I wrote this story in the middle of 2006 and sent it to a friend of mine in Paris. She enjoyed it and submitted it for me to a contest put on by the PEN American Center. I didn't know she was going to do this. So when I got notification that I had won the Dawson prize for fiction, it was a pleasant surprise in a very unpleasant place. It was also the first money I had ever made from a story so it's a special piece for me. I thought I would put it up on my blog pretty much as it appears online at the PEN Center. There are several things I would do differently now, but I'm proud of this story.
I hope you enjoy it.
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©
2011 All Rights Reserved
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Static Night
© 8/14/2006
Apartment 25A stepped back from
Jake as he stepped up from the parking lot. The too-crisp edges of the cheap
apartment door flexed as if laughing. Next to it, to Jake’s left, a darkened
window avoided his gaze.
The rubber soles of Jake’s scuffed
work boots felt for traction on the concrete curb. Jake wiped sweaty palms from
his unwashed black corduroy coat down to his unwashed black corduroy pants. For
a moment, he swayed and blinked at the porch-light. The weak yellow enhanced his dark features. Jake
didn’t own a watch and the clock in the decrepit Cadillac he drove had stopped
at forever o’clock. It was night. He was sure.
Standing there, staring at the
light, Jake forgot his name.
“Jake, you alright, buddy?”
The question held a unique urgency.
Jake ignored his buddy Bill. The
light and its play were more interesting than the disheveled young man who
stood next to him. Jake wanted nothing from Bill. What he wanted was to know
the light. Everything it touched seemed to cut itself from the background to float.
The light created essential
beings.
“And it is no brighter than a
candle.” Jake mumbled.
“What was that Jake?” Bill said.
There were questions no-one should
answer.
Jake reached his hand out and
twisted it. The skin went black except for a small sliver sliced around the
edge. The light became a corona for his hand eclipse. It was an outline of
gold.
His hand became more than a tool
at the end of his arm, it became life.
Some cultures had worshipped the
images he created. They painted them on smooth cave walls. They revered them.
Jake smiled and showed un-brushed
teeth his new god.
“It looks like torch-light, Cro-Magnon,
Neanderthal.”
“Okay Jake, let’s get you inside. Raquel
said it was cool if we blazed through. She’s got some good dope but you have to
be straight dude.” Bill ushered Jake to the door. “None of this weird ass
bullshit.”
“You have to have a bull to have
bullshit, buddy and—” Reluctant to
hide god, Jake lowered his hand. “—I don’t see any bulls grazing on the
asphalt.”
“It’s a figure of speech.”
“It’s no David, buddy. If you are going to sculpt, strive for
perfection, channel Michaelangelo, Please create the perfect set of balls out
of the words if, and, or what.”
Jake nodded Bill into silence as
they took the small step up from the walk to the stoop. The light over the
door, the light that had opened up mysteries, lost its divinity. Light became
light.
Jake sighed.
“Monet, Degas, dots and swirls.
Photons painting impression on vacuum. Art. Electromagnetic paintbrushes
washing gesso for our eyes only. Agitated rods and cones jumbling rays of light
into images for mind to decipher. Electromagnetic to Electromagnetic. A pulse
beating rhythm on biological sculptures formed of fractual blueprints.”
“Jake, I’m knocking now, please
shut up and don’t say anything that will—no—just don’t say anything. You know
how edgy Raquel can be when she’s spun out.”
Jake raised his hand, winked, and
made the okay sign with thumb and forefinger. Yes, everything was okey-dokey.
“You’re not going to stay quiet
are you?”
“The Magna Charta led to the
Constitution led to the Bill of Rights which guarantees my freedom to speak.”
“Come on, Jake. Raquel ain’t going
to let us in if you run on about fractions and magma cartons!”
“That’s fractuals and Magna Chartas
and what type of person would discriminate based upon a person’s fascination
with God’s blueprint for reality or the rules that govern the manifestations of
that blueprint?” Jake cocked his head and raised his right eyebrow. “This
experiment in government has sworn to protect the civil liberties of all its
citizens—gay, female, black, purple, two-headed, four eyed, and curious.”
Bill shook his head, frustrated.
“Why do you always have to be like
this Jake!”
“You!? Always!?” Jake clucked his
tongue. “Bill, ‘buddy’, use I-statements. And never say always. Nothing is ever
always one way or always another. Life—morphs.”
“Stop it, Jake! Act normal for
once!” Bill struggled to keep his voice to a stage whisper. “Fuck your
I-statements and fuck your fractuals and fuck your Magna Carton!”
“Charta, it’s Charta, Bill.”
“Whatever!” Bill quieted and
pleaded. “Look, just be normal, okay.”
“Normal, Bill, what’s normal,
Bill? How normal is it running from one end of town to the other so high that
light and shadow mix into a twisted penumbra? This waltz of ours is very far
from normal, Bill.” Jake pointed at the pistol bulge in Bill’s waistline. “How
many Indians are you planning to kill with that peace maker cowboy?”
“I need it,” Bill said sheepishly.
“For protection. But the gun ain’t the point, you being quiet is the point.”
“Okey-Dokey, Bill, my silence
shall speak volumes.”
Bill glared at Jake and waited a
moment to make sure his friend was going to stick to his word. Satisfied, he
turned to the door and knocked.
Jake watched Bill’s fist move back
and forth three times. Each arc of
motion was accompanied by speed lines. They were cartoonish. They were comic. Rapping
knuckles spurred shock waves in the thin particle board door. Jake thought of
vellum and parchment stretched. He thought of drum skins beaten in savage
rhythm. He thought of amoebae surfing the waves on the backs of paramecium.
He thought spiraling thoughts but
kept his thoughts confined to his mouth. His tongue felt like Scylla. His
thoughts were Charybdis. Both threatened the staid pace of social normalcy.
A smile touched Jake’s mouth. What
was social normalcy in a meth-driven masquerade?
The window next to the door framed
wriggling movement. Drawn blinds that
cut off space from space began a strange dance. One slat clicked open and closed in time
bursts. Like a hollow eye, the opening revealed nothing of the blackness of the
mind behind. Jake thought the window wanted to mate with him. The flashing spot
of black reminded him of a bug looking to fuck.
“Who the fuck is it!” A woman
shouted.
“You know who it is!” Bill said.
“Quit tweaking Raquel and open the door!”
“Bill? It sounds like you. Who’s
that with you?” Raquel whined.
“Jake, you know Jake, Raquel.”
Bill put his finger to his lips and pre-shushed Jake. “Now—will you open the
door? We’re tired of standing out here.”
“Yeah, that’s you Bill, always
complaining.” Raquel fell silent for a moment. The night breathed. “I don’t
think I know no Jake, Bill. I don’t want to open the door for someone I don’t
think I know –you understand where I’m coming from, right, Bill?”
Bill sighed and lowered his head. Jake
leaned in using his grin like a whip. When he spoke, his voice was whisper
cold.
“Can I speak now, oh Pistol King?”
“Pistol King?” Bill said and
smiled. “Why did you call me that?”
“Do you know what sarcasm is,
Bill?” Jake said.
“Not really, and I don’t think I
like it all that much.” Bill looked up. “You want to talk to her? Fine, talk to
her. She’s so spun out right now I don’t
think she knows who she is. You get her
to open the door and I’ll shit pumpernickel.”
“That would be something to see. An
adventure in all that is human.” Jake put his hand to the doorknob.
“Unfortunately no-one will be able to see that amazing feat of evacuation. Little
Sammy Sullivan broke the lock last week. He wanted to make sure he had a place
to crash whenever his parents tossed him out of the house. I believe he was a
cuckoo bird in his past life. I think he is working out the karma incurred from
tossing so many chicks from the nest.” Jake opened the door. Trent Reznor’s
wails greeted them. “Wasted nights and wasted lives.”
“Raquel didn’t open the door. You
can’t hold me to the deal.” Bill suddenly looked desperate. “I don’t owe you
nothing, Jake.”
“That is what I said, Bill, even
though I want to see pumpernickel pushed piping from your colon, I can’t, in
good faith, hold you to the deal. We have entered a world of technicalities and
I have no wish to involve the courts.” Jake waved an arm to indicate the
darkened interior of apartment 25. “And the only arbitrators available aren’t
very reputable. Your asshole is safe, for now, let’s go inside.”
“Yeah, let’s go inside.” Bill eyed
Jake suspiciously. “And I don’t owe you, right, Jake.”
“Right, Bill, now go inside.”
Before their eyes adjusted to the
dim interior, the smell of deprivation hit them. The smell was the smell of
pond water, of sweet tea left sealed too long then opened in the humid air
beneath a magnolia tree, of a dumpster full of oranges, apples, potatoes, and
banana peels soaked through by rain then heated by the summer sun. The musk of
too many unwashed bodies sweating ammonia filled out the stench.
“A den, a den of lions infested
with ring worm and scabies.” Jake stepped in and bumped a booted foot into the
soft thigh of a male seated on the floor. Jake didn’t recognize him. The man
lifted his head and stared through Jake.
“And I’m not Daniel,” the zombie
said through rotted teeth. “The hand of God is not upon me. This is the valley.
I am the shadow. All who pass cry out in despair.”
Jake made room for Bill to enter
and counted one more zombie on the floor, Little Sammy Sullivan, and Raquel. All
were lost.
“Little Sammy Sullivan, karma’s
thrown you from the nest again.” Jake closed the door without turning his back
to the room. “There’s no profit in a cuckoo life?”
Little Sammy Sullivan, seated on
the couch, raised his head. In his lap
was a gutted piece of electronic equipment. Palsied fingers sifted a spaghetti
of confetti-colored wires without guidance from his conscious mind.
“Whatever you say, Jake.” He
smiled. “I like it when you talk.”
“Yeah, speech is a rare gift. We
seem to be the only mammals who use it to lie to each other.” Jake nodded at
the mess of electronics. “That piece of equipment has lost its coherency.
You’ve killed it.The machine is dead and nothing will rise from the corpse.”
“No mushrooms will grow. No
carrion eaters will thrive,” the zombie at Jake’s feet whispered. “The hyenas
will starve.”
Bill looked around and cringed.
“It smells like a dead asshole
shit rotten grapefruit into a cesspool.” Bill looked at Raquel who still was at
the window taking snapshots with a single slat of the blinds. “Don’t you ever
clean this place up? That looks like the same sandwich from last week. It was
maggoty then! Now it looks like it come back
to life.”
“Yeah, that’s you Bill, always
complaining.” Raquel fell silent for a moment. The night breathed. “I don’t
think I know no Jake, Bill. I don’t want to open the door for someone I don’t
think I know—you understand where I’m coming from right, Bill?”
“What the fuck?” Bill said. “We’re
already inside, Raquel. You ain’t got to
open the door for nobody. What’s going on in here?” Bill looked at the zombies.
“What the hell has got you gone like this?”
“Bill, are you out there? I hear
your voice but I can’t see you?” Raquel continued clicking the blinds open,
closed. Click-clack. Click-clack. “Where are you Bill? Did Jake eat you? Bill?
Billy Bill lil lil lil lil lil lil lil lil lil lil lil.”
“She’s crossed over—they all
have.”
“What the fuck does that mean,
Jake!” Bill snapped. “Just what the fuck does that mean! They crossed over! What
are they, in some kind of spirit world?—”
“Across the Styx, pay your toll. Passed
the mouths of Cerebus. Through the gates to kneel before Hades himself!” Zombie
number one said. “Journey down journey down. No pomegranates Persephone, take up the stone
Sysiphus, knit a sweater Martha, there is no escape.”
“I don’t like you very much
ghoul,” Jake said before sitting next to Little Sammy Sullivan on the couch.
“You’re ensnared in melancholy. You are a poor hare trapped by an age far gone.
Victorian wags were better at delving into depression.” Jake cocked his head.
“You’re taking all the fun out of it.”
“Hey, Jake! Focus huh!”
“I’m sorry, Bill.” Jake pulled a
pack of cigarettes and a cheap Bic lighter from his coat pocket and lit up. The
flame became clarity in the darkness. Four heads slowly turned and focused on
it. Unintelligibly they whispered amazement. Jake let the flame die. He inhaled
deeply to let his eyes readjust to the darkness. The zombies stared at where
fire had been.
“What’s wrong with them,” Bill
whispered.
“I thought I already said, they’ve
crossed over.”
“I thought I already said I don’t
know what that means.”
“You forgot to add ‘the fuck’
between the word what and that.” Jake grinned. “I enjoy your creative use of
expletives, Bill. They’re the only
reason I spend time with you. It’s an
education.” Jake passed the cigarette to Little Sammy Sullivan who slowly,
vacantly, took it and smoked. “Anyway, they have crossed over. They have stepped
into the spirit. They have entered the dark realm beyond. Hand them snakes and they won’t be bitten. Let
them drink cyanide and they won’t die. Pierce them and they won’t bleed. Think
of all the good stuff, light bursting from between the eyes, walking on water,et
cetera, et cetera ad infinitum.”
“There are no Messiahs, or
Prophets, here,” Zombie number two said.
Bill looked down at Jake. He was afraid
and confused.
“They are gods?”
“No—”
Jake laid his hand atop the head
of zombie number one and tilted it back. Zombie number one’s eyes closed and
his mouth fell open with a wet sound.
"They are the living dead
damned to look into the beyond and carry part of the long night back with them.
They are petty demons lost.” Jake sat forward and took his hand from the
zombie’s head. “And we’re going with them.”
”I-I-I don’t want to cross over,”
Bill said softly. “I don’t want to be no zombie. I don’t want to die.”
“They aren’t dead, Bill.”
On the coffee table in front of
Jake two large lines of white powder were laid out on a small pane of window
glass. The razor used to cut the lines and the straw used to snort them sat
next to each other on the table. They were both powdered with meth. It clung as
if alive. Jake leaned forward and snorted one line using the straw. He sat
back, eyes watering, teeth clenched so hard the muscles of his jaw threatened
to split his skin. Smiling, Jake offered
the straw to Bill.
When Jake spoke, his voice was
hoarse and powerful.
“Take my hand and rise above this
world.”
“I am the dragon,” Zombie number
one said.
“I am the beast,” Zombie number
two said.
“I am the harlot,” Raquel said as
she stripped off her clothes.
“I am the lamb,” Little Sammy
Sullivan said.
Silence sat silently on the
breasts of everyone in the room. They
stared expectantly at Bill who stared at the straw. He ran a hand through
greasy hair, bit his lip, closed his eyes and opened them again.
Jake broke the long silence.
“Your mouth is dry. Your stomach
is full of eager excitement. That excitement is spreading into your groin. It
is even touching your asshole. Your heart is beating rapidly in a chest so
constricted your lungs are having trouble finding air. Your hands and feet are warm. Your body is
reacting as if preparing for sex.” Jake wiggled the straw, tempting. “Penetrate
yourself with this. Make love to the universe. Cum so hard you die and are
reborn, Euphoria, Bill. Euphoria.”
“You are confronting the unknown.”
Raquel was fully nude. She pushed her body against Bill’s. “You are confronting
the unknown.”
“Yes, Bill, become. One more night
without sleep and we will both see through the eyes of those gone before.” Jake
let his voice fall to a whisper. “Or—are you afraid.”
Swiftly Bill snatched the straw
from Jake.
“Fuck that! I ain’t afraid of
nothing! Push over so I can sit down!” Bill shook Raquel off him. She tripped
over the feet of zombie number two and hit the floor hard. “And get off me,
bitch! Everyone knows you got herpes! It don’t matter how dead I get, I ain’t
never sticking my dick in you!”
Jake smiled wider and moved to
allow Bill to work on his line. Jake
leaned back and allowed himself to feel the meth start through his system. Static
night closed in on Jake. A veil of brown flies fell over the room. The zombies
brightened in the new sienna-tinged reality. He watched Raquel stand. She was a
naked wraith. She was a marionette jerking through a Slipknot video. She was a
Stanley Kubrick creation. Jake was reminded of an old film running with frames
missing. Raquel bent down and pulled zombie number two up onto his feet. She
waltzed him through one measure of Hurt before together they pirouetted into
the back bedroom.
The door shut with a muted click. The
rest of the room fell silent. Soon the song ended. The only sound left was the
refrigerator periodically cycling freon.
“Tick, tick, tick, goes the
midnight clock,” Jake said to no-one.
