He tried to rationalize that he was simply being ridiculous with these feelings and his apprehension was completely unfounded. Yes, this store was a bit off and the old-timer at the cash register seemed strangely out of place, but anything else he might be feeling was simply the result of a long tiring flight. “Get a grip Charlie”, he scolded himself.
Wilson approached the sales counter with more than a little trepidation, as the old man waited silently, still wearing that strange expression. Now that Wilson was just a few feet away he noticed, the old man was well into his seventies if not his eighties and that wrinkles and age spots covered his head, arms and hands. The man’s lips were thin and sunken inward as if there were few if any teeth inside the man’s head to help hold their recession at bay. His large eyes were sunken into his skeletal head and dark circular bags hung beneath them. The man’s ears appeared oversized, dangling from his aged skull and Wilson could see tuffs of hair sprouting from within them. The old man’s nose hooked downward almost hanging over his upper lip.
Wilson heard a loud bong sound as the huge grandfather clock next to the sales counter chimed three times. It was 7:45 pm. He saw that the face of the clock was an etched metal plate adorned with Roman numerals. Wilson thought that he might be imagining things, but it looked like the particular font used to create the Roman numerals was actually a series of bones, one vertical bone for the ‘one’ numeral, a single vertical bone with a two bones forming a ‘v’ next to it for the ‘four’ numeral and so forth. The hands of the clock were shaped like a skeleton’s arms with boney fingers pointing out the time. A series of finely detailed woodcarvings covered the body of the clock. As he had also suspected earlier, these carvings were equally as disturbing as everything else in the store had been; depicting scenes of sodomy, murder and virtually every sin imaginable.
Wilson turned back to the storekeeper who was still staring intently at him. Not knowing exactly what to do or say next, he simply said “Good evening” to the strange merchant.
Chapter 2
The old man stood silently for a few seconds, wide eyed as if transfixed in a type of hypnotic trance. Then with a degree of hesitation, he quietly replied, “Good evening.” The old man’s foul breath traveled the short distance across the counter causing Wilson stomach to lurch from an unspeakable stench emanating from the man. Charles was unsure if the vile odor was the result of the man’s breath or his body odor or some horrible combination of both, but the repulsive scent caught him completely off guard. The sickening stench caused him to flashback to a memory from time when he was a boy of about seven.
Wilson found himself hurtled back in time, thrust into a disturbing scene from this impressionable period of his early childhood. He recalled how his aged grandfather had come to live with his family for several months. As he later discovered, his grandfather had not so much come to live with them as he had actually come there to die.
No one had ever actually told him that the old man was dying. In fact, no one said much about what was wrong with his grandfather at all since his moving in with the Wilson family other than that he was ‘sick’. To a young Charlie Wilson, ‘sick’ meant that the old man might have had a head cold, or a flu, or a perhaps stomach virus. He had no comprehension that it might actually mean that the man was dying. In fact, for a time after his grandfather had finally succumbed, young Charlie found himself terrified every time his mother said that he, Charlie, had to go to the doctor because he was sick. After all, his grandfather had been sick and he died.
Years later, as a much older boy, Charles understood that when someone in his family said that one of their loved ones was ‘sick’, or more accurately ‘really sick’ it did not mean that the person had a cold, flu or upset stomach, but it actually meant the person had incurable disease such as cancer. The strange thing to Charles was that no one would ever speak the actual word ‘cancer’. They would skirt around the edges of the disease, perhaps hoping that if they did not call the illness what it really was, maybe it would somehow cease to exist. Perhaps the fear came from some unspoken superstitious fear that saying the ‘C-word’, as it was often known, aloud might cause the speaker of the word to become ‘really sick’ as well. Whatever the case, even at seven years old, regardless of what everyone said he instinctively knew inside that his Pap was not long for this world.
Charles remembered that fateful afternoon when his father took him by the hand and led him to the guest bedroom where his grandfather, lay unconscious, on death’s door. The old man’s translucent almost transparent skin sagged from his bony frame, its ashen color making the man look as though he had already been dead for a week.
Wilson recalled how there had been a horrible smell surrounding the dying man that was almost unbearable. He remembered how as that frightened young boy he had wanted to turn and run from the moldering creature that was once his beloved grandfather, but of course, he could not. Charlie knew that good boys did not behave that way; and he was a good boy. Therefore, with tears welling up in his eyes he stood trembling next to the dying man’s bed, inhaling that nauseating stench trying desperately not to vomit, though to this day he did not know how he had managed to suppress the urge.
As a young boy, Charles had an even more overactive imagination then he did as an adult. He was an only child with few friends, a strong intellect and often spent most of his spare time watching television, reading paperback horror novels as well as amassing a huge collection of comic books. All of this fantastic input only served to fuel his already hyperactive imagination. Because of this creative mind, Charles was able to envision situations that did not exist or could never possibly occur in the real world. Moreover, he was able to do so with as much vivid detail and clarity as if he were actually watching them happen. Although this often helped to fill the young boy’s empty lonely hours with fantastic imaginings, it also had a negative and dark effect, which often made its presence known at the most inappropriate of times.
As seven-year-old Charlie stood trembling next to his grandfather’s deathbed staring at what would soon be and empty cadaverous shell, he started to wonder. What if? What if? He did not imagine that he were a world famous physician capable of healing his grandfather. He didn’t imagine that they were a superhero with super healing powers to reach out and with one touch, make his grandfather well again; no not at all. Instead, as often happened, young Charlie Wilson imagined something incredibly horrible; perhaps the most horrible thing he had ever imagined in his young life.
He wondered what would happen if he found himself alone, in the room with that moldering dying creature, lying there in the foul-smelling stinking bed, that festering thing that was once his beloved Pap. That pile of withered flesh and fragile bones that was once vibrant, strong and full of joy having nothing but kind words for him. He wondered if he were alone with the creature, if he would see him begin to decompose right before his horrified eyes.
Then with as much clarity as if it were actually occurring, Charlie began to see it happen. First the old man’s flesh began melting and sloughing off of his bones, his eyeballs sliding from their sockets, slipping down his decaying cheeks burrowing furrows in the translucent dissolving tissue, then falling onto the sweat-stained pillow below. Flies began to land on the body laying their eggs in its dark, empty eye sockets. The old man’s hideous exposed skull slowly turned toward young Charlie, its fragile neck bones creaking and cracking from the strain. The Grandpa skull-thing stared through its rotten eye sockets now crawling with maggots, looked directly at Charlie, opened its black toothless maw and screamed an ear piercing death howl. From that day on Charles Wilson had that particular odor indelibly etched in his psyche, and always thought of it as the stench of death.
That unmistakable reek was what he now sensed coming from the old man behind the counter. It was as if Wilson could sense the man decaying where he stood, as if he were putrefying from the inside out. Charles understood that like his grandfather, the man standing behind the counte
r was not long for this world. He tried to regain his composure and not show his disgust, which churned down deep inside of him, threatening to overflow in the form of a hot stream of fetid, vomit.
Wilson cleared his throat hoarsely and continued with great difficulty. “I was …uh…surprised to see you were … ah…open this late on a Sunday evening.” Once again, the old man did not respond. He simply stood, smiling with a sunken-lip grin, staring at Wilson with almost a look of awe, as one might react when meeting a famous celebrity. The stench coming form the man was now so palpable to Wilson, that he forced himself to take two steps backward to get out of range of the disgusting odor. He was certain his nasal passages were probably already so full of the reek and that it would take hours of fresh air to rid himself of the foul odor. He could literally taste the death that surrounded the old man. Wilson implored the man though his almost uncontrollable revulsion, “I … I….would …like …. to buy …one of your…”
“..my pre-paid cellular phones.” the old man interrupted in a nasal whiney voice. More of the foul stink wafted across the counter, as Wilson continued to try not to show his repulsion, his hand coming up involuntarily to shield his nose.
Then a second later, Wilson realized that the man apparently knew of his reason for coming into the store, which threw him a bit off balance for a moment. How had the old man known that he wanted to buy a phone? Again, Wilson felt that icy chill begin slither down his spine; snake-like. His legs were beginning to feel like rubber as if they would collapse beneath him not just the ghastly stink flowing from the man or just from his discomfort at the old man’s knowledge of the phone, but also from the strange surrealistic feeling the whole evening was beginning to acquire. This was all becoming all too bizarre, Wilson thought, as he tried to keep his increasingly foggy mind from clouding over completely.
Wilson was usually a ‘fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants’ type of man who could think quickly on his feet to handle virtually any situation that might come up, especially during one of his business exchanges. However, the drug-like feeling he was experiencing in this store was something he had never encountered and he did not quite know what to do about it.
What remained of the rational part of Wilson’s mind came forward and insisted that he was way off base with his apprehensiveness; surely, the old man simply must have seen him looking at the cell phone sign in the window before entering the store. Charles was in no danger from the man, whatsoever. There was no reason to let his wild imagination run away with him yet again. The man was simply a feeble old-timer who apparently missed the hygiene express for a few days, or maybe weeks, but that was all there was to it. Charles decided that the sooner he finished his business and was on his way, the better.
Trying to regain his composure yet still with a feeling a slight pang of uneasiness, he replied. “Yes,…um… a pre-paid phone….” Then he continued awkwardly. “What …. what…types of phones do you carry and…. how much are they?”
“I have only one.” The old man replied, while reaching underneath the sales counter.
Once again, the uneasy, almost frightening feeling overcame Wilson and for a very long upsetting moment, he had an uncontrollable premonition that the old man would come up from below the counter with a version of Dirty Harry’s Smith & Wesson 44 magnum and while still wearing that ridiculous grin, would blow Wilson’s guts all over the store. He had no idea why he felt that way or why the sensation was so overpowering. He became aware of a bead of sweat forming above his lip, as he involuntarily tensed up, the muscles in his arms and neck becoming almost rigid. The hair prickled on the back of his neck as his upper lip was now glistening with sweat. He wondered what, in the name of God was wrong with him. The old man was obviously harmless. Wilson could not understand why he was experiencing so much anxiety.
“Do you only have one type of phone?” Wilson inquired apprehensively; more to calm himself than anything. He was simply trying to make conversation to help put his fears at ease. As the old man slowly lifted his hand from below the counter, Wilson knew that this would be the decisive moment. The moment when the old timer would point the barrel of the massive weapon at Wilson and within two seconds, would splatter his guts like raw hamburger, all over the piles of junk stacked throughout the place. He figured afterward the old guy wouldn’t even have the decency to clean up the mess, since cleanliness obviously was not his strong suit.
Then Wilson imagined the old man releasing a pack of wild starving hounds from the basement of the store. The beasts would swarm his dead carcass, systematically devouring his remains, picking his bones clean, leaving no trace that he was ever in the store, other than his skeleton, which the old guy would probably hang from a pole and sell to some medical college or something. He thought to himself, “Charlie, you have to do something about that imagination of yours.” He recalled how often had he heard his parents say those very words to him as a young child.
“No…One phone.” The old man replied, returning his hand to the countertop and waking Wilson from his nightmarish vision. Charles was relieved to see that the storekeeper did not have a gun ready to blow his head off, but instead the old man had set an odd-looking cell phone on the countertop.
Odd looking was an understatement. The phone was about two inches wide and about four inches tall, blood red, with a row of gaudy sequins encircling the outside edge of the body. It appeared to contain only numeric keys from one to nine and a simple viewing screen. Upon closer examination; Wilson saw that the numeric buttons were over-sized chrome keys shaped like skulls, complete with red eyes and a black nose sockets. It had no ‘0’ key, no send button, just nine numbers with nine ridiculous chrome skull buttons. It looked like something a teenage Goth wanna-be might purchase, or would more likely, shoplift.
The appearance of the phone was appalling to Wilson. It would never do. How could he walk into a business meeting sporting that hideous phone? For a moment, he forgot all about his misgivings concerning the old man and spoke his mind.
“Don’t you have anything else, perhaps more business-like in appearance?” Wilson inquired.
The old man continued to stare at Wilson, his smile of fascination slowly changing to a slight frown of disappointment. Wilson felt that strange sensation crawling back into his stomach. He was starting to think that perhaps speaking so candidly to this old man might not have been the best idea. The old man held out a hand offering the phone to Wilson, who noticed the filthy condition of the man’s fingers. They were black with grime and Wilson could see the underside of the man’s long yellowed chipped fingernails. He did not wish to be rude but knew that there was no way that he planned to take anything from the man’s grubby paw. The old man slowly said, “this one phone is all I have…. and it is meant for you.”
Wilson wondered what the man was implying, saying that the phone was meant for him. It seemed like a very odd thing to say. Between the strange store, the old man’s comments, Wilson’s imagination and his gut sounding warning alarms, everything seemed to be going south in a hurry. The man’s demeanor from the start had been as if he was waiting, was expecting Wilson to arrive. However, how could that possibly be? Wilson understood why he was feeling apprehensive and why his imagination was running away with him, this old man was just plain spooky.
He decided perhaps the best way to proceed for now was to just try to ignore the old man’s mysterious comment. He decided to ask another question, one relating to the functionality of the phone, hoping to deflect what was appearing to be an escalating confrontation, “Well …um…how many minutes does it have preloaded?”
The old man just stared at him as if he hadn’t heard. Wilson continued, “You know, how …. How many minutes will I get on this phone?…. How long can I use it?”
“It has whatever you will need,” the old storekeeper said cryptically, continuing to stare at Wilson, with a far away expression.
Again, Wilson found himself perplexed by the storeowner’s enigmatic reply. His original fear
s were subsiding and now he was becoming just plain annoyed with the entire situation. He thought to himself with frustration, “Can’t this old coot answer a simple question in plain English? What is it with all the mysterious responses?”
He realized that he was in no real position to debate with the shopkeeper and knew that the sooner he wrapped up this transaction the better. He needed a phone and if this was all the storekeeper had then he had to either take it or leave it. He said aloud in frustration more to himself than to the storeowner, “Well, I guess it’s my own damned fault for forgetting my phone…”
“Damned indeed.” The old man interjected. Now that eerie grin had returned to his wrinkled face. Wilson realized that not only did the storekeeper have the upper hand, but also that the old man knew it, and was enjoying it immensely. Wilson looked into the old man’s eyes and for a moment was once again reminded of his childhood experience with his dying grandfather and the imagined grinning skull opening its mouth to howl its cry of death. Wilson would not have been surprised to see this old man shriek that very death howl right now. Wilson felt the chill return and begin creeping down his spine as he looked at the disturbing smiling face of the ancient merchant.
Wilson tried to work around the lump in his throat and continued uncomfortably, “Um… well… how much is it?”
The old man, said, “Do you really feel you are in a position to negotiate price?” The directness of his reply surprised Wilson, catching him off guard.
“L…l….look,” Wilson stammered, “I need the phone, alright? I just don’t like the idea of you trying to take advantage of me.”
Burn Phone Page 2