Crumb steered me toward the dentist’s chair and tottered off to scrub his hands.
No thanks, I said.
What’s the matter? said Crumb.
Nothing. I’ve got torture on my mind, though.
So?
A dentist’s chair?
It’s perfect. I can clean your teeth while I’m at it.
Fuck that. My teeth are fine.
I’m joking, of course. But I do have a tank of nitrous, if that helps.
I had to admit that nitrous would help.
And five minutes later I was strapped into the chair with a mask over my nose and I could feel the needle tugging at my skin as if it wasn’t skin at all, but a plastic sheath that I wore around my head. I could feel Crumb’s fingers resting heavily on my face and I could see Crumb’s eyes, round and never blinking bug’s eyes. Crumb had bumped up the volume on the TV before he started, saying it helped him to relax and that if I didn’t want my ear sewn onto my forehead not to complain and so now I listened as Batman exchanged dark nihilistic metaphors with the Joker and I smiled warmly with drool running down my chin.
Eve leaned over me, slow and sudden at once. It was stupid, she said. What you did was stupid.
I gurgled at her. Tried to smile but I felt vague about who she was. The dreambrain identified her as a conglomerate. My mother was in there, the sister I never had. My dead wife and a long line of forgotten lovers and characters from books and movies that I might have fantasized about.
I’m a creature of comfort, said the Joker.
I’m glad, though. I’m glad you were there, she said.
And I was pretty sure the needle would pull my face off. My poor skin could only stretch so far and no farther before it slipped from my knob like a wet bathing suit. It’s terrible, isn’t it. The way your skin clings to you.
Mingus:
He could hardly credit it but Mingus was losing his sense of smell. Overload or temporary freakout or some kind of total shutdown. Because he should have been able to taste Christian’s blood by now. The stuff was all over him.
He glanced over at Dizzy Bloom and was struck with worry and nausea, a queer star-shaped feeling blossoming in his throat for her. What visions must she be suffering, he wondered. Dizzy Bloom was strong, though. She had borne her half of Christian’s weight without a whimper. Maybe she was holding her breath. Dizzy Bloom was an alien, a beautiful creature, and he supposed the star-shaped sensation creeping up from his belly was love or something like it. This was unforeseen and perhaps a little frightening but he was too worried about his lost sense of smell to give it a lot of thought. He could see nothing behind his own eyes and he had no memories true or false. He had nothing.
Mingus took a deep breath as they lowered Christian onto Dizzy’s porch swing but there was still nothing. He watched as Dizzy dug through what seemed like a thousand pockets for her house key. He closed his eyes. He breathed.
Wait.
Rotten chocolate, thick and pungent and it wasn’t chocolate at all, it was the smell of fresh earth, of death. And as fast as it came it was gone and Christian was falling off the porch swing. Mingus crouched beside him, hugging his friend’s cool damp body and waiting for Dizzy to unlock the front door.
Isthmus cerebri, said Mingus. Vena ascendens.
The door swung open and Dizzy turned to help him with Christian.
Tunica elastica. Quadratus menti. Corpus callosum. Sympathetic plexus and vitreus humor.
What? said Dizzy.
Mingus blinked. He was only remotely aware that he had been muttering these phrases aloud.
Medical terminology, said Christian. His voice like the faraway croak of a frog. Our friend Mingus, he said. He often quotes from Gray’s Anatomy when nervous.
Mingus blushed, hoping that Dizzy would smile at him in the dark.
Christian, he said. Be quiet.
Why, said Christian. Why do you call me that?
Because you’re failing.
Dizzy sniffed the air and stopped short and the three of them nearly tumbled into her living room.
There’s someone here, she said.
Mingus felt the prickle of goose bumps along his arms. Fearful.
Theseus? he said.
No, she said. It’s the smell of sick.
The overhead light was flicked on and a stout, balding man in vomit-streaked clothes stood before them, a gun in his right hand. He touched his own forehead with the barrel as if scratching an itch.
Fuck me, he said. You call yourself a Breather. A little kid could walk in here and smell puke.
You, said Dizzy. I know you.
Christian was slumping to the floor and Mingus moaned, holding him close. And as he always had, he felt safer with Christian beside him. Even like this.
No, said the man. You don’t know me.
You’re a policeman, she said.
Not tonight, sister. The man waved his gun and nearly fell over. I’m no cop.
Who are you? said Mingus. He had found his voice, it seemed.
I’m Elvis, said the man. I’m king of the fucking Freds. I’m Jimmy Sky.
Dizzy’s face was white, her lips flatline. Our friend is hurt, she said. What do you want?
The man guffawed. I want him, of course.
What do you want with him? said Mingus.
That depends. His name is Chrome, yes? The Mariner.
Mingus hesitated. Yes, he said.
And the man who called himself king of the Freds stepped forward, he swaggered close with his gun held crooked. He swung his arm around, breathing crazily. He faltered, mumbled an obscenity or two and glanced upward as if looking for the sun. Then poked the end of the gunbarrel at Christian’s mouth.
Chrome, he said. You have made the game real.
Mingus watched the man’s chubby index finger tighten around the trigger, he watched the tiny creases in the skin of Jimmy Sky’s finger turn white and he could already feel the hot spray of Christian’s blood but there was a pause, a heaviness in the air. And Jimmy leaned close enough.
Don’t you find it curious? he said. That I don’t want your tongue.
Christian straightened, his cheeks deathly. Mingus knew that he wanted to be proud but he couldn’t stand alone. There was no strength left in him. Dizzy said softly, wait. And the man never heard her, he never did. But he was staring at Christian with the sudden horror of recognition in his eyes.
I know you, he said. You work at the Video Hound. I rented Star Trek from you, just a few weeks ago. The Undiscovered Country. Last month. Last fucking month. Jimmy lowered the gun. Oh, he said. This is…unexpected. This is fucking strange. And look at you, he said. Look at you. Someone has already killed you.
Please, said Dizzy. Let’s talk about this. I can make some coffee.
Coffee, said the man. Fuck that shit. Your friend doesn’t need coffee.
Mingus made a rare, free-falling decision. He decided to say fuck it and he stuck out his left hand and took the gun away from Jimmy Sky. It was easy, really. The fat policeman yawned at him, unconcerned. Mingus turned the gun over and over in his hands, wondering how one might unload it and at that precise moment, Christian’s knees buckled and he fell forward, pulling Dizzy down with him.
Oh, this is pretty. This is gorgeous, said Jimmy Sky.
The room collapsed into the glass eye of a fish.
The room curved inward and Mingus twisted the gun this way and that, careful to keep it pointed at the floor. He could not fathom how the bullets went into it and he cursed himself for never learning such things as a boy.
In warped space he could see Dizzy shoving at Christian, rolling him over onto his back and bending to breathe into his mouth and behind her the fat policeman was lazily removing his jacket and tie, his shirt. Dropping them to the floor like soiled rags then fumbling to release his belt buckle. This seemed terribly inappropriate and Mingus lifted the gun. The man’s pants sagged but did not fall down and Jimmy Sky shrugged. He lifted one heavy foot a
nd began to hop around in a circle, trying in vain to yank off his shoe.
The gun was unsteady and Mingus felt sure that it would go off any moment.
Dizzy breathed into Christian’s slack lips. One of Jimmy Sky’s shoes hit the floor, followed by a dirty white tube sock. Mingus fumbled with the gun and now Jimmy Sky sat down, cursing because his other shoe would not come off. There was a knot in the laces. Mingus lowered the gun. Dizzy was beautiful, he thought. Dizzy was silent and mournful and her eyes never left Christian’s face as she offered him her breath. The gun was heavy, warm and heavy and suddenly Mingus darted back outside into the dark and grunted as he threw the thing onto the roof. And he stood there a long moment, waiting to see if it would fall back to his feet.
Silence.
The gun didn’t fall and soon Jimmy Sky came outside, barefoot and eerily peaceful. His great white belly jiggling.
Horrorshow.
Mingus stared at him, unafraid now.
Nice fucking night, said Jimmy.
Yes, said Mingus. They stared at each other for another moment and Jimmy burped wetly, then gave a great sigh. He tottered down the steps and Mingus slowly turned and went back inside, his head full of noise. Dizzy looked up at him and he knew everything was bad. It was real.
We have to do something, she said.
There was bad air in his mouth and he didn’t know what to say.
What? he said.
I don’t know, okay. But there’s a bullet in him and he’s almost dead. If we get the bullet out, maybe he won’t die.
His tongue felt thick. That seems naïve, he said.
Dizzy glared at him. Isn’t he your friend?
Oh, God. Mingus touched his eyes and they were dry. Of course, he said. Yes, he said. And I keep expecting him to sit up. To laugh at me and say: quelle heure est-il?
Huh?
What time is it. Christian wishes that he were French, you know.
Why won’t you call him Chrome?
Because Chrome wouldn’t be dying.
Dizzy shook her head. Please, she said.
I didn’t think you liked him.
Dizzy shrugged. I don’t like him. But it’s part of the game, Mingus.
No, he said. No, it’s not.
She stood up. Help me move him into the kitchen.
Mingus helped her. He could hardly say no, could he. And it was gruesome, the way Christian’s body slid across the floor. They dragged him into the kitchen and the blood became a muddy streak across black-and-white tile.
Bright overhead light.
Mingus sat beside the body, his fingers pressed to Christian’s throat and there was perhaps a faint pulse but he knew that if he touched the floor or the leg of a chair he would likely feel the same faint, faraway beating. Dizzy was opening one drawer after another and he realized she was looking for tools.
Do you have a knife in your pocket? she said.
No, he said.
Take this, she said. And she handed him a blunt little knife, the sort of knife one might use to cut cheese at a party. A soft cheese like Brie.
I want you to cut open his shirt, she said.
Mingus nodded. He stared at Christian’s torso, at the fine silver mesh shirt. The gentle curve of pectoral muscles unmoving. He shifted his eyes to the brightly defined collarbone below Christian’s throat.
Blood, the blood there was nearly dry.
Mingus slipped the point of the blade in at the neck of the shirt and sawed through the thin material and he was disgusted to hear himself grunting. The shirt fell away and Christian’s chest was black with blood. Mingus reflexively pinched his nose but he needn’t have bothered. There was no smell, not for him. Dizzy sat down across from him and he took one look at her and almost laughed because she knew it was inappropriate but he wanted to kiss her. There was a nice glow of sweat and urgency about her face and her lips seemed darker, almost brown and her hair fell in heavy black braids that touched the floor. The little muscles jumped in her arms. He saw that she held another knife with a black handle and serrated blade, an ice pick and a small sharpened spoon that he thought must have been intended for pitting olives. She laid these on a white linen napkin and together they gazed at the wound.
Which was not so bad, really. Torn flesh.
It was more of a rupture than a hole but they needed something to clean it with, alcohol or something. He mentioned this and she said, I looked. I don’t have anything.
The Pale, he said.
There’s none to spare.
He sighed and realized that he was only calm because his tiny reptile brain believed none of this was happening. This was a very intense video game, a first-person shooter from hell.
What about cough syrup, he said. Some of them have alcohol.
Yes, she said. Yes. I have NyQuil.
What color? he said. And it didn’t matter, it didn’t matter. Christian was dead.
Green, she said. I hope.
Yes.
Dizzy said she would be right back.
Okay, said Mingus.
He stared at the knife, at the funny little spoon. He wondered what in God’s name would she do with the ice pick. And in a moment Dizzy came back, another linen napkin in hand. She stained it green and began to wipe the blood from Christian’s chest and soon his chest was green, as if his blood were green.
This isn’t necessary, said Mingus.
What? she said.
He touched her wrist, he grabbed it. There’s no one around, he said. We could drop out of the game for five minutes.
You can’t be serious.
Mingus sighed. He wanted her to call him by his proper name. He wanted her to kiss him again, he wanted to talk about tomorrow and beyond. They had a lot to talk about. But Dizzy was unwavering when it came to the game.
Look at him, said Mingus. He’s dead.
Are you sure?
No.
Aren’t you a medical student? she said. In the daylight, I mean.
You know I am, he said. And I’m on academic probation.
Dizzy shrugged. I don’t care. We have to try, at least.
That six-fingered claw in his belly was love, he was sure of it. But when she offered him the serrated knife, he shook his head. He couldn’t do it and he didn’t want her to do it but she bent over Christian and felt for the bullet with her finger. She couldn’t seem to find it and he heard her suck in a deep unsteady breath as she lowered the sunshiny little blade to cut at the flesh around the hole in Christian’s dead chest. And Mingus was calm, he was far away. Dizzy made an opening the length of her finger above Christian’s left nipple and stopped. She looked like she might faint and now Mingus took the little sharpened spoon away from her.
Fuck, he said. Oh, fuck.
He wished he could dig around in the area of Christian’s heart and find the bullet, if only to give it to Dizzy so she could breathe again. But he couldn’t.
Dead, he said. He’s dead, Dizzy.
Yes.
Dizzy leaned forward and felt around in Christian’s pockets until she found a packet of cigarettes, then sat back against a cupboard and lit one.
The gray sunken cunt of the world, she said.
Mingus took the cigarette from her.
What? he said. What did you say?
My great-grandfather, she said. Leopold Bloom. He called death the gray sunken cunt of the world and I never understood what he meant until now.
Mingus blew smoke at the ceiling and thought what a beautiful freak she was.
Dizzy, he said. Leopold Bloom is a fictional character. He was never real.
Oh, she said. I don’t know about that.
Long silence. Mingus wondered about tomorrow.
J’ai faim.
Dizzy Bloom smiled. What?
I’m hungry.
The face was numb and I couldn’t smile.
But I liked to think that smiling was unnecessary and now I looked down with mild effort to see that I was still strapped into a den
tist’s chair, hands flecked with the blood of Phineas and folded piously in my lap. I released the seat belt and maneuvered my legs into standing position and this was not so bad.
Breathed. The air was still and I supposed it must be approaching dawn. I spied a clock that claimed it was slightly past three. Technically it was Saturday. No sign of life but for a vaguely humanoid lump on the couch and I doubted they would have just left me in the chair because I might have had a seizure and thrashed myself to death but Crumb had always been one to fade before first light and Eve, well. She was not quite herself.
Jesus.
Eve was freaking me out. She looked about thirteen sometimes but she was fierce, she was stoic. I would have been crippled and sobbing after two minutes in those rings.
Found her in brightly lit bathroom. Narrow.
A mirror directly to my left, I could feel it there. Eve sat on the toilet with the lid down. I was sick of fucking mirrors and I stared straight at Eve. She was so tiny. Her feet barely touched the floor. Her legs were crossed, one foot bouncing. She was reading a glossy magazine.
Crumb? I said.
Asleep, she said.
That lump on the couch, you mean.
Yeah.
What are you reading?
People, she said. It’s very strange.
I nodded. Yes.
These celebrities, she said. They all look terrified.
I could feel the mirror beside me, a pale reflecting skin. I told myself not to look at it.
They are terrified, I said. They have lost themselves.
Eve touched finger to tongue, flipped another page.
Those cannibals are right, she said.
Breathe. One two three four five.
What cannibals?
The ones that claim the camera steals your soul.