MirrorWorld

by Jeremy Robinson

  He was dead.

  Reality collided with her, knocking her back. She slammed into the fridge. Sharp pain drew her eyes to her hand. A long shard of glass, covered in blood, poked her palm. She loosened her grip and glanced from the clear triangular dagger to her son’s punctured body.

  The phone rang. It rang and rang and rang, playing backup to her anguished screams.

  Her insides quivered, fear returning, gently molding her actions. She lifted the glass still in her hand. Placed it against her wrist. And pulled.

  Somewhere, a door slammed open. A voice shouted her name. And then, it too joined the pained chorus of despair and parental loss.

  1.

  I want to tell you a joke. The punch line might elude me for a time, but we’ll get there. I tend to ramble. Details make humor more robust, I think, though some would prefer I skip right to the end. Too bad for them; I don’t give a fuck.

  A guy and a girl walk into a bar. He’s a philistine. The build suggests ex–football player. The high-and-tight haircut screams military, but the cocksure way he carries himself tells me he was too chickenshit to handle war and is boosting his ego by intimidating the folks of this small town.

  I don’t know the name of the town. It was dark when I strolled past the WELCOME TO sign. The bar’s sign was well lit, though, THE HUNGRY HORSE. I’m not sure if that’s some kind of reference to something. Maybe there are a lot of horses in the fields around town. I don’t know. Like I said, it was dark. Maybe the bar’s owner just likes horses? I’m not sure if I do. Can’t remember if I’ve ever been on one.

  Can’t remember much beyond an hour ago, which should concern me, but it doesn’t.

  I think I’ll remember the girl hanging on the philistine’s arm, though. Just a quick glance is enough to etch the curves of her body in the permanent record of my short memory. It’s not that she’s beautiful. She’s caked in so much makeup that her true self, and worth, are impossible to see. Anyone with that much to hide is either the victim of unfortunate parentage or concealing their guilty conscience.

  I never wear makeup. At least, I don’t think I would.

  The woman’s voluptuousness is as artificial as her face, and thrice-dyed hair. Something tight hugs her waist. Probably her thighs, too. She’s a too-full sausage, ready to burst. And while her breasts are prodigious, they’re held aloft by an underwire bra capable of holding a child. Nothing about her is honest, except for her eyes—desperate and pleading for attention.

  I don’t give it to her.

  Anyone who does is a fool.

  And there is a fool in every bar.

  The man sitting across the room from me, on the far side of the worn pool table, beneath a neon-pink Budweiser sign and a mounted largemouth bass, watches the giggly entrance with wide-eyed fascination. She might as well be a peacock, strutting about, flashing her wares, entrancing the susceptible. That’s a poor metaphor. She’s not a male peacock, and she’s not simply entrancing.

  She’s luring. Like an anglerfish, she dangles her quick meal, summoning her prey. Much better.

  The fool hasn’t looked away yet. He’s hooked. And he’s been spotted. While the bait takes a barstool, the philistine glares at the fool until noticed. Then he grins, whispers to the woman, and heads for the fool, who is now staring down into his amber drink, wishing he wasn’t himself, or perhaps that he was just someone stronger.

  The philistine stands above the fool, reading from a script everyone knows. “You looking at my girl?”

  The fool shakes his head and offers a polite, “No, sir.”

  The big man chuckles. He knows how easy this is going to be. He glances back at the woman, making sure she’s watching. And smiling. This is for her as much as him. Bruised egos seeking validation through the pain of idiots.

  “You don’t think she’s worth looking at?” The philistine has him trapped now. To say she isn’t worth looking at is to call her ugly, but the opposite confirms that he was looking, and the lie will be enough.

  The establishment is mostly empty. There’s the tender behind the bar, who just looks annoyed by the proceedings. No doubt, he’s seen this charade before and knows how it ends. He confirms this by saying, “Charley. Outside, please.”

  Then there is the man sitting at the bar. He’s at least ten years my senior. Maybe fifty or an early gray late forties. Like me, he’s no fool, not even now that the target has been chosen. He just sips his beer, ignoring, which is ironic because out of everyone here, it’s his job to step in. The bulge beneath the man’s sport coat reveals a holstered gun. While a lot of people in this neck of the woods—New Hampshire—might carry weapons, the piece strapped to his ankle, which I can see clear as day, thanks to his too-short pants, says he’s a cop. Off-duty but, still, an officer of the law.

  And then there is the fool, who is damn near to weeping. He’s scrawny and physically weak but has nice clothes, shiny shoes, and a laptop bag. He probably makes four times as much money as the philistine, has a 401(k); stock options, and a hedge fund, details that fuel the philistine’s insecure rage. The fool’s just passing through. On his way to Boston. Or New York. Maybe visiting family. Just happened to stop for a drink, like me.

  Well, not exactly like me. I’m here because I had nowhere else to go and hoped a little alcohol might help my lost memory return. I’ve got fifty dollars in my pocket. No ID. No keys. No clue about who I am other than the clothes I’m wearing and a name that isn’t a name.

  The fool says nothing. It’s the first right thing he’s done since the bimbo opened the door. But it’s too little too late.

  “Answer me, or I swear to God, I will—”

  “She’s worth looking at,” the fool says, biting hard on the hook, believing incorrectly that insulting the woman would be worse than admiring her body, which is now bouncing like an inflatable fun house full of sugar-doped kids. She’s getting off on this, smiling broadly, nearly clapping.

  The cop does nothing. The bar man sighs.

  The philistine, lost in anger, has nothing more to say. He lifts the fool by his expensive, salmon-colored shirt, cocks back his fist, and grins. The fight—if you can call it that—will be over in one punch.

  Except, it won’t be.

  The philistine’s fist never reaches the fool’s face. It finds my hand instead. Without fully realizing it, I’ve crossed the room. Part of me feels confused, like I’m not sure how my proximity to the philistine changed, but the rest of me understands that everything about this situation is wrong. And that is something I cannot abide.

  The punch stings my hand, but the pain only serves to focus me. And in that moment of clarity, I realize I’ve picked up a pool stick, which I swing with gusto. I’m no fool. Nor do I believe in a fair fight.

  The pool stick breaks over the man’s broad back, pitching him forward with an embarrassingly loud, high-pitched shout. Despite the man’s penchant for drama on the scale of an injury-faking soccer player, he’s far from out of the fight. I have about a second before he swings one of his meaty arms at me. He’ll miss, but the time it takes me to dodge the blow will allow him to recover, and then this could drag on. None of that happens, of course. The cue ball is now in my right hand. I drive it into the man’s forehead. He crumples to the floor, upturning the fool’s table as he descends. Beer and peanuts mix with the blood flowing from his forehead.

  The fool looks up at me with the same wide-eyed admiration he’d given the bimbo, who, I might add, is no longer bouncing or giggling. Her barbarian king has been dethroned by a transient with a two-week beard, messy hair, and a worn leather jacket.

  “Th-thank you,” the fool says.

  I respond to his gratitude by slapping him hard across the face. The resounding clap of his clean-shaven skin sounds like a snapping carrot. I lean in close while the man rubs his reddening cheek, tears in his eyes. “It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.”

  The man�
�s brow furrows. “Mark Twain?”

  I have no idea whom I’m quoting, but I don’t let him know that. I stand up and turn away.

  The police officer has spun around in his chair, watching the scene with indifference. I head back to my table, chug what’s left of my beer, and walk toward the bar with my empty glass.

  I stop in front of the woman, a condescending eyebrow lifted. My eyes tell her that it is she who is ultimately responsible for this mess. She brought the trap. She set the bait. Without her, the philistine would be home watching television. The fool would be finishing his drink and on his way. And I … well, I’m not sure what I’d be doing beyond sitting alone at a table.

  She gets the message, loud and clear, and responds with vehemence, reading from the same script the philistine had been reciting since high school. “Fuck you, pri—”

  Her words are silenced by the sound of breaking glass. She falls to the floor, wrapped around her stool, as unconscious as her boyfriend, or whatever he is. As I put the remnants of my beer stein on the bar, the officer takes action. Apparently, striking a woman is an actionable offense, whereas assaulting a philistine or fool is acceptable behavior.

  Before the gun is fully raised, I clasp my hand atop it, twist, and free it from the officer’s grasp. He’s had a few drinks but is still pretty quick. Just not quick enough. He tries to lift his foot, going for the weapon on his ankle, but I’ve already stepped on his shoe.

  I turn the gun around on him.

  He stops moving but stands his ground, hiding his fear. I respect that, but his inaction offends me. I motion to the philistine and then to the woman. “You should have stopped them.”

  “I couldn’t,” the officer says.

  “You had two guns.” The point can’t be argued.

  “You don’t know who he is.”

  “I know exactly who he is,” I say, speaking of his character rather than his name, which confuses the policeman. “You’re a shame to your profession.” I spin the gun around in my hand, prepared to coldcock the man and be on my way. But a roar interrupts.

  The philistine is awake.

  I turn toward the mountain of a man, his arms spread wide, reuniting with Violence, his long-lost lover. His face is covered in blood. Peanuts cling to the viscous red fluid. He looks like something I can’t quite remember.

  Dodging the attack is easy enough. A quick duck and sidestep is all it takes. The man careens into the bar, but it’s not enough. I consider the weapon in my hand but decide against it. The man deserves a lesson, not execution. But a harsh lesson. I tuck the gun into my jeans as he turns around, coming at me again.

  I meet his rush with a quick jab to his face. He’s stunned by the force of it, but also because he never saw it coming. As he staggers back, I sweep his legs, knocking him onto his back. Before he can recover, I drop to one knee beside him and lift his arm.

  “Don’t!” the officer shouts. He’s got his small ankle revolver leveled at my chest.

  “He needs to learn,” I tell him, then slam the philistine’s arm down on my leg, snapping it like a branch.

  The big man screams anew, his high-pitched wail waking the unconscious woman, who begins to weep.

  “Get up!” the officer shouts.

  I raise my hands and obey. “You could have prevented this.”

  The bartender is on the phone. No doubt with the police.

  “Turn around! Hands on the wall!”

  I obey.

  “What’s your name?” the officer asks.

  This is a tough question, mostly because I don’t know the answer. I have a name. I’m as sure of that as I am that at one point in my past, I had a mother and a father. I can’t remember them either, but the fact that I exist is biological evidence that a man and woman, at some point in the past, copulated and gave birth to a boy. I’d like to think those same people would have given me a name. “I’m Crazy.”

  “You’re bat-shit crazy,” the officer says.

  I look back, over my shoulder. “With a capital C.”

  The officer inches closer. With his revolver pointed at my back, he reaches around my waist, fumbling for the gun I stole. “Don’t move.”

  But I do. Slowly and subtly. I twist away from his reaching hand, drawing him in closer. When he’s all but hugging me, I reach back with my left hand. The bartender shouts a warning, but it’s too late. I twist the revolver away from my back and keep on twisting until the officer shouts in pain and releases the weapon. I spin around, draw the sidearm from my waist, and level both weapons at the police officer.

  “Don’t kill me,” he says, hands raised.

  “I don’t kill people for being incompetent,” I tell him.

  Do I kill people at all? I wonder. I certainly have the ability. I’m fast, and strong, and know how to fight with brutal efficiency. I could kill him, with these guns, with my bare hands, or with a peanut from the philistine’s face. When the officer had first come into the bar, he’d waited for the tender to remove the bowl before sitting down, and then he wiped the bar down with a wet wipe. The man feared peanuts. Allergic, no doubt.

  But I don’t want to kill him, merely educate him. I raise the revolver, aiming for the man’s arm, debating the severity of his lesson. Should I wound him or simply scare him? He’s already scared. But he’s an officer of the law. He failed to serve and protect the fool. He didn’t care about the man’s fate. Didn’t care about his job. Didn’t care about his life.

  “Eat a peanut,” I tell him.

  His eyes widen. “What? Why?”

  “Eat a peanut, or I’ll shoot you.”

  “N-no,” he says. “You can’t. I won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m allergic. I’ll die.”

  “You have a reason to live?” I ask.

  To his credit, the officer thinks on this. “My kid.”

  He’s not sad, like a father who desperately loves his children would be. He’s regretful. “You’ve wronged your child?”

  The officer nods.

  “Bullet it is,” I say, my finger squeezing the trigger.

  Before the round can be fired, I’m struck from behind. I fall to the bar’s hardwood floor, lying beside the writhing philistine and crying bimbo, looking up. The fool stands above me, a pool stick in his hands.

  I grin at the man. “Good for you.”

  The officer recovers his weapons and points them at me as backup storms through the door.

  Turns out, the joke is on me. The philistine is the mayor’s boy. The bimbo is the sheriff’s daughter. And the fool … he’s a clinical psychologist. By morning, I’m committed. And while I believe everyone in the bar needed to learn a lesson, I can’t fault them for the straitjacket or the padded room. I am Crazy, after all.

  2.

  “Hey, Crazy.”

  Three of us turn around. We’re sitting along the back of an old plaid couch. Red, orange, and brown stripes. Ugly as crap from a crayon-eating dog, but it’s become our triple throne from which we can watch TV, which is currently showing The Price Is Right. No volume. All the screaming gets our lower-functioning friends riled up. And since there are twenty-three of them sitting around the room, bouncing back and forth, talking to gods or plotting the world’s end, silence is a good thing. It lets us hear them coming. But really, I just don’t want to get them in trouble or hurt them. After all, they don’t know what they’re doing. They’re crazy.

  Like me.

  Like everyone in this place. Not counting Chubs, the other orderlies, doctors, nurses, guards, and janitorial staff, though some of them are suspect.

  “Which one of us are you referring to, Chubs?” Shotgun Jones asks the orderly, whom we have deemed Chubs on account of his prodigious love handles. Shotgun is Chubs’s antithesis, a skinny man with equally thin glasses and hair.

  “The only one of you who goes by Crazy,” Chubs says.

  Seymour, the craziest of us, claps his hands frantically. “Crazy to the principal’s office!
Ohh, you’re in trouble!”

  “Actually,” Chubs says, “he’s got a visitor, and I needed to know you guys were going to play nice before I brought her in.”

  “Her!” Seymour wiggles his fingers in front of his mouth. His big teeth and wide eyes complete the illusion that the man is an oversized chipmunk.

  “Seymour,” I say. He stops. I look back to Chubs. “They’ll behave. But why does she want to come in here?”

  He shrugs. “Some kind of specialist. Feels comfortable around nut … you guys.”

  “Close one,” I say.

  Chubs smiles nervously. “I’ll go get her.”

  When the orderly is out of earshot, Shotgun taps my shoulder. “You ever get in trouble for … you know?”

  “Breaking his finger?”

  “Crack!” Seymour says a little too loudly, acting out breaking a branch over his knee. Some of our fellow “nutjobs”—the word Chubs is forbidden from saying—look up but don’t move from their positions around the room.

  I shake my head. “No one ever said anything. He’s been a perfect gentleman since.” I slide down from the couch. “I’m going to take a walk. Let me know if she wins the dinette set.”

  The large space is pristine. The white floors glow with a near-magical shine. When I first arrived at the SafeHaven, one word, I wondered why they kept the floor so clean. My first theory was that they wanted to impress visiting relatives. While some people are here for doing violent things, others are committed by loved ones before they get the chance. But I realized the truth after the first fight. Just a drop of blood on the gleaming floor stands out like a stop sign in the snow. Between that, the fourteen cameras, and several sets of watching eyes, committing a violent act inside this space, while not impossible, is hard to cover up. Unless you’re good at it, which, apparently, I am. Broken fingers don’t bleed.

  The large, barred windows draw me toward the light of day. The outer wall is covered with tall windows, allowing those of us trapped inside a view of what we’re missing. I appreciate the ample sunlight, but it’s really just a tease. I can’t smell the rain, or the fresh-cut lawn, or anything else other than the scent of mold-tinged air-conditioning. I’ve considered leaving. I think I could manage it. But if this is where the law and society say I need to be, who am I to argue? I certainly don’t have anywhere else to go.