Chapter Twenty-One: (The Dead Man) Mr. Ford
…NICOLETTE stood at the window, staring longingly out over the lightening parking lot, wishing she was in bed, curled up under her blankets, sleeping peacefully in her new apartment. It was really little more than a single, multi-purpose room with a bathroom attached, though the bathroom was surprisingly sumptuously appointed. She suspected the small building had started life as a pool house before being converted into an in-law cottage. Now it was hers. She still stumbled over the idea, enjoying the feel of it in her mind, amazed at all the implications of privacy, of control over her living space, of freedom. She rearranged her meagre furnishings almost daily, reveling in the freedom to do so. She supposed the novelty would eventually wear off, but for the time being it filled her with an excited glee she couldn’t ever remember experiencing.
Perhaps the closest was when she’d spent her first big modeling payday on a car -- the little black Corvette she had dubbed ‘Blackie’ the moment she’d seen it on the used car lot. It had been her first bit of independence in Los Angeles...in her life, really.
Until Stan totaled Blackie half a year later, at any rate. Her throat closed at the memory of seeing Blackie, broken and crushed, bleeding coolant onto the pavement of the tow yard. It still filled her with indignant anger that Blackie would be so broken, half folded around a telephone pole, while Stan had walked away with barely a scratch. He had cried apologetically, wheedled at her until she’d forgiven him, resignedly allowing him to crawl back into their bed.
She shook her head, dispelling the memory, replacing it with thoughts of redecorating her apartment. Her flat -- she’d always wanted to say that...and now she could! Maybe if the weather was decent, she might even take a chance and use the Magnusson’s pool; they had invited her to use it when she first moved in, though she hadn’t nerved herself up to take advantage of the offer, yet.
Nicolette shrugged. If the weather was good....
Her reverie was interrupted by the low rumble of an SUV’s engine. She checked the clock, noting that it was probably Mr. Ford coming for his morning mocha. He was one of her regulars, having never missed a day since his first visit shortly after she’d started working in the little shack. She hesitated, reluctant to shrug off her pink puffy jacket. While the pre-dawn coffee shack was still chilly, her hesitation was mostly due to Mr. Ford’s tendency to unabashedly stare at her whenever he visited, something in his expression strongly suggesting he recognized her. She assumed he knew her from her film career -- but something about the intensity of his stares made her uncomfortable. Something in his demeanor always left her with the impression he favored her more...extreme...shoots. He was never overtly rude or inappropriate, and he always tipped well -- but something about him always struck her as a little...off, perhaps even a little frightening.
She sighed as she shrugged off the jacket before pulling open the window; half this job was showmanship, after all.
“Hi, Mr. Ford, would you....”
She faltered as the tinted window rolled down. She experienced an inexplicable moment of confusion, seeing double, as if her eyes were trying to focus on two different things simultaneously.
Mr. Ford smiled at her, his slightly protuberant brown eyes unabashedly crawling up and down her body before fixing on her eyes, his small horn-rimmed glasses momentarily catching the light, giving his face a demonic aspect. She was sure she was seeing Mr. Ford with his ruddy skin and receding hairline, his thin lips and perfectly even white teeth, all underlaid with a strong scent of Axe...
...but she was equally sure she was seeing a man with peeling, leprous skin, covered in gangrenous sores weeping pus. The left side of his face was dark and livid, as if blood had pooled under the skin into mottled purple and black patches. A thick, crusty stench rolled over her; rotting meat and moist shit mixing with Axe body spray; her eyes watered as she struggled with sudden nausea. She watched as a bit of skin threatened to slough off his chin when he smiled, dark red flesh underneath, glistening moistly in the early morning light. Her eyes rose to his black and rotted teeth, some of which were missing as he spoke, his swollen and blackening tongue giving his words a strangely slurred quality.
Strangely, she had always assumed it was some kind of Eastern European accent...it had never occurred to her that a swollen, rotting tongue might cause it. She watched in horror as thick yellowy mucus ran from his left nostril, partially following the contour of his mouth until it found cracked flesh in his upper lip, channeled until it dribbled into his mouth. She realized that it...he...it was still speaking to her.
Oh Jesus that’s good makeup, was her first thought, though a small voice in the back of her mind whispered that even the most fastidious makeup artist didn’t include rotten meat in a make up kit. She struggled to get her breathing under control, some odd instinct for self-preservation forcing her to resume her professional demeanor for the benefit of the (monster) customer.
He can’t know!, that instinct was screaming.
She heard her voice shaking as she asked, “I-I’m s-sorry, Mr. Ford. C-could you rep-peat that?”
He stared at her, one eyelid gummed open, the other blinking slowly. She struggled with her nausea as an errant ocean breeze brought another whiff of (decaying flesh) Mr. Ford into the shack.
He hesitantly repeated, “A large Mocha, Erica. A little dash of caramel.”
She nodded, forcing herself into motion -- anything to give her an excuse to close the window!
I’m seeing things, she told herself. The last week has been stressful; whatever caused those first hallucinations is kicking in again. It’s just Mr. Ford, she insisted as she struggled to get her shaking hands under control. Pervy Mr. Ford is only a middle aged accountant or teacher or something! You’re seeing things and there’s no reason to cry!
Some instinct told her he mustn’t know she was seeing (Find the Truth!) hallucinations.
The demon in the dream had said something about the Truth, she thought, a random tempest of memories and thoughts roaring through her mind, her hands shaking so that half the drink she was preparing spilled onto the floor. She checked the chrome surface of the espresso machine: he was staring at her back while she worked. She could barely breathe through the hammering of her heart in her chest. She realized she was going to have to open the window again, hand him his drink...maybe touch his (rotting, stinking, pus-laden) hand.
For one instant, she panicked as she considered locking the window, perhaps calling the police.
She stood, back to the window, watching the reflection of the monster, struggling not to cry.
C’mon, Nikki. You’re seeing things. Get a grip. Give the (monster) man his coffee, and he’ll leave. It’s just make up. It HAS to be!
She took a deep breath, then a second, the shaking in her hands reluctantly easing. She forced a professional smile and turned, bringing the coffee to the little window. For one instant, it was just ruddy-complexioned Mr. Ford with his receding hairline. Then the air around him shimmered, like heat ripples distorting the air around his skin...and she was once again seeing the corruption, the crusty stink seeping through the glass. She took a deep breath, aware that her lips were trembling despite her efforts to put on her best professional smile.
I can fake an orgasm after a ten hour feature shoot...I can smile for thirty more seconds. Get it together.
She forced herself to open the window, forcing her gorge back down as the stench intensified once again. She tried unobtrusively to breathe through her mouth.
“Here you go! Have a nice day, Mr. Ford!”
Something in her demeanor -- the steadiness of her voice, her unwavering eye-contact, something -- seemed to reassure him. He smiled, one of his black, rotting teeth flapping in his upper gums as he spoke.
“Thank you, Erica. I will see you tomorrow!”
She shuddered, reluctantly accepting the twenty he offered, trying not to think about what might have soaked into it. She slammed the little window shut, then
collapsed onto the ground of the coffee shack. If she hadn’t been so desperate for the job, she’d have quit on the spot.
Ah the joys of being an ex-con, she thought bitterly.
Two hours passed before she could nerve herself to come out of hiding and open the window again. Her hands were raw and aching when she finally finished scrubbing them.
Needless to say, the twenty -- last handled by the rotting monster -- had gone straight into the trash.