Out there, p.7
Out There, page 7
At the side of the shelter, the temple of the shelter’s skull, there was a rack of clothes, old suit coats and sequined dresses wrapped in plastic garment bags. A few days before, Reese had gathered these clothes in her arms and set them aside, exposing a plain of drywall. This would be her point of access to the shelter. During breaks from her work, she had watched poorly produced YouTube videos in which paunchy middle-aged men exulted in laying waste to the interior walls of their own homes. In one, the female videographer emitted a small yelp when the man raised his sledge. “Hold on, lemme get over here,” she said, moving behind him so the camera had a clearer view of the wall, painted the yellow of cake batter. The woman cried out excitedly upon the first several blows. But the man’s progress was disappointingly gradual. He struck the wall again and again. After a few minutes he stopped, chest heaving. The dust slowly settled. There was a distinct sense of anticlimax. “Good job, babe,” the woman said, almost sarcastically.
Now, armed with a rudimentary understanding of demolition, Reese entered a rabbit pen and selected a twenty-pound sledge, a mattock, a pair of safety goggles, and a mask. She carried the tools to the shelter’s temple. She lifted the sledge and connected it with the drywall, which yielded easily, like thick cardboard. She grabbed an edge and tore a panel down from the wall, working until she’d exposed the house’s blond bones and beyond them the concrete bricks of the shelter.
Reese touched her lips to the cool surface, darting out her tongue to taste its skin. She reached her right hand down the front of her jeans, and found herself slick with arousal.
Her phone buzzed in her back pocket. Done, Mark had texted. She replaced the plastic-wrapped garments on the rack, returned the tools she had used, and got in the car.
Mark was in good spirits. He talked nonstop on the drive home.
“We had a breakthrough tonight with ‘Heliotrope,’ ” he said. This was the last song of the album, a ten-minute instrumental track that Psilocybin hoped would encapsulate the complex mood and narrative thrust of the first twelve songs.
“Great,” Reese said. Mark continued to describe the difficulties they’d had in mastering the song, the dozens of abortive takes over the past two weeks and the transcendent quality of tonight’s recording session. Reese watched the amber sticks of the dashboard clock rearrange themselves into new minutes. She replayed in her mind the moment her sledge had contacted the drywall, piercing its membrane, causing damage that any casual observer could see.
* * *
—
The next evening promised to be even more productive for Psilocybin. In the morning Mark announced he’d be staying late at the studio, and Reese insisted he take the car so he would be free to stay as long as he needed to. She hoped he wouldn’t come home at all. Earlier in the summer, he’d crashed a few nights in the feed store, on an air mattress set in the aisle between shelves of moldering bean sacks. Back then she’d objected to spending the night alone in the house, but now it suited her purposes.
Reese knew she would need heavier artillery for the concrete of the shelter. From her research, more videos of men brutalizing walls, she determined she would need a jackhammer, which Todd’s crew was using on the foundation job. It was a long, turquoise-bodied implement that reminded Reese of the hand blender she used to make smoothies. She carried it to the shelter wall and plugged its thick red cord into an outlet. She chose a spot on the concrete a few feet from the ground and angled the snout down before flipping the switch.
The hammer bucked. Reese clung to its handles, her skin and teeth set to a fine vibration. The chisel of the hammer gnawed into the concrete. Dust shot into her face, obscuring the lenses of her goggles. Despite the mask, she began to cough. She felt resistance, and finally release as the innermost layer was breached, at which point her body shuddered with a confusing, fragmented orgasm. She turned off the hammer, breathing heavily. She poked her pinkie into the small hole she had made. She put her nose to the hole and smelled plaster and earth, the stagnant shelter air.
Reese made two more holes to form a triangle, then used the mattock to tear the stone loose. Pieces fell from above. Rubble accumulated at her feet. She did not stop until she had created a hole large enough to clamber through. She shone her flashlight inside. As the dust settled, she could make out the Shop-Vac, the crate of wine, and the box of crackers. Reese climbed through the hole. She sat on the floor of the shelter, exhausted and satisfied. After a few minutes, she curled up on her side, resting her ear on the cool concrete.
* * *
—
The Honda rumbled in the driveway. Reese crawled from the shelter and ran upstairs, to the en suite bathroom. She got into the shower and began loofahing concrete dust from her skin. Mark soon found her. His form was blurred by the rain glass of the shower door. Slowly, he began to remove his clothes. Smears of color—the red and black of his flannel, the indigo of his Levi’s—ceded, piece by piece, to the uniform pink of his flesh.
Mark entered the shower. Reese closed her eyes and plunged her face into falling water. Mark pressed his body against her back and began kissing her neck. Reese cringed.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so busy,” he said. “Once we’re done with ‘Heliotrope’ I’ll have a lot more free time. Maybe we can spend a weekend in Chicago.”
Mark worked his hand beneath her right forearm. She allowed him to cup her breast for a moment before she turned, kissed his cheekbone, and said she wanted to get dry.
* * *
—
During the third day of work on the house’s foundation, a boy from Todd’s team climbed the stairs and paused on his way to the bathroom. Reese had noticed his gaze tracking her whenever she went down to the basement to take lunch requests or replenish their pitcher of iced tea. He was thickset, with dark eyes and a full mouth, his pudgy cheeks dusted with freckles. Whenever he came upstairs, he stared at her and she graced him with a stiff smile before turning back to her screen. Today he was bolder, probably reasoning that this was his last chance at meaningful contact, the kind he might brag about to his friends beneath a canopy of bong vapor. He lingered on the threshold of the living room at the line where hardwood met carpet.
The boy spoke but Reese had headphones on and didn’t hear. She paused the dungeon orgy that was pumping and straining to its inevitable conclusion on her laptop screen. “How are you?” he said, the tone of his question souring in his embarrassment at having to repeat it.
“Fine. Just working.”
“What do you do?” She could tell he wanted to come closer but knew he shouldn’t step onto the carpet in his work boots.
“I write copy for a porn website.”
“Sounds cool.”
“It’s not.” She shut her laptop and placed it beside her on the couch. She crossed the room and stood with her back against the wall, light switches digging into her spine. “Will you come back tomorrow? I have another job I need done.”
“Um, sure,” he said. “Have you talked about it with Todd?”
“We don’t need Todd,” she said. “It’s a small job. I thought you could do it all on your own.”
The boy’s face flushed, and she hurried to say, “It’s just a wall. There’s a big hole in a wall I need fixed. Can you do that?”
The boy said he thought he could handle it.
* * *
—
When he arrived the next day, Reese pretended not to notice the boy was wearing a button-down shirt, his face freshly shaven. She showed him the hole she had made in the wall of the shelter. The price he quoted seemed high, but she didn’t bother negotiating. She told him she needed it done the following day. She wouldn’t be home but would leave the front door unlocked for him.
“Okay,” he said slowly, as though unwilling to accept this as the extent of her desire.
“Please clean up after yourself,” she said. “Put the clothes back on the rack. Don’t leave any trace.”
“No problem.” They were in the foyer now. He shifted from foot to foot, palpating the razor burn along his jawline. “Is that all?”
Reese deadened her eyes. “Just the wall,” she said. “Let me write you a check.”
* * *
—
Reese hid herself under the sleeping bag when she heard his boots on the stairs. She waited for light to shaft through the hole. But the boy was not curious. He got right to work. Reese lay on the cold floor of the shelter, surrounded by the groceries and supplies she had gathered. A bucket for her waste. A flashlight, extra batteries, and a dozen votive candles. A sleeping bag and pillow. A corkscrew so that later she could get drunk.
She listened to the boy pack and smooth fresh concrete into the hole. He worked for a short stretch, then went back upstairs. She imagined him standing in the kitchen, nibbling discreet edges off things from their fridge.
Soon he was back, the sounds muted now as he patched the drywall. When he was finished she heard the boy put his tools away, then cough and spit on the floor. She listened to his footsteps fade up the stairs. Only after she heard his car sputter and peel out in a spray of gravel did she stand and press her hands against the new wall. The concrete would take several days to cure, but in the meantime the drywall would protect her. The boy had done a fine job.
Night fell outside the shelter. Reese lit a candle. She ate a sleeve of rosemary crackers, drank half a bottle of red wine, and made use of the bucket. Before falling asleep, she inserted foam plugs into her ears so she wouldn’t hear when, in an hour or two days or a week, someone arrived at the door of her shelter, and knocked.
The Head in the Floor
To be honest things weren’t going so well even before the head started coming out of my floor. I was unemployed and universally hated thanks to some choices I’d made. Afternoons I’d go sit in this median strip a few blocks from my apartment and write things in my notebook while cars barreled past. Sometimes I brought a guitar.
First it was just a soft patch. I figured maybe, you know, the floor was rotting. What did I know about floors?
I thought of men I could text to ask them about this like, bruise in my floor. I was a little hard up in terms of people to text because, well, like I said.
First I texted this guy Lee. I texted Lee saying there’s a soft spot in my floor and could he come over and check it out, does he know something about floors?
When he came over Lee was wearing a nice shirt and like, product in his hair. Maybe even cologne.
Lee pressed his fingers into the soft spot in my floor. Then he kind of like, recoiled and said I should call my landlord. I wasn’t going to do that. I’ve lived in this apartment six years and never once have I called the landlord. One of my windows won’t open and another won’t close. The toilet appears to be eating itself. The lock on my door is broken sometimes. Sometimes I’m trapped in my apartment for days until the humidity drops and I can slide the deadbolt out again.
Lee asked if I wanted to like, watch a movie and I said no and he looked sad but said okay. He left and I put a towel over the soft spot in my floor.
After a few days I could no longer deny that the towel was bulging up in the middle. So I peeled it back and there was like. The top of a head. With straight brown hair. It was cresting, you know, like when they talk about the baby’s head poking out. Out of the woman. It was the same thing, but you know. My floor.
I texted this guy Chris and was like. Hey Chris.
So Chris came over. He also seemed sort of a little bit more dressed up than the last time I saw him, though to be honest I don’t remember when that was or who Chris even is. He brought pizza. So I’m like, that’s cool. Better than Lee. Lee didn’t bring anything. When he saw the top of the head he—I mean Chris—well, you could tell he wasn’t expecting that. He brought his tools, too, I didn’t mention that. Both pizza and tools. Way better than Lee.
I asked Chris to touch it, you know, to see if it was warm. He said he didn’t want to. I said this is why I asked him to come over. This is what I needed him for. So Chris looked like he was going to throw up or like collapse in upon himself like a dead star due to this sudden revelation of like, the harrowing absurdity, futility, pain. I mean of existence. He laid the towel carefully over the head. I thought you just wanted to hang out, he said. He sounded like. Wounded. He took the pizza with him.
So at this point I was starting to regret that everyone hates me and how all I do all day is sit in the median, this like three-foot-wide strip of grass between six lanes of traffic, and pretend I’m writing in a notebook or pretend I’m playing guitar. Pretty soon I’d run out of guys to text to come over and help me with the human head coming out of my floor.
The towel helped. I’m not going to sit here and tell you the towel did nothing.
The last number in my phone of a man who did not yet know me well enough to hate me was Brandon, who I probably went on some sort of date with at some point in my life. I think Brandon said we should hang out again and I was like, yeah, and then when he named an actual day of the week I never responded and deleted all our texts.
Brandon didn’t bring anything and he seemed annoyed. I wasn’t sure why he came but I was glad to have him there when I lifted the towel.
You could just make out the upper edge of the eyebrows. Brandon agreed it was a man’s head. You could tell. It’s not just because of the size. I’m saying. You can tell.
I asked Brandon if he’d touch the top of the head to see if it was warm. Meaning, alive. Brandon said no. I said, someone has to. He said, it’s your floor. I gave him this look. He sighed and told me how when we went on a date four years ago I was really rude. I tried to remember this date. I remembered lots of other dates, but none of those guys’ faces looked like Brandon’s, not really. I felt like I could grab Brandon’s wrist and put his hand on the head before he realized what was happening. Then we’d know.
I told Brandon I was sorry, even though I couldn’t remember this date we supposedly went on. Well, I said. Would you want to stay here with me while the head rises out of my floor? Of course I expected him to say no. Any normal person would abandon me to this horror that is after all my burden and no one else’s. Or tell me to call the landlord. Which, you know. That’s off the table.
But Brandon got this look like of utter defeat and sighed again and went. Yeah. Okay.
So I broke my median routine and now I stay in the apartment with Brandon all day. We mostly ignore each other. He works on his laptop because he’s a freelancer. I don’t know what kind. He told me but I guess I didn’t care. Sometimes I look over at him and wonder what fundamental and overpowering sadness there is inside of him that compels him to stay here with me while the head rises from my floor. But I’m not going to say anything, because like. What if he leaves.
It’s been five days since Brandon joined me. The head continues to rise. We lift the towel every two hours to check on it. It’s rising at the rate of around a quarter inch per day. So by 6:00 a.m. tomorrow. There’ll be the eyes.
This is like, what it’s all been building up to. We’re excited but we also feel like maybe. You know, maybe it’s too late now. Maybe before, someone could have done something. Something could have been done.
The eyes are blue and like, alert. They’re blinking at what you might call normal intervals. I mean to say they’re alive. Looking at us. They seem like they’re in an okay mood. Like, not tortured, at least. That’s a relief. That answers at least one of our questions.
Now that we have the eyes we feel like we can talk to the head like we’re all in this thing together. Hey buddy, we say. How’s it going? We only ask to be polite. The head can’t respond because its mouth is still in the floor. If it even has a mouth. Sometimes we tell the head stories about our lives. When the head gets bored of our stories its eyes close and we stop. We don’t put the towel back over the head. It seems like now there’s the matter of like. Human rights. We figure it’ll be a few more days and there’ll be the mouth. And then we’ll clear some things up.
All along I’ve been hoping it’ll be like six months and then the whole man is up out of the floor. I imagine he’s wearing a suit and he’ll straighten his tie and shake my hand and walk out my door and the floor will kind of neatly seal up after him. So like I won’t have to tell my landlord after all or adjust in any small way the constituents of this miserable life that is after all my burden and no one else’s.
But days pass and it’s still just the eyes, and they’re always awake and staring at me and Brandon, unless we’re standing behind the head. It isn’t rising anymore. The head. Like, it’s stuck. Or maybe that’s all there is. Maybe it’s been just the top third of a head all along.
After a few weeks we put the towel back over the head. Since then it’s been a few more months. Brandon seems to live with me. I’ve started going out to the median strip again. I don’t know. We don’t really talk. Me and Brandon. We’ve never touched each other. At first I thought he wanted to. But now I’m not really too sure.
Tahoe
We’d been warned not to ride the ATVs straight up the hill, but we did, and one of us, I think it was Joel, toppled backwards and his ATV fell on top of him. The night before, we’d gone into the creek behind the cabin and come out with leeches on our calves. We pried them off with spoon handles and tossed them on the coals of the grill. They were still alive and their bodies sizzled and popped as they burned and I wondered if anyone else felt bad about that.
We were in Tahoe for a bachelor party. I’m not sure which one of us was getting married, that trip. I want to say it was Jim. But Jim got married after me, and I remember that weekend trying to call my girlfriend at the time, Bonnie, who went a little nuts if I was out of touch too long. It was after the leeches had shriveled to husks on the coals and I was roaming the woods climbing foothills trying to get a bar or two of service just to shoot off a text to Bonnie so she wouldn’t get drunk and start calling ex-boyfriends. I didn’t marry Bonnie, of course. I married a woman who needs me less, and all in all it’s worked out.
