by Ford Collins
Sometimes Lowell hit a wall. If there was no middle ground to be reached, he would tuck the incompatible ideas away to revisit when more data became available. One such case was a recurring tendency of some, especially those considered to have been in a role of authority, to misspeak badly when talking to Lowell.
A chemistry teacher in his high school once smiled at Lowell as he passed by in a hallway, then called back to him to tell him he had “the devil tied in a paper sack at his desk” if Lowell wished to stop by later and have a look. Lowell said nothing and stared at the teacher with an expression that must have approximated horror, because the older gentleman sputtered to clarify, “The… the paper? I… you’re all to sign it at my desk… Back at my desk in the classroom.”
Lowell stood silently, and the teacher smiled awkwardly then sped off back to his classroom. He didn’t make eye contact with Lowell for the rest of the semester, and did his best to avoid being alone with Lowell in any classroom or hallway again, although he was sure that he’d been talking about an innocuous assignment of lab partners for an upcoming class.
(Call me Tom) Schiff asked him if he could see himself killing anyone in the next five years. Tom didn’t get flustered as the chemistry teacher had, and corrected himself quickly and confidently. But the fact remained that both men, and perhaps a half dozen adults like them since Lowell’s early teenage years, hadn’t only made mistakes while speaking, but had erred in ways that ranged from frightening to extremely offensive. Lowell had ruled out his own error in perception, as he’d not only heard them all clearly, but watched their lips and tongues moving in exact sync with what he’d heard.
It had never bothered him, as he knew, maybe better than anyone, that men are prone to making errors that reveal their true selves much more efficiently and fully than their intended actions ever could. He’d watched people stumbling over their own mouths for most of his life. There is no place to hide from one’s own mind, and words are unreliable heralds for the inner self.
Lowell could make allowances for errors in judgment when aired via speech. Those whose words offended and whose body language and actions corroborated their language were the ones Lowell most harshly criticized. To knowingly offend someone with speech in tandem with inappropriate physical action was beyond unacceptable.
The creatures who employ that sort of behavior were classified in his mind as close relations to the horse fly. They make a lot of noise while hovering around waiting to take advantage of their victims, they landed painful biting attacks—often for the sole sake of being offensive, and they often inspired repulsion and fear in those who saw them approaching.
Lowell never stepped in to act on behalf of the targets. He couldn’t make himself part of the interaction without tainting the outcome. Beyond that, he had no desire to assist either party. He made a practice of not decreasing others’ quality of life and expected them to do the same for him. It rarely worked out entirely as he would hope, but he stayed dedicated to his detached existence in the presence of confrontation.
His thoughts had carried him only as far as the bridge over I-490. A cold twinge shot down each of his fingers, which were locked onto the steel fence topping the sidewalk rails to deter jumpers.
The cars and trucks bulled through the darkening path before him, disappearing under his feet and through the gateway of steel and concrete. Headlights burned channels into the pavement, as box trucks lumbered like oxen between streams of the sleeker beasts of the highway.
Staccato blasts of a troupe of motorcycles tore through the hum and shook Lowell’s insides as they shot the arch beneath him. They carried their din with them and slid on into the gathering gray.
Lowell unhooked his hands from their perches on the fence and tucked them back into his pockets. He walked on down Goodman, through the ashen refuse growing like vines across the faces of the weeping properties, and headed left on Monroe.
For the first time in years, Lowell wondered what had become of his mother. But, as he had no longing to dwell on questions he couldn’t answer, he rose above his body and watched it travel on, head down and shoulders pulled high to warm its neck.
From his height, he could see the lights of the business district rising a mile away and gleaming like a beacon in a passing storm.
[Twenty]
Beyond Alexander Street he walked, passing a firehouse whose face reflected rooftops and trees toward East Avenue in a hundred squares of glass. Each pane was an abstract landscape on its own, but also a piece of a mural that Lowell guessed reminded birds of escape, and terrestrial animals of desires always beyond reach.
Nothing stirred within the building as the engines rested in shrouds of dim blue light.
Farther down Monroe, Lowell approached The Fly Trap. The small bar and club served as a showplace for local bands and artists, exhibiting paintings and sculptures in the seating area around the bar, with a small stage tucked into the front of a second room. Canned punk vibrated the windows and spilled out into the streets nearby. It was early for a show, but on Sundays they tried to get the bands on and done early.
Lowell paid the three dollar cover and passed through the club’s front door. There was a healthy crowd milling around back and forth from the stage side to the bar. All of the booths were occupied and the smaller tables had been cleared out in hopes of a population surge.
In the corner farthest from the door stood Lauren, wedged between a young man (long, gangly, shaven-headed, in too-tight black jeans, a powder blue lab smock, and a hat that looked like a piece of dark green felt folded into an origami whale) and a young lady (pudgy, frumpy, wearing large, clunky cat-eye glasses, a white t-shirt, and baggy black overalls). Lowell thought the girl looked vaguely familiar but couldn’t place from where.
Lauren was directly beneath an orange ceiling lamp that floated ten inches above her head, so that most of her face was hidden in a shadow extending from the rolled bottom of her tasseled ski hat. Hair that hung below the hat was pulled back behind her ears, and she wore her glasses.
Lowell hadn’t yet decided whether to duck next to the side of the bar nearest him to avoid being seen or to approach her and say hello, when she jumped up to her toes and waved him over.
He unbuttoned his coat and approached the trio slowly.
Lauren set her pint down, nudged through her associates to reach Lowell, wrapped her arms around him tightly, and yelled “Heeeyyyyy!” into his ear to be heard over the clamor. She reeked of beer, and put most of her weight awkwardly onto Lowell’s arms and chest on impact.
“What are you doing…” Her eyes widened, and she held a hand over her open mouth as she spoke. “Oh, my god, no… Wait, am I dead? Please tell me I’m not dead. I’m supposed to pick up my mother at the airport tomorrow after work and she’s going to be pissed if I’m too dead to get there.”
“Can’t promise anything, but as far as I can tell you’re still alive.”
Lauren wiped her brow with a flourish and retreated back under the floating orange lamp.
“Phew… Don’t get me wrong, I love my mom, but I’d rather eat my own face than listen to her bitch about how she never should have let her kids wear digital watches growing up because now they can’t tell time for…”
She caught herself and nodded, acknowledging the benignly odd turn the conversation had taken almost immediately. “Yeah, so, what brings you out on this fine evening, Mister Mystery Man?”
“Boredom.”
“That’s it? C’mon, that’s the best ya got? You can do better than that, sport.” She reached back and retrieved her glass.
“My pet rock threatened to bludgeon me as I slept if I didn’t go out and dance in front of strangers tonight.”
“Good-a reason as any. You gonna get comfortable? Maybe stick around awhile?” She pointed to his hat.
“I’m trying to be trendy. I think I’ll leave it on.”
Lauren smirked and signaled “OK” with her non-pint hand. Suddenly, she looked to either s
ide of her as if shocked to find they weren’t alone.
“Oh my god! I’m sorry, I’m sorry… Lowell, this is Aaron,” (the tall hipster) “and this is Allie,” (the short square).
“Allison,” Allison said.
“Allison,” Lauren said.
“Guys, this is Lowell.”
Lowell nodded at all three of them.
Aaron and Allison waved limply, smiled as if they’d simultaneously been stricken with explosive diarrhea, and went back to moping into their drinks.
“So now I’ve squished your mandate to dance in front of strangers. What are you going to do about it, hmm?” She leaned her face into Lowell’s, trying to look menacing but not quite pulling it off.
“There are plenty of folks left here to shock and dismay when the time comes.”
“Alright, alright. But I’m holding you to it. I’ve got Rocky’s cell on speed dial, just in case.”
“Claude.”
“Claude?”
“His name is Claude, not Rocky. So whatever pet rock you spoke with slipped one by you.”
“Damn it! Why are all the cute ones lying bastards?”
Aaron peeked down at Allison and cleared his throat. “Lauren, we’re going to go get some…”
Lauren cut him off without breaking eye contact with Lowell, “Sounds good. Have fun.”
Aaron looked again to Allison and shrugged, and the two vanished in a cloud of venom into the growing mob around the bar.
“You have nice friends. Very inviting. Warm people.” Lowell jabbed his thumb in the direction of the recently departed.
“Don’t you knock my friends, you big hypocrite, you!”
She punched him on the shoulder and took a gulp from her glass.
“Hypocrite?”
“I’ve had cactuses less prickly than you, Lowell.”
“Not prickly. I’m laconic. I enjoy quiet. There’s a big difference.”
“Yeah? Well you’re too quiet. In fact… You’re downright shady.”
“Oh, is that so?”
“Absolutely. In fact, you’re positively ominous.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome. Now let’s go be ominous in the other room. I think the band’s about to go on.”
As they swung by the bar, Lauren grabbed two more pints and handed one to Lowell.
He thanked her and followed behind in the line she carved to the far corner, where a small platform rose up to create a perfect spot to watch the show from.
“Who’s playing tonight?”
She sipped from her glass, and tapped the wall above her head.
There was a poster of a poorly drawn horse wearing what looked like a horned Viking helmet and standing on its back legs, while clutching its enormous penis in one front hoof and somehow making devil horns with the other. Lightning bolts shot out of the tip of its erection and spelled the word ‘Appaloosa’.
“Huh. I don’t know,” Lowell grimaced and tipped his glass toward the poster. “I’m not really into Christian rock.”
“Oh, and he’s a funny one, too!”
An ear-splitting crash came from the stage, frightening everyone in the room, and causing Lauren to spill most of her drink down the front of her pants. The band was climbing into position on the stage, and the drummer tripped over a microphone stand and knocked over one of his cymbals while reaching out to break his fall.
“Damn it!” Lauren held the glass out away from herself and looked down at the puddle around her feet. “I was thirsty.”
She set her beer down in the corner of the platform and took off her glasses. Her drink had splashed up and landed on one lens. She used a corner of her shirt sleeve to wipe the drops off.
Lauren looked down at her jeans as she retrieved her now not even close to a pint, then looked at Lowell. “You’ll vouch for me if someone points at my pants and laughs, right?”
“I’ve got your back.”
“Thanks.”
“So, have you ever heard their stuff before, pee pants?”
“Yeah. They’re pretty, sort-of, kind-of, almost not bad.”
“Huh.”
“And after the show, you’re a dead man.”
“Sounds good.”
“I’ll bet.”
The show began.
Appaloosa blundered and blared through a set of about fifteen or so metal-hardcore-punkish songs, making up for their obvious lack of technical proficiency on their instruments with a tremendous, manic stage presence.
Lowell couldn’t say he was impressed, but he was entertained.
He stopped drinking after his first beer, to the dismay of Lauren, whose pants eventually dried up, even if her pleasantly numbed brain hadn’t. Her post-spill drink was her last as well, but she’d had a good head start on Lowell.
Aaron and Allison were long gone by the time Lauren and Lowell wandered back to the bar and Lauren paid her tab. She’d mentioned to Lowell during the set that she lived near enough that she could walk home, so they left The Fly Trap and walked southeast down Monroe toward their homes together. Neither said a word for the first few blocks.
“It’s quiet out here.” Lowell looked up into the clear, starry sky, and tried to stifle a yawn as he spoke.
“You know, I can see your mouth moving, but all I can hear is ‘byyyoooooooo!’” Lauren laughed, shrugged her shoulders, and raised her hands, palms up, in a ‘What are you gonna do?’ pose.
“They were a wee bit loud, yes.”
She nodded for a second or two, then her face contorted in urgency, and she stopped walking.
“Hey, uh… If you were planning on slipping me tongue tonight, you might want to get a move on, cowboy. I think I’m about to puke.”
“You have such a way with…”
She spun behind the corner of a vacant office building and emptied her stomach across the wall and pavement, gripping the stone edge for support.
“…words.” Lowell got the last syllable out between Lauren’s forceful heaves.
Once done, she sheepishly pivoted back from around the corner, and looked to the ground. “Yeah. So that was pretty awesome.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Lowell avoided looking at her as well, but only to keep her from feeling any more self-conscious than she already did.
“You say the sweetest things, Mystery Man.”
“That’s Mister Mystery Man to you, actually.”
“Haha… So proper, this one.”
At the corner of Meigs and Monroe, Lauren stopped again. “This is my exit, good sir. Thank you for walking me home. And thanks for hanging out with me tonight.”
“I… I had fun. Thank you again for the drink.”
“Sure thing. You’re a cheap date. I like that in a guy.”
They smiled at each other for a moment, then looked away.
Lowell thumbed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose and coughed lightly. “So, you’re okay from here?”
“Yes, dad.”
“Hmm.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Lowell.”
“Goodnight.”
“G’night.”
She walked beneath a street light, took her first right turn, and disappeared. Lowell watched until she was gone, and then headed for home.
It wasn’t until he turned off Monroe and onto Oxford that he realized he’d been smiling again. It still felt uncomfortable, he thought, but this time he refrained from opening an official investigation into the phenomenon.
He climbed the stairs to his apartment, took off his coat and shoes for the first time that day, and walked to the bathroom to get cleaned up for bed. He crossed through the dining area three times before retiring to his bedroom for good, and never once glanced at the letter, which still sat bloodied and unopened in the middle of the table.
He had very little on his mind, in fact, as he drifted off, and that Sunday night Lowell slept well.
[Twenty-One]
Lowell’s head felt light, and his stitches itche
d as he spun a quarter turn onto his back and dropped his feet to the floor from the bed. He’d knocked the snooze button with the side of a fist to kill the blaring alarm before sitting upright, and now switched it off completely to keep it from scaring the life out of him nine minutes later.
He plodded through the kitchen and into the bathroom, absent-mindedly rubbing his itching scalp until a bolt of electricity shot through his skull and down his neck, repulsing the fingers away from the healing wound. He tried to bend down and get a good look at the stitches for the first time in the bathroom mirror, but the angle made it impossible. Gently brushing his palm over the area, he thought it felt sealed enough to pull the stitches before they were trapped under the flesh permanently.
Digging around in his medicine cabinet, Lowell found a pair of cuticle scissors he guessed would be small enough for the job. He followed the faultline with his fingertips and snipped at the thread as close to the wound as possible without touching it. Once all the loops were cut, he began to slide the remnants out one at a time.
The burning and throbbing of the original procedure returned, but at a much less intense level. The sensation of pulling the thread under the skin was nauseating, but he continued the work as quickly as possible. The last few pieces were the most difficult to remove, as the blood made the thread slippery. He bore down, tightened his jaw, and popped each half-inch of thread out as mechanically as he could until he was finally unbound.
He pressed an open hand down over the entirety of the closed laceration. It came back with a few light streaks and blobs of red. He ignored the stinging and went about the remainder of his morning routine as normally as he could.
The sky was still a gunmetal gray as he stepped down the front steps of his apartment house and studied the street. Cars passed the end of Oxford on Monroe in a steadily more dense stream—the commuters who worked on this side of downtown were cutting corners and shaving twelve seconds off their drives.
Up Oxford in the opposite direction, Lowell saw Norman approaching.
Norman walked with his head down until he came to within fifty feet of where Lowell stood. Once he noticed Lowell, he acted as though he hadn’t, but slowed his pace markedly.