“That’s kind of sad, isn’t it? It’s like a great big mousetrap. If the point of this place is to do your time, learn, and move on, why plant something so cruel out here?”
“I’m not saying it’s right. I don’t have an answer for it. That’s just how they run this place.” I shrugged. “You work with Uriel. I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear your complaint.”
“I guess.” Mia sighed and pulled closer to me.
Like a whirlpool in a sea of scrap and junk, the Edsel sat in the center. It was a force to be reckoned with—a preternatural pull, drawing us ever closer. We gazed at the polished chrome, the sky-blue paint job, the plush pristine interior.
“That’s what we came for.” I turned toward Mia, but she was already running. She vaulted over the driver’s side and into the passenger seat with unexpected grace. With a flick of her hair, she nodded toward me, beckoning me to share the bench seat with her, like a scene from the silver screen.
“Give you ten out of my first paycheck if you can make it, too.”
“You’re on,” I said. I was James Dean, running my hand through my hair and flashing her a devilish grin. I took a few steps back so I’d have room, then ran at full speed. I leapt as high as I could and slammed hip-first into the side of the door, landing with my face in her lap. Rebel without a clue.
“I’ll be honest,” she laughed, “I can’t give it a full ten, but you stuck the landing. Silver medal at least.” I was certain the entire scrap graveyard heard her laughter, enveloping us all like a blanket. As I sat up, I couldn’t help but chuckle with her. I’d never felt this way here. Had I even been capable of this happiness back when I was alive?
“So,” I said. I wanted to say “Mia, do you want to just run away? We could get a car from the lot and drive off. I don’t know what’s out there and I don’t care, because I could spend the rest of eternity figuring out every little thing that makes you smile.” I didn’t.
“So?”
“So, we’ve got a little time to kill before the show starts,” I said.
“Oooh. A show? Do the mechanics sing and dance? Did you bring me to the junkyard opera? Oh, Owen! Be still my beating heart!” She pressed a slender hand to her forehead in an exaggerated manner, as stray strands of her hair shook her saltwater smell into the breeze. My sideways glance did nothing to deter her as she adopted a barely passable Southern drawl. “Why Mistah Owen, you-ah just such a romantic. How could I evah repay you fo-ah this kahndness?”
I howled with laughter at her hyperbolic display. She lifted her legs up and over the side of the Edsel and planted her head firmly in my lap, looking up into the great big monochrome from behind a scratched pair of aviators.
“But no, really. Are they about to break into a dance battle, because we’re going to need some popcorn if that’s the case.”
In that moment, I knew that this was not lovesick, puppy affliction. The way she spoke. Her sense of humor. Those eyes. The way her head fit perfectly in my lap, like the last missing puzzle piece falling into place. I was absolutely, hopelessly hers. And yet, I miraculously maintained my composure.
“No, not quite. They’ll be too busy trying to get these hunks of scrap up and running. Besides, most of them look like they’ve got two left feet anyway.” I glanced down at her. “If beardo over there bends over and starts snapping his fingers West Side Story-style, he’ll probably pull a muscle in his back.”
I reached for the ignition. The keys, attached to a keyring with a dangling pair of dice, waited patiently. Mia slid her sunglasses down her nose, just far enough to uncover those oasis-like pools, and looked toward the key. Her hand over mine, we turned the key together. The ancient engine roared out like a thunderclap, blood pounding through us as our hands separated. The speakers buzzed to life, and Del Shannon’s voice drifted out like a soul released. “I’m a-walkin’ in the rain, tears are fallin’—”
“I wasn’t expecting it to turn over,” Mia said, wild-eyed.
“Don’t get too excited,” I said, tucking my thumb through one of her belt loops. “The get-up-and-go is still gone. I tried. You couldn’t get this thing out of here with a giant, Wile E. Coyote magnet. She’s stuck for good.”
“Don’t worry, I’m catching on quick. This is the kind of place where you buy new shoes and step in shit right away. I’ve been waiting for this car to fall apart since I jumped in. You’re here to cushion the fall, right?” She adjusted her glasses and opened her mouth to say something else, but the radio howled out and interrupted her.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaallllllriiiiiiight. That was Del Shannon with ‘Runaway,’ baby, and before that we had ol’ Elton John for ya. Yeah, he shall be ‘Levon,’ and he shall be a good man, and I shall be the Wolfman!”
The man’s voice—a handful of thumbtacks coated in honey—brought an odd sense of serenity. The radio seemed to light up with every word. “That’s right, this is Wolfman Jack, broadcasting way out here on the outskirts with a tower full of power. You can hear me here in Heaven, I know you’re picking me up down there in Hell, and maybe even In-Between. So, ride with me tonight, baby. We’re full of zing here in the station, and it is out of sight. I got all kindsa rock an’ roll for ya, put a little pep in ya step, a little life in ya afterlife.”
We sat silently as time dragged on, with Wolfman Jack as our wax-spinning spiritual guru. He played rock ‘n’ roll, and it was alright. With her head on my lap, she clutched my arm with the kind of desperate loneliness that builds up after years of dissatisfaction. The warmth from her body could’ve lit a fire that would swallow this place whole. To be honest, I’d have been perfectly content to turn to ashes right there next to her. But I wanted to know everything. I fought the urge to ask how she’d gotten here. I couldn’t find any scars, any burns, any marks. I wanted so desperately to know, but I settled on lighter fare as the radio played on.
“What did you do back home?” I asked, embarrassed that I couldn’t think of a better question.
“Would’a taken you out dancin’ but ya too good lookin’” drifted from the static-laden speakers.
“I used to exclusively latch on to cute guys, lure them in with my feminine wiles, and then BAM! Axe murder. I don’t mean to brag,” she deadpanned, “but I’m kind of a famous serial killer. And you, my friend, are lucky that I haven’t seen one axe lying around here.”
“Well shit,” I said. “There’s plenty of sharp things around here. I’m pretty sure you could do it anyway.”
“Puh-leeze. I’m a lady with standards. It’s axe murder or no murder, thank you very much.”
My fingers tangled in her pale blonde hair—soft and shimmering, and slightly damp—as I rested my arm comfortably across her stomach. When my gaze caught hers, I couldn’t help but blush. I smiled like a ten-year-old on a sugar high. Had she been Medusa, I’d have made the goofiest-looking statue in all of existence.
She brought her hand to my face, scratching comfortingly at the scruff. One tiny little hand sucked the chill right out of the night air. Everything was so warm in that moment, I believed that if I closed my eyes long enough, I’d open them to find that all the colors had returned and the Edsel was up and running; and that we’d never died, and were just parked on some back road in a long-forgotten decade, somehow, some way, still together.
That comforting gesture was meant to distract from the slender fingers tracing the ridges on one of my forearms, and the sucker punch disguised as a question.
“Owen, how did you get here?”
Fuck!
9
At twenty-one, I felt closer to sixty-one. My life hadn’t fallen apart—it was unbuilt, as if some kid had started on a Lego set and given up halfway through, only to come back later and find that the dog had eaten the remaining pieces. I couldn’t shake the feeling of being incomplete and empty, a hollow shell of a human being, a cocoon that would one day burst open, releasing not a butterfly but a puff of stale air.
Thinking back on it, August 16 wasn’t a
particularly bad day, just sort of unremarkable. I’d gotten up early with a full to-do list, yet accomplished absolutely nothing. My ex-girlfriend’s bills were still coming to my apartment, I had a few CDs I’d promised to mail to a friend, and I had a job interview scheduled. Not a bit of it mattered. My bed was safe and inviting. It wasn’t going to look at me in a worried manner. It wasn’t going to ask me difficult questions such as, “Do you want insurance on this package?” or “Where do you see yourself in five years?”
I didn’t see myself anywhere in five years. I couldn’t even see myself in five months. Thinking five days ahead was enough to give me a crippling anxiety attack. I was fucked up beyond repair, thinking that I was supposed to know the exact trajectory of my life and ignoring the fact that, at twenty-one, I barely qualified for adulthood. Everyone around me was taking gigantic strides forward— framing degrees, marrying each other, popping out babies. At my age, my father already owned his first home. He’d put a ring on my mother’s finger and was working his way up the corporate ladder. And me? I was eating cereal for dinner and losing games of solitaire at three in the morning because falling asleep meant waking up to more of the same, tired shit.
I was listless, unhappy, and filled with despair. School couldn’t hold my interest, and I dreaded my impending return. I didn’t want to go out. I didn’t want to stay in. I simultaneously wanted to see all my friends and felt guilty for subjecting them to the gloomy, dismal husk I’d become. It was safer to stay in all the time. I spent the entire summer in my apartment, and I wasn’t prepared to leave it come fall semester. I practically made it my own little tomb. If I’d had any business sense I would’ve waited for October to roll around and charged an entrance fee: “Come one and all, see the hideous ghoul in 221B!”
I stayed in my bedroom until half-past two, only leaving the solace of my blanket fortress to replace the tape in the VCR. Eventually, the sun pierced the veil of blackout curtains, and the glare on the television screen roused enough frustration to get me out from under the covers. I left my bedroom only to collapse on the couch, smacking around for the television remote. The set flickered to life and greeted me with one of those awful afternoon People’s Court shows. The middle-aged woman judge was squabbling with the defendant from behind an outdated set of bifocals, chiding him for his complete lack of responsibility. The defendant took it in stride, smirking in his pressed shirt and khakis and retorting in a way that only enraged the judge further. She hurled venom with every syllable as she delivered her verdict in favor of the plaintiff, the defendant’s smirk disappearing into a scripted scowl. I never bought into the reality of these things. I hated what I saw on my screen with every fiber of my being.
I watched it for another three hours, unable to summon the energy to do anything else.
Ambling into the kitchen after finding a cached reserve of strength, I set about making a package of ramen noodles that had been in the back of my cupboard for at least six months. Halfway through boiling them, I discovered that the package didn’t include the usual seasoning. I wasn’t surprised. I ate the noodles anyway—tasteless, gummy, and wholly unappealing—straight from the pot, mumbling between half-assed slurps that I probably didn’t need all that sodium anyway. The pot and I made strange bedfellows, lying together on the kitchen floor. I lacked motivation to do anything. It all began to sink in. I could either stay like this, hapless and crippled by hopelessness until the end of time, or I could stop it all.
The thought had been creeping around my head for months. At first, it came late at night, like a sinful creature afraid of the sun, whispering into my ear when I just couldn’t manage to fall asleep. A part of me was convinced that catharsis would come with the kind of long, final rest that follows a few too many pills, and that part of me grew ever more influential as the days dragged on. Eventually, the thought would come earlier, on lonely evenings when I couldn’t muster the strength to get off the couch and go out for a drink.
The thought occupied the couch with me, lingering in the air. It sat heavy on my back, a monkey begging for attention and flinging shit at everything I saw. One day, I missed the bus, and I had to fight the urge to step directly into oncoming traffic in broad daylight. At that point, I knew it was only a matter of time. Laying there, cuddling like a newlywed with an empty pot of instant noodles, I knew the time had come. I peeled myself from the kitchen floor, and for the first time in months, I walked with strength and confidence.
I cleaned my apartment in silence—piling up trash, straightening magazines, scrubbing mold out of glasses that hadn’t been touched in weeks. I carried the garbage down three flights of stairs with a smile on my face, waving at passersby on the way down and leaping up the steps on my return. I took a long look around my apartment, properly clean for the first time in months, no longer an embarrassing sty. I would have been filled with a sense of pride and accomplishment, but my work was not yet done.
I grabbed a clean glass from my shelf and a small bottle of over-the-counter aspirin from the cabinet above the sink—the kind of pills that don’t do much except thin your blood. I filled the glass with cold tap water, popped open the child-proof cap, and swallowed as many as I could. Scanning my CD shelf, I found what I was looking for and slid it into the stereo, twisting the knob on the speakers, watching the colors on the equalizer rise from a calming blue to a bright red. I melted into myself as August and Everything After filled the empty air of the apartment.
I was officially done with this depression. I was the conquering hero, slaying my dragon once and for all. It was time.
I traipsed toward the bathroom, flicking the fluorescent lights on and slamming the door behind me. I stopped in front of the mirror to make sure I could still hear the stereo. I could. The lines developing on my face from the awful combination of too little sleep and too much, they seemed to soften. I smiled again. It was going to be okay.
The shower handle screeched as I turned it, discharging steaming hot streams from the shower head. The torrent hit the linoleum tiles forcefully as I pulled at my clothes, tossing them into the corner basket. The water was warm and inviting and, like a participant in some last-ditch baptism, I almost felt it all slip away. Every bit of stress, every depressing moment and memory, the anxiety that clung to me like playground dirt—I could feel it all carried away by the water, circling the drain and slipping down into the pipes. In that warmth, that relief, I felt justified. Absolved. I was at peace.
I didn’t think about my mother, my father, my brother, my ex-girlfriend, my friends, my therapist, anyone. I didn’t think about how much every little day-to-day activity hurt. I didn’t think about my faith, what my priest might have said. I didn’t think about who would have to pay off the rest of my rent for the year, or what would happen to all of my stuff. I didn’t think about what was going to happen after. I didn’t think to write a note. I didn’t even think about how badly the cuts throbbed. I just listened to the music. I didn’t pay any attention to how many times I dragged the safety razor across my forearms, or the loud thud as the razor dropped to the shower floor. I didn’t notice the slashes beginning to sting under the water and steam. I didn’t look down as I slumped against the shower wall. I couldn’t look down anymore.
And then I wasn’t looking at anything. My eyes closed tight. Even through the water beating down on me, I recognized the tears leaking down the side of my face. I tried to ignore everything else and just listen to the stereo. I sang along when I could, humming when I couldn’t. I didn’t make it through the album.
10
She sat straight up in the passenger seat, aviators long since removed, staring at me in shock and horror. I knew this without looking. I could feel that tidal wave crashing over me, yet I still couldn’t take my eyes off the speedometer, its needle fixed, stone-like, halfway between twenty and thirty. My foot drifted toward the pedal as my trembling hands found their way to the steering wheel.
I hadn’t told the story before, not like that. Michae
l had everything in my file when I got here, and we discussed it, but never in depth. Jonas noticed the jagged ridges and never once asked, but I’d shrug at him during rushes and flippantly mime nicking my wrists. No one on the buses, no one on the streets, no one in the Depot had ever really inquired. Suicides were understood, and the scars and signs were obvious.
My foot dropped on the gas pedal like my shoe was made of lead, forceful enough that I was certain I’d bust through the floorboard. All I wanted to do was run, but the engine didn’t roar. The wheels didn’t spin. The needle of the speedometer froze lamely in its comfort zone.
“Get up on out yer cars and dance now. Your hearts may not be beatin’ anymore, but the heart of Rock ‘n’ Roll is, baby, and I’ll tell you what, here’s a little Huey Lewis now, and he gonna give you the news. Yeah that’s right baby, he’s gonna tell you all about the ‘Power of Love.’”
The Wolfman howled one last time, and the radio cut to static before the song could begin. Mia reached across my arms, still stiff, unyielding, and ready to steer this hunk-of junk-Edsel out of here if the engine would just . . .
The cool palm of her hand landed squarely on my burning cheek, wet with tears I hadn’t noticed. Instead of recoiling at the volcanic heat of shame, hurt, and anger, she slid across the bench seat toward me. With the guidance of her palm, I turned my head just in time for her lips to press against mine.
Her lips said I understand. She didn’t need words.
I still hurt. I still hadn’t dealt with it. Or thought about it. Reconciled it. I let it happen. No, I caused it to happen, and when I woke up here, I accepted the new order without a second thought. The deed was done, and I was on to a better adventure.
In-Between Days Page 9