by KUBOA
-Naw, friend Roger’s in town, he pointed at me, the guard just noticing I was there for the first time. We’re reminiscing, used to walk around here, get high.
-I’ll put that in my report, the guard said, then asking if Donald happened to have any Certain Substances on him just then, the particular phrase said with a funny accent, something in-referenced between them, the way they words were said in some movie somewhere maybe.
-We’re working off a drunk, actually, probably go get another one going in a bit.
Donald’s hand went to his pocket. I stared a moment, then looked at the grass, but the conversation between the two men just went on for another few minutes.
-Why are you sitting out in the cold? You wanna come in? I got coffee in there, lemonade mix, snack machine.
-You want a snack, Roger? This guy says he’s got a snack machine.
I labored to get standing, the guard giving me a hand.
-I’m Curtis, by the way.
-Roger.
He laughed once I was standing, I tottered, stiff, aching.
-Where are you in town from?
He flicked his cigarette away while I said The coast and I didn’t see it, just heard the shift of Donald’s fabric, Curtis’ head turning as Donald shoved the muzzle of the gun right into his chest, a muffled thump of the shot going right through the body. I knew I’d started to drool, could feel the flush in my face, wiped at my mouth and held my eyes wide open, knowing if they closed I’d start crying, needed to wait out the sensation.
Donald crouched with the body, going through the pockets, stood, shaking his head. He tapped the side of my arm, jostled me.
-We need to duck into this place, come on.
-What?’
The question was pointless, not even a question and I was following him even while he didn’t answer, around to the front door of the community center, Donald touching a magnetic card to a sensor, the pop of the doors unlocking, a little light from red to green. He was talking to me, generally, while I followed him down a corridor, made a turn.
He used the card to get in through another door. It was what I imagined was the security room, where they sat between rounds, a nice sized television on a filing cabinet with some program playing, volume on at a normal level.
Donald went through the pockets of a backpack, coughed as he put some keys he found there into his pocket. He glanced to the television when I glanced away from it.
-You want to watch this or something?
I blinked, looked at his pocket, both of his hands in front of his face, he was rubbing them, blowing into his palms, rubbing them, insect.
He waited at the front door to the place, a moment, not looking to see if anybody was coming, just probably not looking forward to stepping back into the cold.
I’d imagined we’d head off in a different direction than we’d come, but instead we passed by Curtis’ body in the field, got out to a road and started walking along it. I really didn’t want to walk anymore, didn’t want to keep it up, my mind, I knew, back to not registering anything properly—I wasn’t even following him because I knew what would happen to me if I stopped, it was just walking, it was just thoughtless.
He stopped and I kept moving past him and soon he was catching up to me at a jog.
-Give me your phone, he said.
I hesitated, not because I was resisting, just because the tone of his voice was peculiar, the words neither statement nor question, but I shook myself out of it quick enough I didn’t think he registered the beat, scratching at his eye, spitting off into the road.
He opened the phone, tapped through the menu, his other hand going into his pocket, coming out, gun dangling. He looked up at me, putting his gun away, breathing out his nose in huffs of coloured air. Once his gun down in his pocket, he used that hand to hurl the phone in through the tree line, I didn’t hear the sound of it impacting anywhere, it might as well have evaporated, been some soot on his sleeve he’d decided to finally dust.
We walked. I stared at the back of his feet, not having noticed before he was wearing boots, decorative, either cheap and found second hand or quite expensive.
I spun the little scene with my phone around in my head—did it mean something good, something bad, anything at all? The only way I could imagine it was that his thinking was only just now catching up, logically, to the implication of my having it, to what I might possibly have done with it or have had it in my mind to do if an opportunity presented itself. I wanted that to mean something comfortable, like eluding the police was a concern he had, that this was not a suicide march—but instead of thinking about that, I started pouring over every other tiny behavior I’d made, everything I’d said, either meaning to or not, wondering what his reaction would be if any of that struck him the wrong way, all of a sudden. Had I said anything to anyone that sounded like a coded plea for help? Had I wade some gesture he’d recall and get suspicious of? What had I done, what hadn’t I done, what had it meant, what could it seem like whether it’d meant anything or not?
***
We entered a neighborhood of split houses, took the side stairs up to the front entrance of a top level and Donald fiddled with a ring of keys until he got the right one. I was puzzled a moment, but as we entered and he turned up the light I realized they were Curtis’ keys.
He closed the door behind us, locked it. I wondered if he intended for us to stay in the place, but this seemed ridiculous. Curtis’ body would be found and the police would come here, straight away. Or I thought they would. But not caring to finish this consideration out, I took a seat, Donald paying no attention to me, dialing a telephone number on his phone, milling over by the kitchen.
Had the other bodies been found?
I doubted it, why would they have been?
If Gwen was Donald’s wife, he’d have killed her like that knowing nobody would be showing up. We’d sat around at Greg’s long enough that it was obvious no one had heard the shot, or at least not registered it as something to do anything about—what would that sharp crack sound like through a wall, across a street? Even if it had been reported, why would it be localized to Greg’s house?
I rubbed at my face, wondered why I cared about it, one way or another. None of it had anything to do with me, the bodies found, the bodies left forever. I lit a cigarette, smoked with my eyes closed.
-You can take a nap if you want, Donald said, snapping me to attention.
-I’m fine. I’m just relaxing.
Another phrase I hadn’t intended, another meaningless, pleasant string of words, automatic, unthought.
I finished my cigarette, started another, Donald drifting out of the room a moment. I heard a light switch go up, come down, go back up, Donald re-entering.
I didn’t look up again for another minute or two, numb, didn’t look up until I realized the little clicking sounds I heard from where Donald was standing were caused by him having unloaded his gun, set it down. He was reloading, causally, putting the little bullets into the thing daintily, clearing his throat softly every five seconds or so, then setting everything down, using his knuckles to massage a spot of his side and then a moment later putting everything down again, massaging a spot of his lower back with both hands.
If I attacked him, it would be just a matter of the physical struggle, just two fatigued bodies grappling, tearing, gnawing. I figured he must know I was watching him, maybe was listening to me intently, back behind him, maybe he’d set something within easy reach on the counter, a knife, a heavy bowl.
No.
No, I doubted it.
I looked around for something myself, something heavy, a solid swing of it enough to incapacitate him, then another, another, bludgeon him dead. I was clearer now than before, now with everything that had happened, clearer that he had no confederate, nobody was on his side, he was desperately alone. If I did attack, it would be the only moment, the thoughts of consideration leading up to it very likely my
final.
I sat back down.
The gun had become somewhat immaterial sometime back, this only reinforcing it. The gun had been needed to initially coax me and after that had become irrelevant, just a flat fact, but nothing defining. Whatever his trajectory was, I had become component—if I didn’t kill him or didn’t incapacitate him long enough for the police to show up, he would kill me, he would kill me, not a question. Even if he didn’t do it right in that moment, he would, eventually. If I’d attacked and he’d gotten the upper hand, maybe he wouldn’t have shot me, here and now, maybe he’d still make me walk with him, but I’d have made it certain how things would end.
He had the thing loaded, into his pocket. A change that changed nothing, everything changed back to what it had been and always was.
He went around into the kitchen and started himself some toast, poured himself a glass of water, took a popsicle from the freezer.
-Are we staying here?
He nodded, running his teeth along the length of the popsicle, then dropped the thing into the sink.
-For just a bit, I need to think about something.
-What do you need to think about?
He told me I didn’t have to worry about it, said Thanks, absently, like he’d registered my question as an attempt to do him a favor, to advise him.
He spread peanut butter on his toast, leaned to the counter, chewing, clearly absorbed in a calculation—who we would kill next, where we would go next.
We.
I felt sick to my stomach.
We. I hadn’t meant to think it, it didn’t mean anything, I didn’t feel it appropriate, but just the fact it had been thought made me ill.
We.
I got another cigarette started. Almost like considering the construction of a mediocre film, I wondered if the idea was he wanted to pin the killings on me. I chuckled smoke down my nose, this getting no reaction from Donald. Ridiculous to think about it, like such a thing would be possible. Framing me. I almost wanted to confess the thought to Donald, but he wouldn’t care, wouldn’t even understand it, maybe he’d get it after a few hours, suddenly, belt out a laugh or say I agree, that’s silly, but right now it wouldn’t mean anything to him, to anyone. If only something so pointlessly contrived, melodramatic was going on, if only what was happening had such a simple functionality—he kills who he wants, leaves a few of my foot prints, a few of my cigarette stubs, kills me and wraps my fingers around the little gun and presto, he walks away whistling.
Maybe that would be nice, because I’d understand what it had to do with me, at least.
I heard Donald munching toast. When I looked over, he was staring right at me.
No.
Past me. He only looked at me when he registered I was looking at him, and then all he did was look back away.
***
The apartment itself was tightly comfortable, clean, well laid out. It was easy to imagine somebody living in it. It was easy to imagine Curtis—I almost called him Chris, almost thought about him as a Chris, corrected myself in my thoughts, sharply, cruelly, that I should at least not lose his name so quickly—relaxing here.
I stood, stubbing a cigarette, the last from my pack, moving to the shelves next to the television, lines of films and a few books, a few knick-knacks. I reached toward a framed picture, startled by Donald running the garbage disposal a moment, my attention clicking to him, then as the grind of the sound kept on another few seconds I turned back to the photograph.
Curtis with the waitress from the bar.
Maybe not.
Certainly.
Curtis with the waitress from the bar.
I put the photo down, tried to casually see if there was another, another image to verify things with.
-I said what do you do? Donald said as he was drying up some spots of water on the counter with a cloth, draping it over the sink spout.
-I’m sorry?
-He looked at me, child-face curious, What do you do?
-Do? I was blank on how to answer, couldn’t see another photograph anywhere.
-Where do you work, you know?
-I nodded, swallowing, hesitant between staying standing and sitting down. I work at an art supply store. Work at an art supply store, don’t really do anything.
-You’re an artist? he said, a look on his face like he didn’t see that as a real possibility.
-No. I just work there. I’m the one guy who works there who isn’t an artist, I think. Or a wannabe.
He chuckled, attention seeming to wander.
I looked back in the direction of the framed photo, then back away.
-Don’t you think we should get out of here?
He looked at me, eyes blurry from thought, like he was genuinely considering my point.
-I don’t know. I don’t think so. I think we’re alright. I don’t know how this is going to work, exactly.
If he was thinking to wait for the waitress to return home, kill her, what was the timeline? Was she out with some other guy, have to be back by the time Curtis would be off shift?
This didn’t completely make sense, not with Curtis living so close, but it also made as much sense as anything.
Or was it distracting Donald so much because she should have been here, now he didn’t know where she was?
My impulse was to try to shoo him out the door, to get him to skip this bit, move on to something else, drift even out of his own loose orbit, whatever it was. Now that it was clear to me he was a mechanism, ticking off points, now that I understood he wasn’t operating randomly I wanted to turn him free roaming, make him senseless.
But then, just as much, if she was somewhere else, somewhere he hadn’t expected her to be, perhaps keeping him in the apartment was in my best interests. If we stayed, once it was daylight Curtis’ body would be found, the police might show up. If she was out all night with someone, maybe she’d given herself enough alibi to not have to be home until later—or maybe she wasn’t with another man, just staying with a friend, going someplace the next day and Donald hadn’t known that—and if she wasn’t coming back and he was jammed up, staying here would keep anything else from happening.
No.
He might kill me. If it got unglued, he might kill me, himself, he might kill me, walk away.
I couldn’t even see a clock to know the time.
Donald was looking at me hard.
-What do you do? I asked.
-He kept looking. What do you mean?
If we stayed, he’d kill me, her, himself. If the police showed up he’d kill me, himself.
-Tell me about yourself.
He shook his head, kept shaking it, more a wobbly, fatigued tick than a proper dismissal.
-No. Then he took a big breath in, up on toes, out, pushed his arms in front of him, fingers intertwined, palms facing me, got back to standing proper. I don’t do anything, Roger. This is all I do. This is all I’ve ever done.
-Okay.
-Do you like it at the art store?
I shrugged, and he frowned, just kind of turned away.
Even I could figure out a way to make him leave, I couldn’t decide if it was the best thing to do.
What did I care about the waitress, when it all came out? Why was I acting how I imagined someone should act, when anything I did was just as reasonable and understandable and correct as any other thing?
If she did show up and he did kill her, it was probably my best chance to live. It made no promises, our staying assured me of nothing, her dying made nothing absolute and I had no idea how I might eventually slip away, but Donald was certainly in no headspace to me toyed with, the moment he got it in his mind I wanted him to do one thing particularly more than another he could kill me—killing me was irrelevant by this point, he had no reason not to other than maybe he kind of liked me, maybe he kind of didn’t want to.
-Why do you work there if you don’t like it?
He didn
’t even look in my direction when he asked and so I didn’t answer, at first, waited to see some gesture he was in the moment.
-Why don’t I quit? I don’t know. I guess I’ve been there awhile, I like it as much as anyplace else. I don’t feel like learning something new, I suppose. And I riffed on this, kept repeating variants on the same sentences, and he kept nodding, as though following points of logic from origination to destination, some complex web of point and counterpoint.
-But you’re not an artist right? Didn’t you say you were the only one there who wasn’t?
I nodded, couldn’t think of a way to answer.
-Did you ever want to be an artist or anything like that?
I actually thought about it, or pretended I was thinking about it enough that I did consider it to be what felt like the truth when I said No. No I never did. I just took a job at some store, nothing to do with wanting anything.
He said he’d never wanted to be an artist either, then told me I could take a nap if I wanted, like he was embarrassed he couldn’t think of something else to talk about.
***
I began nodding off, despite myself. Donald had brewed coffee and I drank two cups, one on top of the other, but it was past the point this did any tangible good—I was jittery, but not in the sense I’d stay awake, it was the way I’d gotten many times in life, fatigued, up too long, filled myself with caffeine only to sweat and kick fitfully, asleep but not sleeping.
Donald seemed in slightly better shape than I was, but he was on a more direct line, I supposed, then right away got worried by what I meant by that.
Shouldn’t I be as alert as him, not lulling into sleep?
But it wasn’t a lull, no, I hadn’t turned fatalist, accepted things, this was me being wound down, exhausted into a malaise—I wasn’t going to do anything here, so now I was just awake, still had no idea the time, sitting on a sofa, nothing to do but hope someone didn’t come home and at the same time hope that they did.
I wondered if there was any suggestion of light to the sky yet. The curtains were drawn. I’d lost all sense of what it looked like, exterior. I thought about how that sometimes happened when I’d go to the movies, walk in from bright sunshine, out into dusk or overcast, in from rain, out into humid sunshine, that moment where I’d know something had changed but there was nothing quite unnatural, it would take thought, memory to identify the shift.