by Micah Thomas
To his surprise, they stopped outside his apartment. The driver turned off the car. Thelon jumped out and took wobbly sea-leg steps to the door.
“Where you going so fast?”
“Yeah, yeah. Your fare.” Thelon thrust fifty dollars at the driver, who walked around the front of the parked car towards him.
“Not that, Franky. Bring me upstairs and give me what’s coming to me.”
“But I’m not Franky. That’s what I’m telling you. Look, here’s my ID.”
“I don’t want to see that shit. I know what I know.”
Thelon couldn’t think of a way out of this horrible situation except to take him up. Fuck! Should I just yell for police?
The driver was shorter than Thelon, but heavy set—strong-looking. For all Thelon knew, he could have been armed, too. Drivers were often armed, weren’t they? In case they got robbed or wanted to rob someone? He didn’t know. He just wanted it to end. Let him come up and rob him blind. None of the shit in the apartment meant anything to him anyway.
Thelon led and the driver followed. The doorman didn’t look up from his phone.
They took the elevator in the lobby and didn’t say a single word to each other. Thelon gave up, certain he’d be dead after this. And that’s okay. That’s just how this life ends.
“This is it,” Thelon said.
The driver stomped through the kitchenette through to the living room. He looked around and started unplugging the wall mounted TV from its various component cables.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m taking your TV. That’s what I’m doing,” he said flatly as he produced a multi-tool to fiddle with the bolts. “Give me a hand.”
Thelon held one end of the TV as they pulled it off the wall. Once down and on the floor, the man shouldered into Thelon, muttering, “Gotta take a leak.”
Thelon thought about calling the police while he heard the urine stream into the bowl. I don’t have a phone. Fuckity fuck fuck.
The guy hadn’t even shut the door behind him. Thelon heard a shuffling sound and then silence. He crept through the apartment and picked up a fancy wine bottle from the counter, brandishing it like a club. Oh, snap! The bathroom was empty. He heard a loud scratching sound from the bedroom. Talons on wood. Thelon’s teeth clattered together.
The bedroom door was half shut. Thelon kicked it hard enough to send it bouncing back at him. He flinched and dropped the bottle which shattered, spilling wine on the floor. “Shit!”
He heard that scratching sound again and slowly opened the door, glass and wine slipping under his shoes. In the room, perched on the nightstand, digging among phone chargers and books, was a giant crow. The thing must be the size of a Doberman.
“Jesus Christ,” Thelon said as he took a step back into the doorframe.
At first, the bird took no notice of Thelon, who edged into the room, keeping his distance as he worked towards the windows. “Easy there, birdy.”
Thelon took his eyes off the bird long enough to throw open the window, fumbling with shaking hands at the locking mechanism. He shuffled again towards the door and closed it behind him. Oh, sweet Jesus Christ.
“Franky!”
It speaks!
“Franky!” The words were a cross between a caw and a human cough. Thelon’s body winced at the sound.
“Franky!” The coarseness of the cry went straight to Thelon’s brain as if it came from inside his skull.
The bird hopped to the bed and shit a stream of loogy white and yellow globs of pissy bird crap on the duvet.
“Oh, what the fuck.” Thelon gagged. “Shoo! Shoo!” He waved his arms at the bird, only then noticing that its eyes were crawling with maggots and covered with ugly, white cataracts.
The bird jumped up like a giant chicken onto Thelon’s upraised forearms and yanked with enormous strength and flapping wings. Thelon’s entire body shook, fear overwhelming him.
“Franky!” the bird roared again.
The top of its horrible head struck and shattered the light fixture. Its beak pecked at Thelon’s face. Its talons tore into his forearm and the stench-filled maw opened wide, revealing a black, writhing tongue.
Thelon pushed against the bird’s neck and dug his fingers deep into its rotting eyes. Though not giving pause in its pecking, Thelon caught his balance and charged with the beating of wings against him towards the open window. Knocking all manner of brick-a-brack off the ledge onto the street below, Thelon managed to shove the thing outside. Grotesque and unnatural, it hovered there, glaring at Thelon. Then, the bird rose out of view.
Thelon blinked and blinked again. His arm hurt. His head hurt. This isn’t real. He couldn’t accept it. Broken glass. I came home and dropped a bottle...
He rejected the memory of the bird and went to the bathroom to bandage his arm. Only a scratch. Not even worth a Band-Aid.
Confused and blanking in real time, he went back to the bedroom and closed the window. What a mess. I can’t sleep in here.
He shut the bedroom door behind him and made a pallet of blankets and pillows on the couch. TV on the floor. Bedroom fucked up. Wine and glass. He could not deny everything. Something happened…. Sleep it off, Thelon. You’ll wake up as someone else tomorrow.
~
THE NEXT MORNING, Thelon sent a work email explaining he needed time off; he then showered and paced the apartment. I could quit. That was a thought. However, he didn’t want to fuck up T’s life, and if he did, Thelon figured he’d bounce back. T has skills in the real world.
A knock on the door sent Thelon spiraling. The computer chair flipped, and he stayed down. Another knock.
Thelon tiptoed to the door and looked through the peephole. A black woman dressed in yoga clothes, natural hair, and enormous sunglasses stared back. She’s beautiful.
His neck and arm twitched at the same time. Information passed like a kidney stone through the urethra of his mind. A glob of knowledge, painful and incomprehensible: Annie. My fiancé.
He knew her name. Expectations multiplied within him. This is why I didn’t want to talk to her yet. She thinks I’m T, but I’m not. I’m not.
Filled with nervous energy, his hands trembled as he pulled at his beard. She had to stay out of this. It’s not safe—not safe for her or for me? It was an interesting question he wanted to explore; he never had time when he had the right questions.
“Baby, are you home? I hear you in there,” she said through the door.
“Hey. Yeah. I’m sick. Doctors say it’s contagious for the next forty-eight hours.”
“Open up. Let me take care of you, T.”
“Um…” Thelon’s mind raced. “No. You don’t want to catch this. It’s…uh, it’s diarrhea.” He waited and added, “It’s real bad.” Please just go away.
“T, what’s wrong with your phone? I haven’t heard from you in three days. I’m worried.”
“Yeah, yeah. I left it at my folks’. They’re bringing it to me,” he lied. Please, please, oh God, make her go away.
“Is this about what happened?” Her tone changed, lower and difficult to hear.
“No. We’re fine. You’re fine.” Was it me who fucked up or her?
“Okay. I’m going. You clearly don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay. Love ya.” Fuck. Cheesy, but thank God.
“I love you, too, T.”
He didn’t relax until she'd left, and he checked the peephole several times to make sure. Relaxing was not entirely accurate. He trembled like a dog trying to get rid of the heebie-jeebies. Annie’s appearance shook him up inside and the clarity of the plan sounded trite and silly to him.
An unpleasant excitement tingled in his limbs. Picking which credit card to book his flight and rent a car made his head spin. The blue one? The silver one? The black one? The one with Disney characters on it? They all had his name on them, so they must be his to use. I ran away to Eden before anyone taught me about money—and money didn’t exist there, only fame.
He didn’t know how to check his bank account. Thelon felt like a kid stealing from Dad. Let’s do this before I chicken out. Before Nestor yells at me again. He opted for first class seats and a luxury SUV, rented for an open-ended duration. He was the slightest bit nervous about driving but he’d sort that out when he got there.
Done. Reservations accepted. He had the day to pack and then, whoosh, he’d be off to the Emerald City on a quest to find Henry, who he thought he’d met in a former life.
Packing took a bit of trial and error, and he suffered the continued sense that he was pilfering through some else’s belongings. Seriously, I’m like a child. Underwear? How many pairs should I even take? A dozen? Is that enough? He had no idea how long this trip would take, so he emptied entire drawers into the suitcase.
Fuck it. If he forgot something, he’d just buy it along the way. He’d never been rich, and this type of thinking bothered him on a visceral level.
Now what? I should just go to the airport and get on a plane today even if it takes five connecting flight to get there. At least I’d be moving.
Thelon simply didn’t know how to spend his time. He would have watched TV, but it was disconnected. What he wanted—a compulsion arose in his body—was a fucking drink. He poured a tall glass full of orange juice and reached with a shaky hand for the vodka.
He stopped himself. It’s morning... Wait until lunch at least.
Thelon had never been a drinker, preferring the good time party drugs. He shook his head and drank the orange juice, grimacing at the bits of fruit as they assaulted his tongue. I don’t like pulp, T. One day, we need to have a talk, you and me.
Deciding he’d have to get out of the apartment or have that drink, he left the building and realized it was too warm for the hoodie; it was summer. The city was a sweltering armpit of humidity and body odor—some of the latter his own contribution. Fuck. I’m uncomfortable no matter what I do.
The Energy Portal and President Trump’s victory over the energy crisis was still hot shit. News blasted out of open bars and restaurants. They’ll be hooking up the grid any day, thanks to T and Chad.
Thelon didn’t want to catch up on current events, but the red hats and talk came from all directions. People weren’t exactly dancing in the streets, but this was the dawn of a new era.
He had been through one of those before and sympathized. Paradise ain’t all it’s cracked up to be, bitches. No. That was the dream where he’d lived in a magical city and no one died anymore unless someone killed them—he didn’t really want to think about that.
I need somewhere not too quiet and not too loud. He was Goldilocks searching for just the right porridge in a home he didn’t know. He’d walked ten blocks in a single direction, taking better notice of the city than he had on his hurried commute.
Fashion was weird: a lot of butts hanging out the bottom of shorts, bellies bulging in the front. Men wore beards—Weird—and everyone except Thelon stared hard at their phones. Big phones, little phones, phones on their wrists. Phones on their eyes like glasses. He was surprised he’d not seen anyone run over, though he’d witnessed a few near misses. Thelon had a phone, but thinking about it made him nervous. I’m following the plan, Nestor. No need to call a friend.
Every single person in the city had somewhere to be except him. He imagined if he squinted, he could see them all moving on predetermined paths like robots zipping through a programmed sequence. Only Thelon was drifting, now a bit lost and ready for that drink. He turned around and walked straight back towards his place. Defeated by the simple task of leaving the house was overwhelming—and he was hungry. Fuck. This sucks.
I’m lonely. He halted in his tracks when he named the feeling. The only person who knew who he was scared the shit out of Thelon, and he wasn’t even reachable except when he wanted to call. The world wasn’t wrong, he was. He bought two premade pizzas from a greasy pie shop even though they only had pineapple and he didn’t like it.
Back in the apartment, he started drinking the vodka, eating pizza, and then started on wine, which he presumed was awfully expensive. Once good and drunk, he jerked off to T’s search history of vanilla porn and scanned through T’s Facebook. Though he wouldn’t remember the next day, he sent Annie a message saying he’d be out of town for few days—work shit—and not to worry. Before the sun had even set, he blacked out on the couch.
~
THE AIRPORT BUSTLED and Thelon numbly stood at his gate.
Time moved.
Thelon waited.
He’d followed instructions the entire morning.
Wait for the car.
Ride in the car.
Wait for a turn with security.
Wait at the gate.
Thelon accepted the procession of activity without a single thought or feeling.
When the steward announced it was time to board, he woke up even though he hadn’t been sleeping. Already? Thelon, where has your mind been?
He walked on with an apology in his posture as he passed the other waiting passengers, their faces wrought with worry about their seats and space in the overhead compartments. His guilt lifted when he reached his seat. Leg room for days. Fat, cushy armrest. This is the life.
The sweet steward brought him a drink before the other passengers finished shuffling down the aisle. Booze. Hair of the dog. I could get used to this.
Everything was fine until the doors closed and the plane pulled forward on the runway.
It started as an itch on the back of his neck. Thelon rubbed at it, careful not to elbow the old, white lady sitting next to him. Not a bug bite. Damn. Ouch!
The itch intensified until it felt like a cigarette burn. He fished an ice cube out of his breakfast cocktail and held it against his neck. The ice worked and the sensation settled down to an itch again. As they took off down the runway, more irritations crawled through his body. He squirmed and huffed. Just flight jitters.
Thelon thought he might have gas but didn’t want to fart up the first class. He held his stomach with both hands as it ached.
The old white lady said, “Are you nervous, dear? My Denis, before he passed away, was always nervous on takeoffs and landings.”
“Oh yeah?” Thelon replied and his hands clenched into sweaty fists.
“The shame that he was a pilot by profession never left him.” She chuckled at her own joke.
The attendant brought him a warm chocolate chip cookie and he stared at it on its little white napkin. The smell, which should have been comforting and delightful, made him nauseous. I can’t eat that thing.
His chest tightened and he took in a series of short breaths to try to gain control over himself. This is embarrassing. Don’t make a scene. This is how people end up in jail.
For a moment, it seemed to work.
Then the entire cabin sharpened into hyper-focus and his awareness stuck on things around him. The squeaky wheel of the drink cart. Conversations of passengers about where they were going and where they were leaving. Beeping cellphone games funneled into eardrums. Gut sounds of digestion. Sniffles and coughs.
Thelon’s throat was too dry, but the need to swallow was all consuming. He finished his drink in one gulp, ice and all. Then his mouth made strange squeaking sounds. A sweat broke out on his body and he twisted at the little air vent above him, but it wasn’t enough. It’s too hot in here. Much too hot.
The drink swirled in his stomach like he’d just chugged spoiled milk. Cramps hit him and he knew if he didn’t get up, he’d shit his pants.
Beside him, the old white lady asked if he was okay, but he could barely hear her anymore. I’m not well.
The engine noises became muffled as all sounds reached him as though traveling through thick walls far away. Another reality superimposed itself on him. Out of his left eye, he saw a green haze over his vision. Green amorphous fog.
Bathroom! He muttered an apology to the woman as he crossed over her.
The dizziness made him lurch like he
was drunk. Thelon stumbled and steadied himself on the shoulder of a grumpy dude on the aisle. Another muttered apology. The trek towards the bathroom stretched in slow motion, a terrible journey of barely a few steps. I shouldn’t have had that drink. I’m not a drinker. I’m hung over and drunk again. Why am I doing this to myself? His guts answered his thoughts with cramps, threatening to squirt bile straight into his pants.
He fumbled with the bathroom door—a collapsible accordion so flimsy he feared he’d break it—and he was hyperventilating. By the time he’d gotten turned around and sitting on the tiny toilet, he envisioned worst case scenarios. The plane is going to crash and I’ll die in here. I’m going to freak out completely and an air Marshall is going to handcuff me and I—oh…I don’t... This is bad.
He blinked and rubbed his eyes in an effort to dislodge the green fog. All that worry about shitting his pants and nothing came of it. He dried his sweaty ass with the cheap toilet paper which stuck to him as much as it absorbed the sweat.
Then, as he was reaching around with a fresh wipe to remove stuck toilet paper crumbs, the green fog expanded to both eyes and the world quaked around him in a multitude of vibrations. He didn’t know if it was turbulence or if he’d lost it. There wasn’t time for thinking that he’d die on the shitter. The details of the small bathroom broke apart and he saw the Moon again. He had no body to feel discomfort. Thelon was a set of eyes floating through a movie of himself.
There he was running through the prison—those generically sci-fi white corridors. Airlock doors. Inmates freaking out. Amongst it all, Thelon saw himself moving with intention, an aura around him radiating distortion like heat from a fire. He knew Henry had been with him then, guiding him through their escape. The scene skipped with a flash of fire and Henry, Thelon, and the flame were tearing through space. The fire thing. It had a personality. It was as alive as I was, in some other way. There are things out there. Where did they go?
Thelon watched with wonderment as more scenes skipped ahead and the Earth was bigger than any movie portrayal he’d ever seen. We were going to nuke the planet. The whole thing. But what happened to me? His vision answered the question.