“I just had the craziest dream. It was about—”
“Just tell me in the morning.” She folded the pillow around her head, covering her ears, and fell back asleep.
Kenneth looked at his alarm clock, its red light the same color as the rays of the rising sun over the polluted Manhattan skyline. Six o’clock. He rose early from his bed. His alarm was set for seven anyway.
He tiptoed through his daily morning ritual as not to wake his girlfriend. Shower, dress, breakfast. His appetite was small, as he kept thinking of his nightmare. He left the rest for Jennifer to eat and then shuffled over to the bedroom. He stood in the doorway watching her sleep. She was on her side, facing away from him. He watched her shoulder rise and fall as she breathed deeply. The way the sheets hugged her curves, dipping at her waist, rising again at her hips. She was sexy. And for a moment, she overpowered the lingering torment from his dream.
He returned to the bed and snuggled against her back, fitting together like a puzzle piece. He brushed her hair from her face to look at her.
She stirred. “Another dream?”
“No, baby,” he said, kissing her. “Remember our mornings last year?”
She arched up slightly to see the alarm clock and then fell back to her pillow with a groan. “I remember. But I have work soon.”
He ran his hand down her figure. “You used to go late to work all the time so we could have fun.”
She dismissed him. “But I’m tired now. Besides, don’t you have some job hunting to do?” She buried herself under the blanket.
He stood up from the bed and walked out, presumably to search for a job. He’d been looking for one since he’d dropped out of college. But in reality, he’d been visiting a rehabilitating teenager named Jason, whom Kenneth had been serving religiously since the accident.
***
Their apartment above the corner liquor store was only a block from the subway. He walked with his head down, hiding his cheeks from the chilled wind. Faint snow drifted to the street. However, as he passed Radio Shack, its storefront filled with the latest flat-screen TVs displaying the morning news, he saw something profound enough to wrench his face up toward the piercing cold. He stood next to a well-dressed man, one of few pedestrians out this early in the morning, and peered through the glass at the television.
He looked at the saddened face of an anchorwoman. Her distress was peculiar, as he remembered watching the same woman report a gruesome story stone-faced. Kenneth had fallen asleep that night contemplating how she could report this terrible circumstance with such stoicism. He had eventually come to the conclusion that it was a requirement for her job, that the producers paid her to separate emotion from work. She was nothing but a trained messenger to the public. Whatever pulled in the ratings. But this time, her expression was different. As Kenneth watched the sadness on her face and listened to the despair in her voice and the passion of her words through the tiny television speaker, he began to notice quirks in her presentation. Her twiddling thumbs, her sweating brow, the occasional glance off-screen—enquiries of approval to the network producers in the studio.
Then Kenneth saw it. Her pupils dashing back and forth horizontally, like a typewriter. She was reading a teleprompter. Her sorrow, her pain, fabricated. She was an actress. Whatever pulled in the ratings. Kenneth heard a chuckle from the man next to him; he must have noticed it too.
With feigned empathy, the brunette anchorwoman announced the world’s most recent tragedy. Then came the image of the burning city of Mecca.
“Now, a live news feed from our first-response copter, on-site in Mecca.” At first the camera was blurred by the thick dust and smoke billowing from the flames below, revealing snippets of the destruction. But as the helicopter strafed out of the direction of the wind, the entire gruesome scene fell into plain view. Outside the perimeter of the city, soldiers stood on guard, gunning down any man, woman, or child who tried to escape the burning city. Their weapons were white, their fatigues were white, their helmets were white, yet upon their garments was emblazoned a bright red cross that they had so devoutly sworn to honor.
Mere days ago, pilgrims from around the world embarked on the sacred Hajj, ignorant of the inferno that lay in wait. The camera zoomed to various scenes. The anchorwoman narrated the massacre as if it were the script to a blockbuster movie. Within Mecca’s granite walls, families and strangers held each other, suffering as they burned to death. Many exited the city, knowing escape was futile, they chose a bullet from the enemy over the torturous conflagration. Hundreds died inside, making the conscious decision to die on the grounds of the first Revelation than to give their murderers the satisfaction of witnessing their handiwork.
As Kenneth’s brown eyes widened in terror, the man next to him chuckled again. His arms were folded over his chest; he stood rigid, indifferent to the cold. Kenneth stood beside him, shivering, pulling the collar to his jacket as high as he could over his ears, taking as many sideways glances as he could to this strange man laughing at the smoldering Muslims. He was a tall, bulky black man. His suit was black. The man stood out, a dark entity embroidered on the dreary and snowy urban backdrop.
Kenneth tried to ignore the man, turning his attention again to the screen.
But then the man spoke to him. “It’s beautiful.”
Kenneth hoped the man wasn’t referring to the killings.
When Kenneth took a while to respond, the man asserted himself further. “Isn’t it?”
“I’m not so sure,” Kenneth replied, careful not to blatantly disagree with the man, who was taller and more muscular.
They never faced each other while speaking, but they both watched the news and spoke to the glass. Kenneth did not want to turn to the man. He was too intimidating. A turn toward him could be interpreted as a confrontation. The man, on the other hand, was clearly uninterested in Kenneth. Kenneth posed no threat. The man seemed as if he was used to talking to people without looking at them.
“Consider the world devoid of false deities,” the man said. “Everyone united under God. Only then would we as humans be great. Our path to this goal is always hindered by those who preach something different, teach something different. And those people must be eradicated.”
Kenneth refocused his eyes on the glass, looking at the reflection of the man rather than the images on the television screen. The man’s reflection smiled back at him.
Kenneth continued staring at the man’s reflection, looking for a change in expression, cautious not to offend him. “Don’t you think they’d just find the path on their own? If it truly was the truth?”
“That’s too slow. Think of the world you live in. How much it has changed since you were a child. How are we where we are today? Certainly not by pussyfooting around our problems. That’s why the church has all the power. That’s why they will rule.” He unfolded his arms. Kenneth saw a glint of silver on the man’s chest in his reflection. It was strangely reminiscent of something, but he couldn’t figure out what.
“Don’t you agree?” The man pivoted so he was facing Kenneth, looming over him, his chest right at Kenneth’s face.
The image from his nightmare, of the bodacious succubus wearing only the silver lamb necklace whipping him until he fell unconscious, hijacked his reality. Kenneth tried to blink away the chilling picture. He took in a quick breath, catching himself before it was too obvious.
The man cocked his head and squinted his eyebrows, noticing Kenneth notice the necklace. He tucked it into his collar. “Problem?”
“No,” Kenneth stammered. “No problem. I agree with you, actually. You know, with the church and stuff.” Kenneth turned and stared awkwardly at the television, the back of his neck and cheeks turning red.
Kenneth stood trembling in his boots, not from the cold but from fear of the man standing next to him. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was so afraid of, but he knew there was something off-putting about him—his words, his mannerisms, something that told Kenneth to run
.
The man also turned back to the screen, a tension lingering between them thicker than the falling snow.
And for a while, the news report broke that tension, instead replacing it with dread—for Kenneth, for pride, for the man beside him. Louder than the cracks from the modern-day Crusaders’ gunfire, louder than the constant whop-whop-whop of the spinning helicopter blades, the wails of the church’s burnt offerings filled the air.
Kenneth imagined how deafening it would be if he were there among them. He stood transfixed by what he was watching. Someone bumped into his shoulder, interrupting his stare. Kenneth realized it was late morning, and more pedestrians hurried past him down the sidewalk. It was then he noticed that the man had vanished; nobody else was standing with him watching the news. In fact, every storefront with a television as far as he could see down the block was empty. And every storefront television was playing the same station, the same news story. Apparently rushing to work or getting a morning cup of Starbucks coffee was more important than the slaughter in the Middle East. Kenneth sighed; he knew that if the Yankees game was on, people would stop and cheer, or, at the very least, give a passing glance to check the score.
He melted into the crowd, walking unnoticed to the subway.
***
The sign on Kenneth’s volunteer clinic should have read The New York Clinic for Disabled Persons. However, some plastic letters on the face of the building had long-since fallen away. The sign read: T e New York Clini fo isabled P r ons. The building itself matched the poor appearance of its sign. The paint dirty white; windows were hardly clear, useless to their purpose; ivy grew up the walls, and weeds sprouted from cracks in the sidewalk and along the curb. Kenneth approached the building. A peeling yellow sticker read Caution Automatic Door. He had never seen the glass doors at the front of the clinic perform this function; they have been broken since he started working here, so he pushed them open and walked in.
“Hello, Kenneth.” The woman behind the reception desk took her hand away from the family-size bag of potato chips just long enough to wave. She didn’t even need to look up to know it was Kenneth. He was one of the last volunteers. “Here for Jason?”
Rhetorical question, he knew. Just like his response was by rote. “Yes.”
“Before you go, take this.” She held out an envelope.
“What is it?”
“Money. We had a little extra tucked away somewhere.”
Kenneth shook his head. “This is a service; I can’t accept that.”
“Honey, I know you pretend to like this gig, but you’ll eventually get fed up of cleaning up shit all the damn time. That’s why everyone else leaves.” She slipped the envelope into his shirt pocket and patted his chest. “Go on, Jason’s waiting.”
He turned and walked silently down the hallway to avoid any dispute.
He called into room 110. “Jason?”
He heard two claps from within, the all-clear. Kenneth entered.
Good morning! Jason’s freckled cheeks wrinkled into a smile.
Good morning! Kenneth signed back. Jason could understand spoken words but lost his ability to speak when his brain damage worsened. He had received severe trauma to the head after being brutalized by the police. When Kenneth dropped out of college, he spent his spare time learning basic sign language to establish a better friendship with Jason.
“How’s it going, buddy?”
I am fine. Thanks for coming. What’s that? He pointed at the envelope sticking out from the top of Kenneth’s shirt pocket.
“Nothing. Don’t worry about it,” Kenneth said, zipping up his jacket over his button-down. He sat on Jason’s bed. Jason was once a metal-head graffiti bomber, but since his accident, he could at times express his emotions like a child. The slightest hurtful remark could ruin the kid’s day.
What about you? How are you doing? Kenneth made sure to catch each of Jason’s hand movements. Kenneth was still learning.
“I’m okay, I guess.” Kenneth shrugged. “I had a bit of a rough morning.”
Was it Jennifer?
Kenneth laughed. They had spoken about Jennifer before. It was not uncommon for people to dislike her, but Jason seemed jealous at times. “No, no. Other things,” Kenneth said. “Besides, what would you know about relationships?” He nudged Jason on the shoulder.
I know my nurse has a crush on me. I’m going to ask her on a date once I’m cured.
Kenneth smiled at the thought of Jason on a date with the overweight receptionist. Then, immediately after, he felt saddened at Jason’s optimism. Once he’s cured. “You go for it, buddy.”
Back to the same topic: Jennifer. Why would you stay with her anyway?
“Eh, money, rent, tons of things.” He tried to dodge further conversation. “Let’s just get you over to the shower.”
As Kenneth pushed the wheelchair toward the bathroom, he caught sight of lumps of feces on the tile. He realized Jason tried to hide it by moving his wheelchair over it before Kenneth walked in.
“Sor,” said Jason with difficulty. His cheeks were red.
“It’s okay,” Kenneth replied, rolling the chair into the bathroom. “Take off your shirt, if you can. I’ll clean up.”
Kenneth pulled some paper towels from the dispenser. He walked over to where Jason tried to hide his accident. As he crouched down to wipe up the mess, he heard the crunch of the folding envelope in his shirt pocket. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore it, when he opened them again he saw his hand, gloved with yellow rubber. He looked up his arm, and then at his entire body. He was wearing a hazmat suit. Not this. The fecal matter on the floor was replaced with blood, and the small hospital room changed into a street corner in the projects. Kenneth couldn’t shake the image from his mind—him a cleanup crewmember for violent crime scenes. Kenneth scrubbed in circles, mopping the blood off the pavement on the street corner. He knew who this blood belonged to. It belonged to Jason, the Jason of two years ago, the same Jason who defied order with his slanderous and sacrilegious portrayal of the Almighty. Kenneth couldn’t even recall what Jason had painted. It only goes to show how easily any undesired image can be censored by the church. Jason had fallen for a message that had never reached an audience. And when the cops came, Kenneth did nothing to prevent it. He just stood and watched as the police beat the poor kid down.
Kenneth felt a moistness under his palm. He looked down; he was no longer wearing the yellow glove, no more hazmat; he was back in the hospital room. Then Kenneth realized he had been smearing shit into the floor in circles at the same spot. It seeped through the paper towels and onto his hand.
“Fuck,” he whispered to himself, and then looked up at Jason, shirt off, waiting patiently in the bathroom. Kenneth finished cleaning. He stood up and helped Jason with his shower.
***
Kenneth checked the mailbox before walking up the stairs to his apartment. A letter from his father, along with a check. As usual, he opened the envelope and took the check, throwing away the letter without reading it. He already knew what it would say, some sappy congratulatory note about being a college man. He couldn’t deal with the guilt any longer. He was no college man, he was just some pushover with no job and a father who’d scorn his own son if he knew any of this. He hadn’t yet told his father that he’d dropped out of New York University in September. He’d been failing all his classes—not because he wasn’t capable of passing but because he never went to any of his classes. And when he did, he’d end up arguing with the professor. He spent most of his time pent up in the library reading and rereading books that most people ignored. Utopia, Brave New World, V for Vendetta. The dust on the book covers suggested they hadn’t been checked out in years, and the tabs on the inside covers confirmed it. By the time he quit school, he was convinced he could learn anything he wanted without college, simply by reading. His latest efforts: sign language and caretaking. Besides, he began to think institutionalized learning was a scam—the tuition, the loans—all to explo
it the young and dumb.
Kenneth took his time climbing the stairs, thinking of a lie for Jennifer if she happened to nag him about the job search. He lethargically unlocked his front door. He wiped his feet on the mat before walking in.
Jennifer sat cozily on the couch, a bowl of chips on her lap, watching her favorite television show, Desperate Housewives. Untouched, the waffles waited on the table. Unread, the love-note on the table.
“You didn’t eat my breakfast.”
“Sorry, I was in a rush. Woke up late after you woke me up.”
He took the plate from the table, dumped the waffles into the trash can—not the garbage disposal as not to interrupt Jennifer’s TV time—rinsed the plate, and then placed it in the dishwasher. He also tossed the note into the trash.
“Can you switch to the news? I need to see something.” The fact that the television was tuned to something other than the news, let alone Desperate Housewives, seemed to disgrace the memories of those Muslims who lost their lives earlier that day.
“Babe, I love this show. Just come watch it with me.” She rubbed the couch cushion beside her.
Kenneth complied. He plopped down and glared at the television. He rolled his eyes at the bad sex jokes while his girlfriend laughed. On the screen, five women fought back their midlife crises with makeup and promiscuity. He looked but did not watch, instead reflecting on the events in his day. A deep pain grew inside his chest, but he was unable to locate its source.
Kenneth put his arm around his girlfriend, her head naturally falling to his shoulder. He ignored the pain and focused on the television, replacing his boring reality with the lives of five women in a romantic comedy.
“How was the job hunt?” she asked.
“Fine. I may have an interview soon,” he lied.
She raised her eyebrows. “Oh really? Are you sure you weren’t just playing around with those retarded friends of yours?”
Kenneth rubbed his face with his hand, tilting his head back and exhaling audibly. “Yes, I’m sure.” He wasn’t in the mood for an argument. “Here.” He handed her his father’s check and the envelope from his shirt pocket. “I did a side job for a friend. Made some extra cash.”
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