this color. I don’t even like those kinds of stories.

  He came up for air, closing his eyes against a scarlet hue. Blood spread against his face as his head split the surface. Content, he dove into the water again.

  The sun was a feeble, rose-colored ball shining through the surface of the bloody water. He’d always preferred the color blue instead.

  Not remembering his life, Harper dove deeper into the blood of sleep. Something like a slaughter was going on down here, and he loved every minute of it.

  *

  The main shipping warehouse for Benny’s Cola was stationed in Longmont, Colorado. Rumors suggested Benny’s was going nationwide. Benny’s Cola was a tasty Colorado Cola, capturing thousands of taste buds across the state.

  Harper’s was one of the main routes. He delivered to local grocery stores, supplying two-liter bottles, twelve packs, six packs, 20 ounce bottles, and one liters (for mightier thirsts). His main stops were Boulder, Louisville, Lafayette, Broomfield, and, of course, the local Longmont area. It was a full day’s work.

  He’d slept through the afternoon and the whole night after coming home yesterday afternoon. It was Wednesday morning now. He’d had enough sense to get up off the couch during the evening, change, go to the bedroom, and sleep for the rest of the night without worry. When the alarm clock went off at 4:45 a.m., Harper showered, brushed his teeth, and put on a clean uniform. He didn’t remember doing any of this.

  Light snow spiraled through the air in the Benny’s Cola parking lot when he stepped out of the Volvo. It was eight minutes to six. He was too tired to realize how cold it was, and appreciated what he did for a living.

  Driving, Harper thought, and rubbed his eyes. The surest thing—when long behind the wheel—to make you sleepy.

  Snow tickled his ears and nose as he walked across the parking lot. He hadn’t combed his hair, and it hung into his puffy brown eyes now. February’s air was wicked, nipping at his bones, digging into his skin. The sun had yet to lighten the sky.

  Cynthia, an eighteen-year-old blonde, sitting at the desk in the lobby, looked concerned when he stepped inside. She said good morning but frowned at him.

  Harper walked by the desk, down the hall, and into the break room where he punched in at the time clock. Again, walking past Cynthia (she raised her eyebrows, filing her nails, chewing bubblegum), Harper stepped through another door and into the warehouse. Another February chill blew in from the open docks where Jason Toofey was loading the trucks with a forklift.

  Jason, a paunchy nineteen-year-old with glasses and bright red acne, owned a pension for blackberry soda and candy bars. He was loading a pallet with 20 ounce bottles onto one of the Hesseys. Hesseys were the route trucks, smaller than the fifth-wheel Harper drove. While Harper supplied grocery and department stores in the local Colorado region with Benny’s Cola, Hesseys were for smaller convenient stores and pop machines.

  At Benny’s—if you worked there—the cola was free.

  The job has its perks, Harper thought.

  A radio in the corner blasted ’80’s metal, a little too loud for this early in the morning.

  Harper’s brain was hazy, befuddled by fog. He was still trying to pry his eyes open when a gust of winter wind rushed in from the open dock to his right. Harper shivered and hugged himself against the chill.

  Winter had snuck up on him. He couldn’t remember Christmas. Nothing sounded better right now, however, than a nice warm blanket, a soft pillow, and the blackness behind his lids.

  Something in this winter, Harper thought. Strange about it. As if life has spiraled out of control without my consent. You could have at least asked me first.

  Harper’s cheeks were ruddy and raw with the cold. His nose ran. His ears stung. He detested waking to cold mornings, having to go to work. Everyone should be able to call in sick through the winter, he thought. Corey, his boss, could’ve invested in a space heater, at least.

  Hey, what did I tell you about worry? said a voice in his mind.

  Harper walked through the warehouse. Pallets of colored cola made towers along the walls. It reminded him of when he’d been hired, the tour Corey Vanderpool had given him:

  “Stacks of two-liters on the west wide. Twelve packs there on the east, six-packs opposite, twenty-ounce, liters (for mightier thirsts) over there, and syrup bags, there.

  “We stack and load according to the order on the invoice. Harper, you’re truck will be at Dock Four. Jason will load it every morning before you get here. You check the invoice. Got it?”

  Harper resisted slapping his heels together and saluting, Yes, sir! Corey would’ve liked that.

  The Hesseys were parked in single file down the middle of the warehouse. Harper was glad he drove the grocery route. The drops were easier on his back (he was able to use an electric hand-jack instead of carting soda in with a dolly like the other drivers).

  Harper’s truck was ready to go. When he looked at Jason, the boy gave him a ‘thumbs up’ and nodded. All Harper had to do was check the invoice.

  Corey Vanderpool, Harper’s boss, stepped into the warehouse from the lobby door, a cigar clenched between his teeth. Harper, despite his lack of (or too much) sleep, laughed to himself.

  Warehouse Supervisor, Director of Operations, and all-out gunslinger was, Corey Vanderpool. The Benny’s employees simply called him, Boss. Corey Vanderpool was the manager, shipping inspector, and marketing advisor. Corey approached his job as if he were head of the Mafia. He took the position seriously, and he looked it. Moussed black hair combed straight back from a fleshy scalp. Everyday, he wore a suit and tie and polished black shoes. A gold watch chain looped outside his breast pocket. He reminded Harper of an agent for billionaire athletes. Apparently, Benny’s Cola—the Colorado Cola—did better than expected. Either that, or Corey had a lucrative job on the side. Maybe a hit man, Harper thought. He should ask the man for a raise.

  It was soda pop, Harper wanted to tell his boss, not The Godfather. As if the way Corey looked weren’t enough, the man—much to Harper’s surprise and worry—carried a .Smith & Wesson .38 in a shoulder holster under his jacket. Okay, Harper thought, the man took his job too seriously.

  So, maybe the guy thinks it is The Godfather, and he’s waiting for someone to screw up. What if I botch a delivery or count the merchandise wrong? Am I going to wake up with a horse’s head in my bed?

  The gun, Harper knew, was eccentric. If the guy had a permit to carry the thing (Corey proved it to Harper one day in his office), and wanted to pretend he was Billy the Kid, or Josey Wales, or Robert De Niro in The Godfather, then more power to him.

  Hey, Boss! Relive any fantasy you want! Just don’t pull the gun on me, will you?

  “I keep it, Harpsey, because it reminds me of Pop,” Corey explained once, “and the way things used to be. Pop had a fetish for guns, and this one was a gift for my twenty-first birthday. I only take it to the shooting range.”

  I think I saw you on an episode of TJ Hooker, you remember? That old show with William Shatner?

  Harper wanted to tell Corey this, but decided—when dealing with a man and a loaded pistol—reticence was probably best. Still, the idea of Corey walking around the warehouse, chewing cigars, and armed to boot, made Harper a little nervous.

  The radio’s heavy guitars, bass, and drums, added pain to Harper’s already tired mind. It was too early, he thought, for
that kind of music. Didn’t anyone listen to Vivaldi anymore?

  Rubbing the glue out of his eyes, Harper collided into Corey Vanderpool, sending the papers Corey was carrying into a flutter. Harper stumbled. Sheets of white descended around him like giant feathers. Corey, like a brick wall, was unfazed. He bent down and gathered the papers off the floor.

  “Oh, man!” Harper apologized. “Sorry, Boss. Didn’t see you.”

  “Whoa whoa!” Corey said, as if riding a horse, still situating the papers.

  Harper blushed, blinked several times, trying to bring his boss into focus.

  “Jeez, Harper,” Corey said, after he’d situated his suit, cigar, papers, and gold chain. “You look like absolute ca-ca. You know what ca-ca is?”

  “Isn’t that a nice warm beverage for cold days like this one?” Harper said.

  “No,” Corey told him. “That’s cocoa. Spelled different; sound different. Are you okay? Getting any sleep?”

  Harper wondered what question he should answer first. “Excuse me?”

  “I said,” Corey repeated. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Aren’t you getting any sleep?”

  “Sleep,” Harper said, yawning. “That sounds good right now.”

  Corey looked concerned, black brows coming together. He frowned

  For God’s sake, I’m not a crack-head! Harper thought. I’m just a little tired!

  “Yeah,” Corey said. “You look like you could use it. What the hell’s the matter? Helen keeping you up nights, got a little chicky at home on the side? Depressed? You been hitting the bottle lately?”

  Why doesn’t the guy ask me to write an essay about it? Harper thought. I come into work on time looking a little sad, and I’m suddenly interrogated by the Mafia with Billy the Kid to cross-examine.

  Maybe he should ask Corey if he could take the day off and sleep on it. It seemed the perfect opportunity.

  “No.” Harper said. “Just not sleeping well. Maybe I have insomnia.”

  “Yeah,” Corey said, unconvinced. “Well, come to think of it—and I didn’t want to say it—but you, Harpsey, have looked like ca-ca for a while now. You know Helen was here a few days ago? She doesn’t know whether to be pissed or worried to death. The least you could do is keep me out of your love life. You’re a handsome man, I suppose, but I only swing one direction. I told her you were fine, but you haven’t looked well. I said you were fighting a bug, needed rest, but you refused to drive, trying to impress me, the boss, the man who signs your paychecks.” Corey held his belt in one hand, the papers in the other. He rocked on his heels, wearing a huge, confident smile, the cigar pinched between the fingers of one hand. “So, what I suggest is this: You, my tired driver, are taking the day off. I’m not gonna have you driving around town as a hazard to the community. Your health, during the day, is my responsibility. I like the cola, but it’s not that important.” Almost as an afterthought, he said, “I can’t believe I just said that.” Corey paused. “Anyway, you catch my drift? Good. You clock out and take your sorry-ass home. Take three days. If you need more—call. I’ll get the sick leave paperwork filled out. Andy can drive your route today. See a doctor. Get Cynthia to make an appointment. Don’t take it personally, Harpsey-chord, but your face worries me. I hope you’re not on drugs. Goodbye, my friend. You’ve been replaced. Enjoy your vacation. Report back to me…hell, give it ’til Monday. You’ve earned it. You’re good, but you need rest. Don’t come back until those bags under your eyes have cleared, and you’ve had a healthy breakfast. Thanks for your time. You’ve been dismissed.”