Fiction: The Apostate

 By Joe West

 

I spoke to the minister a few days ago. He invited me out to his house, which wasn’t a house at all but an apartment in a neighborhood that I wouldn’t be caught dead in at night. The building’s hallway stinks of garbage and old fast food. I have to immediately put my hand over my nose to keep from tasting the air. Being able to breathe through your mouth is an underrated quality, but damn handy to know in situations like these. 

He answers the door wearing pale blue boxers and a white t-shirt, not out of rudeness but out of necessity. He says his clothes are getting washed by the lady down the hall. She does it all, wash, iron, and fold for five bucks a load. That is a bargain, he says, compared to the pay-as-you-go washer in the basement that costs two dollars a load and is barely able to wash more than a day's worth of clothes at a time. I immediately assume his wash lady must have a line on a washer and dryer at someone’s home. And judging by the collection of broken cars sitting in the parking lot, it has to be close enough to walk to or take the bus. My car is easily old enough to vote, but it looks like new among the other cars rusting and resting on cinder blocks, with tires gone flat or long-ago missing to god knows where. If my car is still unmolested when I leave here, now that would be a miracle.

The minister offers me a cup of coffee, and I accept. He turns on the stove, sending a blue flame up and around an old, tarnished pot. I look around the tiny kitchen, taking it all in: The dirty white linoleum floor, the old icebox that looks like a prop from a black-and-white TV show, the worthless second-hand kitchen table and chairs. No two kitchen chairs match, but they do the job alright. He lives intentionally below his means. I respect that. Except for having his laundry done by a neighbor, he is doing his best to keep the sin of pride at bay. He has my vote for Jesus, but I keep such cynical notions to myself. 

The pot he has been heating does not have a handle. After he turns off the stove, he uses a potholder as he carefully pours the coffee into a pair of mugs that are porcelain white on the outside and yellow as a horse's teeth on the inside. We sip our coffees in silence. He smiles in between drinks, grateful for what he has received. It takes everything in me not to spit the grainy shit onto his filthy ass floor. 

“You said you had something to show me,” the minister says. “So show me.”

“Give me your hand,” I say. 

He passes his hand to me like he’s begging for change. His palm is red, slightly purple at the tips. I can smell his pain. Whatever has been wrong with him has been killing him slowly for as long as he has been alive. No wonder he got into the church business. If I were him, I’d be looking for an answer, too. The idea that some suffer while others get blowjobs in Ferraris is why men jump off bridges on bright, clear Tuesday afternoons. 

A vision comes to me as it usually does, forcing me to close my eyes. There is a field of golden wheat swaying gently in the breeze, a sky so blue above it is like an endless ocean waiting to be sailed, but that isn’t what gets my undivided attention. As I float into the stratosphere, rising weightlessly a candy-apple-red door appears with a golden ball for a handle. A brilliant white light dazzles my eyes as the doorknob begins to glow before everything goes completely white. 

I let go of the minister’s hand. I’m breathing heavy, but I’m not out of breath, it just kind of gives me a jolt to wake back up and come back to reality. It always knocks the shit out of me. But it works. Every goddamn time. It works. 

“Can I have a glass of water?” I ask, but the minister is ignoring me. He is staring at his hand in amazement. I could take out my pocketknife and carve my name into his kitchen table, and he wouldn’t even notice. 

I get up, open the cabinet above the sink, looking for a glass. He has a few more coffee cups, two plates, two bowls, but the only glasses he owns seem to be from various giveaways of past church events. Not his church, though. His poor church can barely afford to pray, much less keep the heat on in the winter. No, these are a vulgar neon rainbow of plastic pinks, greens, and yellows advertising 5K’s for Christ, Easter BBQs, Auctions, Toy Drives, and Homelessness Awareness Month. I pick an orange cup. The blue writing, for whatever it is from, has faded to the point of illegibility, not that it matters any longer anyway. The water from the tap is cold enough to almost give me a shock headache, but it soothes me like nothing else can. Not even a cold beer is better, but if I had to choose, I would have preferred a beer. 

I sit back down. The minister is still staring at his hand. 

“How did you do that?” He asks.

“It’s a long story,” I say. “How do you feel?”

“I... I don’t know.” He says. I watch as doubt begins to creep inside his thoughts like the rising tide. “It’s a trick, yes? You’re a hypnotist or something. Is that it? Very clever.”

“It’s not a trick,” I say. 

“I'd rather you cursed in my face than lie to me,” he says. 

The minister looks at his arm. Its color has begun to lighten, the purplish fingers lightening first, a gradient of light pink beginning to bloom with the tenacity of paint spilling down his forearm. He sighs as the blood begins to flow unrestricted again, making its way to places that had almost become necrotic as a river of life surges again, awakening capillaries and veins alike with pins-and-needles. 

I get up and put on my tattered ballcap. It belonged to my son when he was a boy. I still admire the blue-and-yellow fleur-de-lis and often think of him when I run my thumb over the bulky stitching like I did when I first bought it, thinking of all the fun he would have wearing it. It’s a hell of a thing to make a plan only to have God laugh at it. 

“I don’t really care what you think about me,” I say. “Just keep your promise. That’s all I’m asking you to do.”

The minister nods, unable not to admire his suddenly usable arm. He is fascinated with his newfound ability to rotate his fingers, running them back and forth like scales on a piano. He begins to cry with joy, whispering to God in their secret language about this irreverent miracle, suspecting this divine intervention will bring only evil. Why had his prayers for relief gone ignored, and mine are immediately heard? I’ve asked myself the same thing. I don’t know, and I don’t care. 

What matters is our deal. I need his legitimacy, his integrity, his infallible reputation, to promote me. The world won’t believe me alone. I’ve wasted so much time already, all because I was scared of nothing more than my own shadow. Power is worthless without a motivation to use it. I’m not worried any longer about what is going to happen to me, but I’d trade it all to have my son back. The pain of living without him never goes away. I have to do something with this, no matter how much I wish I could just cease to exist. 

“How long will this take?” I ask.

Dreamy, the minister says, “I’ll make the calls today.”

“Good,” I say, reaching to shake the minister’s newly revived hand. His grip is stronger now, filled with a strength that will only get more potent. “Time is of the essence.”

The minister dumbly agrees, still nodding his head. There is no doubt in my mind that he will keep his promise just as I have kept mine. We’re partners now, like it or not, and I won’t let him forget that.

My car is unadulterated when I come back outside. I'm almost disappointed. The idea of having to fight, to hit and hit back, seems like something I suddenly want to do. We are born to suffer, some of us just don't know what to do when life is good. What other choice do I have? If the world won't do it, then I guess it's all up to me.

The tavern is almost empty at 10:30 in the morning. Just the way I like it. Jack the bartender looks up from his magazine as I walk in. The little bell over the door is the only alarm the bar has ever installed. I hold up my hand in a static wave to Jack. He nods at me, tired just by seeing me come in, as it means he’ll have to work. Before I have to ask, Jack pours me a small glass of tomato juice and a shot of vodka, or what I prefer to call breakfast. Sure, I could just order myself a Bloody Mary, but I don’t like all that other shit in my juice. To me, it’s just a grand way to fuck up a perfectly good drink. It’s not like mixing Jack and Coke, it's more like a Jack and Pepsi, and who the fuck wants to drink that? Not me. Besides, I love how the cold tomato juice chases the burn of the alcohol. 

Diane walks in at exactly eleven. She is a watch set by an invisible hand set to bother me at the same time every day.

“Buy me a beer?” she asks. I sigh, but what can I do? She’s great in bed, and my self-esteem is for shit. Jack looks at me, and I give him the look, the one that says, “Sure, whatever, fuck it.” He smiles, popping the top off the bottle of beer. We may all be sitting here in hell just killing time, but at least we know what to do while we wait. 

Diane drinks half her beer in a gulp. She works second shift as a security guard at the complex downtown. It has some fancy-pants kind of name that none of us can remember, since it changes hands about every other year in honor of whatever rich asshole wants to own it, so we just call it the complex because that is what Diane calls it. I have no idea what she actually does except watch cameras all night. There must be a shit ton of them to keep her busy for eight hours, but she seems to like it. I wouldn’t know, I can’t stand being alive, let alone working for a living. They could elect me president, and I would still bitch about it. 

“I think I’ll have another,” Diane says. Jack is already in motion, popping her next top. “How’s the miracle business, Lazarus? Raise anyone from the dead lately?” She is a sarcastic bitch, but that’s how she lets you know she likes you. Diane has got to be the only person who sounds meaner the nicer she is forced to act. 

“You are going to brag to people one day how you once knew me,” I say. 

“Oh, my, Jack. We’re in the presence of greatness,” Diane says, raising her new bottle of beer in salute to my asinine boast. We all want out of here, but so far nobody has had the guts to leave. 

“Praise the Lord,” I say, bringing my glass of tomato juice up, clinking my glass against her bottle. Jack pops the page of his magazine, disgusted with both of us. I don’t take it personally. Even if he were here alone, the man would still be disgruntled with his own thoughts, much less the fact that he was ever born against his will. I cannot help but like him for that.

Diane was the second person I ever laid hands on. She kidded me at first that this sure sounded like a bullshit reason just to put my hands on her naked belly. She complained that she got cramps like a vice when “Aunt Flo” came to town forcing her to call in to work, sometimes sending her to the hospital only to hear there was nothing they could do about it. When I touched her, I saw a man with a cigar. He was old, an easy 70, pushing 80, with frothy white hair growing wildly from his ears, while a barely there crown of snow-white hair that faintly ran ear to ear, using the nape of his neck as the bridge. I was seeing a memory from Diane's childhood, a moment in time that immediately made my heart race with fear. I snapped out of my trance with a yelp, like a dog being hit. Diane said later she was impressed I hadn't tried to feel her up. But the pain went away, and, of course, Diane complained anyway, as it is her favorite pastime. According to her, she hadn’t had so much as heartburn since I “did my stuff,” even her periods were nothing more now than an inconvenience compared to feeling like she had swallowed a belly full of broken glass every month.

I laid five bucks on the bar and did a finger-point salute at Jack, going out the door. The tomato juice is gratis, but the vodka and Diane’s beer cost me $4.50. Jack never asked if I wanted my change. I never told him I didn't. We just had understanding, and those are the best kind of people you'll ever find in your life. Diane was saying some kind of shit about, “here's your hat, what's your hurry?” but she always has some pointless thing to say, so I rarely pay attention to her unless she is horny.

I turn my key in the Buick’s ignition and count to ten. The fuel pump's going out, I need it to fill up before I try to start her. Every now and then, she stutters and coughs on me and refuses to start, but for right now, the old girl is running good enough. It sucks that the air conditioner went out last summer. It's going to be about a thousand to fix that, throw in the fuel pump, and I'm out almost two grand that I don't have. This minister needs to come through because I need cash like a stoner needs a burrito. I've got about two hundred bucks left to my name, and it's going faster and faster every second I'm alive.

It takes at least a gallon of gasoline I can’t really afford to replace to run a few miles across town. The Lucky Strike has been in business since before I was a kid. There are pictures on the wall of guys dressed in uniforms going back to World War II. The whole goddamn world bowled back then. Shoe deodorizer and bowling lane wax smells linger in this place like the drunks and unemployed Union pipefitters that hang out here every day. There are two guys on Lane 7 already, probably have been here for hours, throwing gutter balls with enough cursing to make you think they were actually good. Sully, the manager, practically lives here. I think I can walk in here at four in the morning, and she would be behind the counter working. Some people can never get a break, no matter what they do. 

Sully’s dad owned the place until he died. Her first name is Carol, but she’s first and foremost a Sullivan. She adopted her dad’s moniker because it was easier than having to explain to the assholes who couldn’t accept change, even upon someone’s death, that the Sully Seinior was gone. I don’t think she would even know someone was talking to her if they called her anything else. In a place like this, though, having an alias is far better than having to be yourself. 

Sully Junior has a dull red birthmark that covers most of the left side of her face. The redness goes all the way around her eye, which she said really fucked up her choice in eyeshadows. It is a joke she told often enough, but the hurt sometimes shows through. To me, Sully looks like she fell asleep on a map and somehow got a permanent transfer tattoo of China imprinted on her skin. I felt sorry for her, but not because of the birthmark. 

“I need my money,” Sully says. No "hi" or "hello," just like her dad.

“I'm working on it. Won't be much longer.”

“Bullshit doesn't pay the bills, pal.”

I would argue, but what's the point? She's right, and I'm three months past due. Her old man would never have put up with this shit, but I never slept with him.

She smiles at me, thin-lipped, not angry as much as disappointed in me. Nothing new there. I wish she would sell this goddamn place. Maybe we could both get a fresh start somewhere; she could be Carol again, and I could be just another slob working 9-5 for a buck over minimum wage. We could live off her cash for a long time if I could make the rent. A pipe dream at best, but one I'm not ready to abandon yet.

My room is above the bowling alley. It ain't much, but it's mine for the moment. Three years of this and I'm no better off than when I started. At least I'm alive. 

I put my hat on the desk next to my son's picture. He will forever wear the hat, except that it will never age. The hat lost his smell years ago, that was when I figured it didn't matter anymore. He was truly gone, and no amount of careful preservation will bring him back.

The couch, like the desk, came with Sully Senior's old office. Carol didn't know what to do with any of it. I made her an offer, I'd pay her fifty a week and keep an eye on the place after hours. She shrugged, not really sure it was a good idea, but it beat just throwing a padlock on the door or letting me move in with her. Her dad would've bitched about it, insisting I could have paid double or triple that much. Thank God he's dead.

I stare up at the ceiling fan as I lie on the couch. It's so old I wouldn't be surprised if Sully Senior bought it before the Titanic sank. My body is a foot longer than the couch, forcing me to put my calves up on the left arm. It feels as if I'm about to do a sit-up, but I'm used to it now. If I ever get a bed to sleep in again. I wonder if I'll need to prop my legs up to rest? It seems as foolish a notion as any other, as I feel my eyes tire and give in to the inevitable.

We're driving, we are always driving in my dream, just like when the accident happened. Accident is, of course, my euphemism for driving drunk and stoned. Could everything that has happened been avoided if I had simply been sober? Jesus, there's really no way of actually knowing if my inebriation was a factor, or at least that is what my attorney said, and a jury of my peers bought it. “We got lucky as hell,” I remember my attorney whispering in my ear as my ex-wife's family erupted in moral outrage, the judge banging his gavel, demanding order be restored, to which I quietly replied, "I can't believe it.” I never thought I was ever going to be found innocent, but sometimes good things happen to shitty people even against their will.

My son sits in the passenger seat, alive and well, his hair still wet from the swimming pool, smiling at me just because I'm his dad and he loves me. He is still young and beautiful and trusts me in a way that no one ever has or could, knowing I am a worthless piece of shit. There was no screaming, no horns, or anything else I could recall before the whole world simply went black. 

When I woke up, it was like any other morning. The sun was shining, I felt like I needed to go piss, and oddly enough, I could smell sausage. I wanted a cup of coffee more than I even wanted to go to the bathroom, but I already knew Jenny, my wife, now my ex-wife, never gave a shit if I had coffee when I woke up from a drunk. She was strict in that way, and I guess her discipline is what kept us together for those 11 years. I knew my ass was grass when I realized my left hand was handcuffed to a hospital bed.

It was the cop who told me what happened. An electric line snapped off as we drove under it. Because I had both hands gripped around the rubber steering wheel, doing my best to drive with half a bottle of cheap whiskey gurgling in my guts, I was grounded, kept safe from electrocution. Daniel, my beautiful, kind son, however, was not so lucky. 

The cop took off my cuff but warned me he wouldn't hesitate to fuck me up if I decided to pull anything stupid like walking out of here. I didn't have the balls to tell him that I felt like I'd been dropped out of a fucking airplane onto a concrete pad, so he didn't have to worry about me leaving. 

A nurse walked in, looking at her watch as she went around my bed. She was in a hurry. I wanted to talk to her, anyone really, but before I could even say hello, the nurse flipped back my blanket and told me to take a deep breath and let it out slowly, “and for Chris sakes, don’t scream.” I wanted to at least ask why, but before I could even stutter why, she quickly pulled the catheter out, allowing me a simultaneous sensation of pain and relief about as pleasant as sticking my dick in a light socket.

The cop said he'd be back. “Don't try any funny stuff while I'm gone.” I didn't see any reason to discuss the subject, nodding that I understood him. It still felt as if someone had pulled a lit bottle rocket out of my dick, but nature was calling, and the last thing I wanted was to piss all over myself. With a groan, I got out of the bed. The bathroom is six feet away, and it feels like I was walking against the wind to get there. I sit on the pot, hoping to God I can get back up without my friendly nurse’s assistance. It takes a second, and then it all comes rushing out. My body still aches, but at least I can do this on my own. Next stop, I presume, is a jail cell. Act of God or not, my blood alcohol content was no mystery to me. The pain I am in kills any residual buzz I normally enjoy. What I wouldn't give just for a beer, I think as I shuffle back to my bed, when a voice from behind a curtain calls my name.

“Jesus,” I yelp. 

“Good luck with that shit,” the voice says. 

I pull the white curtain back. It is made of the same material as the bed sheets, only thicker. A young black guy lies in a bed identical to mine. He has both his hands buckled to his bed, his wrists bound in brown leather cuffs that Houdini wouldn't have gotten loose. The cuffs are lined with a yellow, spongy material that looks like sheep's wool. The thought of wool against my skin makes me itch at my own wrists. 

“What’cha in for?” I say as we are technically inmates. That cop isn’t just guarding me. Eventually, we will be sent to different places - neither of us have much to look forward to except a whole lot of people telling us what to do and when to do it. We are both royally fucked and only had ourselves to blame for our troubles.

“The guard won't be back for a while,” he says. “There's a cafeteria downstairs. Too much free shit for a guy like that to pass up.”

“You ain’t wrong,” I say. Cops liking free shit is undeniable. My aunt once got out of a speeding ticket because the sheriff who clocked her going forty over the limit loved comic books. She had just bought an entire crate of collectible old horror mags off a guy on Craigslist for my cousin. To this day, she pisses and moans about it, thinking she gave away more than she got, but who the hell hasn’t? I don’t give a damn if Superman #1 was mixed up in the lot, she made her choice, and now she just had to live with it - like we all do. If a deal doesn’t taste like shit, I guess you win. But they all do. 

“I tried to kill myself,” the man in the bed says, snapping me out of my memory.

“Same,” I say. “Except I've been doing a shit job of it.”

I sit in a chair probably meant for a close family member or a shrink. The green wingback is covered in a plastic meant to look new forever, but more likely was marketed for its everlasting qualities, specifically its remarkable ability not to cling to life's more disgusting discharges. Just the idea that I was sitting in a chair remediated of someone's various discharges makes me wince a bit. I try to put such a disgusting thought out of my mind by making small talk with my recently discovered bunkie.

“I don’t see a hole in your head, so I’m guessing you didn’t try to shoot yourself.”

“You got jokes,” he says. I’ve pushed him a little too far. It’s like that sometimes, you're trying to do is joke around, and someone gets an accidental black eye. 

“Sorry, man,” I say, and I mean it. “You were saying?”

“I just sat in my car smoking weed,” he says.

“People usually don’t die from that,” I say.

“Yeah, but I forgot to open the garage door.”

I could see the kid’s smile snap like a branch. The tiny bit of happiness he’d shown to me was a veneer as thin as sugar glass. “What happened?”

“My fucking girl got pregnant,” he says. 

“I’ve heard worse news,” I say, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.

“It ain’t, for real, it’s cool, but that’s when I found out it was my boy Derrick. That him and Val, my Val bro, had been going together behind my back like I’m stupid, bro. If I had owned a gun, I’d kill’d ‘em both, but then I thought it would be better to let them have to find me, to see what they’d done. Anyway, my nosy ass neighbor called the cops when he saw me through the garage window. I don’t even remember coming in here.”

“What are you going to do when you get out of here?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“I am going to buy a gun,” he says.

I stand up. The kid is crying. I feel sorry for him, unable to move his hands in front of his face to hide from his shame. Out of compassion, I put my hand on his shoulder. If I had even suspected what was to come, I never would have touched him the guy's little toe.

The floor opens beneath me, sending me through some kind of cosmic slip and slide. It was as if I have been flushed and am traveling through a cosmic toilet bowl. My mind simply stopped thinking. I am without any reason as to why I exist. After what seems like minutes, but for all I could figure it could have been hours or days, I arrived.

There is a fairground filled with red, white, and blue tops underneath a perfect, cloudless, velvet blue sky. The sun is impossible to find with the naked eye, yet its brilliant white light seems to illuminate everything. I can hear children laughing, pipe organ music blasting loud like a train about to cross the tracks, but whenever I try to focus, everything goes blurry. I didn't walk as much as glide around the different booths, enjoying the overwhelming smells of cotton candy, popcorn, cigarette smoke, and hydraulic fluid. But when the little boy takes hold of my hand, time comes to a screeching halt. I hear nothing else and see no one else except for this child, leading me by the hand. After a short stroll, he leads me to a nearby park bench. He hops into my lap and curls against me, crying. Automatically, I began to try to soothe him, rubbing his back. When he stops crying, the little boy looks at me and says, “Thank you.” I want to tell him he is welcome, but when I look into his eyes, I realize they belong to the guard. Had he been doing CPR? I think he had, he might have saved my life. He looks grey as smoke, still sitting on his haunches next to the kid’s bed. I thought he was screaming until I realized that it is me, clutching my side, doing my damndest not to die.

The kid, for all the excitement and yelling, looked beatific. A literal fucking angel sans the wings. I have never seen any other living thing so radiant with life ever since. He is having some kind of epiphany, and no one has bothered to notice. The cop would not be himself again after this. What happened to me with the kid went in reverse when the cop tried to resuscitate me. He gave his life to me. Or rather, I somehow took it from him. It only seemed fair as the kid had almost taken mine. 

The phone wakes me up, thank God. I've had this nightmare a thousand times if I've had it once. To have it cut short is like finding a twenty-dollar bill on the sidewalk when you need it most. Despite my lying there, refusing to answer the goddamn thing, it just kept ringing. There was no doubt in my mind that the minister was on the other end of that line. 

“Hello,” I say, groggy into the phone. I could really use a cup of coffee, but that is like looking for fresh water in the desert. The pint I keep in the top drawer with my ‘World’s Greatest Dad’ mug will have to do. 

“Well, I spoke to the parents, and they said they’ll do it,” he says.

“How's the arm?” I ask.

“I don’t know how to put this,” he says. “It’s a miracle.”

I agree silently with him, drinking half a mug of whiskey strong enough to melt aluminum. We hung up after agreeing on a time. I have a few hours to get my affairs in order. More time than I will need, which is always how it always goes. When all you need is a few extra minutes, you might as well piss in the wind for what it's worth. The universe is funny like that. Abundance only comes when it is needed the least. 

I get my shit together, making sure my wallet is in my pocket and my shoes are on the right feet. The gold office key slips off my tarnished car key ring without much effort. I take a moment to stare at it one last time, to remember it, pressing it in between my thumb and pointer finger. The idea that I won't need it any longer offers both relief and a wave of melancholy. I didn't ever know if this day would come, but I'm damn glad it's finally here.

Sully is spraying rental shoes with an aerosol that tastes like bowling, pissed about something, really anything; she stays pissed even when she is sleeping, tossing and turning while chucking random curses out loud from her dreams.

“Here ya’ go, babe. I'm all done up there,” I say.

Sully is dumbfounded. She doesn't even curse at me, she just stares at me like a two-headed snake at the zoo. 

She places her palm over the key. “You don’t have to do this, you know that, right? If this is about the money, forget it. Let’s call it a gift and start over.”

“I’m fucking tired,” I say. “It’s time, Sully.”

Sully puts down the spray can and comes down out of her booth. The first time we met, I asked her why didn’t they keep the balls behind the counter with the shoes, and she asked me why I didn’t just go fuck myself already. I think it was then that we fell in like together. Not love per se, not having to be in an actual relationship, but committed enough that we weren’t going to fuck around on each other much. But she knew I was worthless when she met me, and since all these fucking ridiculous miracles began slowly killing me, she almost believes in me like the sickly did. Except she knows when to stop. 

Sully puts her arms around me, holding me tight. I haven’t felt this kind of love in a long time. Not since Daniel was just a baby, back when me and his mom were happy to be starting our little family together, long before I became a royal fuck up, before she finally had enough of my drinking and screwing around and lying about all of it to leave me. 

There’s a picture in my mind of us together that I haven’t looked at in a long time. It was taken in the hospital right before we had to leave. Tiffany was radiant with pride and love, to finally have Daniel lying in her arms; me beside her, hand resting on her shoulder, wondering how in the hell I was ever going to be able to do any of this, yet we were unbelievably happy then. When I came home to find them gone, a note on the kitchen table, that is when I went from amateur to professional fuck up. In hindsight, I should have done things better, but everyone probably thinks like that when everything inevitably goes to shit. 

Sully and I kiss, but it doesn’t mean anything except goodbye. She is crying, her tears cutting paths down her cheeks through her heavy foundation, dripping in brown spots onto her favorite black t-shirt from the Jagermeister rep. 

If she is saying anything to me as I go, I cannot hear it over the roar of my own anger in my ears. I get like this sometimes, where my head seems to fill with water, and I couldn’t hear a bomb going off next to me. It's helpful when I have to get shit done, things I just need to do and not think about how to do it. 

The Buick is slow to start, but she gives me a break and finally gets going. I drive like an old man. Guys drive up next to me to stare me down, daring me to look back at them, to explain myself, and I’ll be damned if I will respond. I don’t fight much better than I fuck, no reason to push it with some over adrenalized neanderthal hoping to mount my severed head on his wall. 

There is a certain holiness to any cemetery. Not in the Biblical way of burning bushes or flying angels, but in a way that is akin to eternal rest, peacefulness, I suppose, is the more civilized way of putting it. It takes me a few minutes of driving around the crisscrossing, looping roads to find Daniel’s grave. The little Mylar balloons are still here, stuck in the ground by his mother on his birthday six months ago. Tiffany is currently a medicated zombie who can barely function, driven around like an idiot by her elderly dad, a man who has made it clear to me he cannot wait until he can get me alone. I can't blame him for feeling like that, and I almost feel sorry enough for him to let him pop me one, but he is a toothless tiger. He'd be lucky not to pass out or have a heart attack from the exertion. Every now and then, he'll call me drunk enough to be able to tell me what a son of a bitch I am and to go to hell. I just thank God nobody is here today.

Daniel’s headstone is small like him. The monument shop guy had his helpers put it in their truck as I followed them over for the install. It took about half an hour to set it in place, but here it is, just like the day they laid it here. I chose to have his picture lasered into the rose-colored stone, the one with his Weeblo’s hat on and smiling. My fingers trace the outline of his face, knowing nothing can ever make this better. No apologies, no time served, no 12-step program, and certainly no amount of money will ever change anything, but maybe I can finally tilt the scales back to even again, maybe I can somehow make things right, even if it’s too late to matter. 

“I’m sorry, kid,” I say to his headstone, rubbing my fingers over his etched face. 

I stand up and brush off my pants. I’m crying again. I never thought I could get used to such things. It’s almost like sneezing now, but instead of getting some pollen caught up in my nose, my soul is in constant pain, and this is how it comes out. Instead of God Bless You, I get Sorry for your loss. Neither helps. People are just scared of death and disease. Maybe the more they clutch their amulet, or cross, or wish a total fucking stranger well, then maybe the horrible shit happening to you will not happen to them. 

The Buick gives me hell, but finally starts. Jesus, I’ll be lucky to get it to start again before that pump dies, but onward and upward, as my dad used to say whenever I’d fall off my bike, or the roof, or get arrested for DUI. It doesn’t take long to drive over to the church. The minister is standing outside. He opens the door and gets in the passenger seat, scooching around until his lumpy ass seems to have been fully accommodated. I watch as he fishes over his shoulder, pulling the seatbelt down over his lap until the buckle clicks. 

“What the hell is going on?” I ask.

“Not here,” he says. 

“But I told you it has to be sanctified. This whole goddamn thing depends on it.”

“For a faith healer, you sure don’t have much trust in other people,” he says.

“I never asked for any of this shit—”

“Drive,” the minister says, pointing his finger forward. 

I follow his finger, then turn left at the light. Aside from the occasional signal to turn, he is stoic. I’m ready to tell him I’ve had enough of his shit when the house comes into view. Actually, a mansion with soaring columns that make the ten-foot front door look miniature by comparison. If I’d known this was where we were going, I might have said no, or at least argued about it. The minister, despite his humbleness, is craftier than I gave him credit for. It takes a hustler to play a hustler I suppose. 

“I see why you didn’t tell me where we were going,” I say. 

“You wanted consecrated ground, welp, it doesn’t get more holy than this.” 

My head buzzes with anticipation. True, this is not what I expected, but good things rarely arrive as you might expect them to. When I was a kid, my aunt was run over by a motorcycle. She was no more than 8 years old, but her dad, my mom's brother Mike, sued the piss out of everyone, including the City, the motorcycle company, and even the hospital that operated on my aunt's hip so she could at least walk again, even if it was with a limp. He won thousands of dollars, everyone simply gave up and settled faster than hell, wanting to avoid the bad press. By the time she turned 12, Uncle Mike was gone, and so was the neighbor lady. They both left behind their families and took the cash. Not such a great break for my aunt, but my uncle never looked back. Aside from the money, according to my mother, we all get lucky sometimes. Seeing as her brother was such a son of a bitch, at least none of them would ever have to deal with him again. 

“Damn the luck,” I said out loud to myself, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. “Might as well see what happens.”

A golden palm above the door is the only identification for the building. There isn’t any visible address aside from the small numbers on the mailbox by the electric gate. If you are here, it is not by accident. The Palms is hospice for the rich. Even in death, classism prevails. Despite its finality, its ever-present promise that we should all come to stay at the end, money still comes into play. These rooms, filled with the sick and the decrepit, each one dying in their own way, are given care that is truly a waste of money and time, but that was the point, wasn't it? Even in death, dignity has a price, and this is about as good, or expensive, as it gets.

Inside, the minister leads the way. The anteroom is damn near as dark as a cave. Although there are half a dozen lamps on assorted side tables, they don't give off more than a candle's worth of brightness.

The minister signs his name in at a large book lying open that looks like the kind a notary carries around. There's a chair behind a desk with an armed guard sitting, staring at nothing. He stands up to examine the book before taking a pen from his pocket to countersign his initials next to the minister's signature. He hands us both green peel-and-stick tags with the word visitor in small block letters. Nobody says a word, and I cannot help but feel like we're part of a ceremony. Everything here has an air of reverence and immortality. 

I follow the minister. The long hallways are reminiscent of a good hotel, but wider. Each door is equipped with a square black block; a glowing red stripe indicates that the door is magnetically locked. I watch as a male nurse with a full, buoyant red beard and muscles like a superhero swipes a white card over a block. The red light immediately turns green. Even inside this place of wealth and care and privacy, these people are still paranoid over access to them. Men and women, whom I presume to be doctors in their long white coats, pass by us, whispering diagnoses to each other. Nothing and no one is to disturb their patients. The sterility and noise, and commonness of a hospital are all forgotten and disregarded here at the Hilton Death.

The minister finally stops in front of a door, one just like all the others, except, despite the red light being on, the door is ajar - no key required. I can already hear crying, weeping. . . grief. The minister gently pushes the door fully open, but no one notices. There is a child, a boy much like my Daniel, lying in a bed, still as a rock. Nurses dressed in black scrubs are disconnecting equipment from the body. A woman, not quite a hundred pounds, clings to a man who could either be her father or her husband. By the way the man is holding her, practically crushing her, I’ll presume they are close.

I go near the bed as the minister approaches the couple. He is comforting them, but the man is not having any of it.

“It’s over. You’re too late, magic man,” the man says to me. “Please, leave.”

“O’ John,” the woman moans, muffing her anguish in the man’s chest. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the minister says. 

A man I hadn’t noticed is sitting in the corner. He is emotionless despite the circumstances. Out of all the people in the room, he is the only one wearing a suit. Intentionally, he clears his throat, a polite way to interrupt without being castigated for the effort. He is a servant like me, just with different masters. 

He stands straight and tall, hardly bothered by the weight of the large black attaché he is holding. If I were paranoid, I’d presume he is the family’s personal mortician. 

“Sarah, John,” he says, speaking in a quiet, reverential tone. “Shall I go now?”

“Not yet,” John says.

I look at him, then the man in the suit. They are still the humorless assholes they were when we walked in here. My instinct is to turn around and forget this ever happened but fuck me sideways if that is going to happen.

“Go ahead,” John says. “Show us God's amazing power.”

“There's no reason for blasphemy,” the minister says. “Let us pray.”

“Fuck all that. Praying hasn't done a goddamn bit of good. I've got your fucking money, right here,” he says, pointing to the man in black. “Every goddamn penny, do your job already.”

Sarah begins to sob harder into her husband's chest. I think the poor lady is about to pass out. It'll be a real miracle if she doesn't go crazy from this shit. I cannot help but feel for her. Not just for her loss, but for being married to Prince Charming, even on a normal day, he has got to be a real kick in the ass to be around.

“Okay,” I say.

The minister grabs me, taking me by his newly healed hand. For his sake, I really wish he wouldn't have done that. Hopefully, his faith will sustain him.

“This is insanity. You don't have to do this.”

“It'll be okay,” I say, smiling, completely at peace. It has been a long time since I've felt this well, this clear-headed, focused, completely calm.

John, Sarah, the man in black, and the minister collectively watch me walk to the side of the bed. A small nurse, a blonde with a French braid stopping just above her petite white ass, steps out of the room with an audible huff, making sure we all know what a stupid idea this is and how she will not be a part of it. I'm almost certain her next move will be to go get the mountain of a security guard to come escort me from the property. It’s now or never. Fuck me, I hope this works.

I set my hands on the child, my left hand on his shoulder, my right on his forehead. He is still warm to the touch. It’s like he’s sleeping. I can remember Daniel being like this, deep and far away in his dreams, it seemed like such a horrible thing to wake him for school. I feel the same dread now, hoping to God I’m doing the right thing.

Suddenly, there is nothing - no sound, no light, no life. Everything is utter blackness. The little boy in the bed is looking down at me. I reach up to touch his face, to feel his soft skin, but my fingers pass through him like he’s made of water. A wave of sadness courses through my body. It is an ache unlike anything I have ever felt. A knife in my heart would hurt less. This is the sadness I’ve been hiding, suppressing, according to several close friends and a few sympathetic clinicians. I have been doping my soul and drowning my troubles for so long, the return of heartache is a hell all its own. I try to scream, to cry, but there is nothing. The pain simply won’t come out. Despair is swallowing me whole. I am Jonah, stuck inside the whale, wondering how in the hell I will survive, hoping this will somehow kill me, but knowing I will live and suffer for my misplaced faith. My body feels charged with electricity, my every muscle twitches with awareness. I’m at war with myself, and I am losing.

“Let go,” a soft voice says.

“I can’t,” I say. 

“You can. If you don’t, you will die,” the voice says. 

“I want to,” I say. I’m crying now. The pain is overwhelming.

“There is still time,” the voice says. “There is always time.”

I want to argue and instantly forget everything I know. I’m a blank slate, a dust mote in the wind without ambition, letting fate decide my journey into infinity.

I am nothing. I am everything. I am alive.

The woman, Sarah, is shouting at me. Her mouth moves uselessly. All I can hear is a ringing like diving headfirst into an ice-cold pond. My brain is crackling with the ferocity of heat lightning. The word is help. I’m trying to tell this woman, this grieving mother, to help me for Chris sakes. Every fear I have ever tasted comes up, and out of me, the bile in my gut burning hotter than an arsonist’s prick at a bon fire.

“Mom,” Billy says.

Billy, that’s this kid’s name. It’s on his wristband, I must have seen that, but why does it feel like I already knew it? The world has started moving slowly, crawling, seconds becoming hours as a warm breeze begins to cool me, soothe me, swirl around me, lifting me up, my body falling away, I become weightless as a cheap plastic bag, its yellow smiley face blowing away in the wind to be tossed around, run over by passing cars and washed down the sewer. 

I see the red door with the gold handle again. This time, as I put my hand on the knob, it turns to the right, its golden light piercing my skin, absorbing me, particle by particle. The door is finally open.

“Daddy, you’re home,” Daniel says. “I missed you.”