Embedded Files
Shayne is a rat, no, Shayne is a vulture. Today, he’s driven his Econoline in from the Rat’s Nest and he’s parked on the side of the road. And now he’s waiting.
The world blurs with rain. The windshield wipers are off and so is the engine. The windows run spotty, blurry. Journey’s on the radio. The back is full of pilfered items – some people hunt, some people gather. The house right down there is his next job, waiting, restless. Journey to Queen to AC/DC and running out the battery. Would they hurry the fuck up! Shayne shouts, biting his sore lip.
He is a rat in a refrigerator with a heater, no, Shayne’s almost human in a humming white van. In a dented van. His home is a sham, but then, That’s life, okay. There are unalterable truths that justify what he’s got to do.
Turn the key and the windshield wipers wipe a moment of clarity. All’s green: leaves and moss. Through the rearview, Shayne takes inventory of what he has in the back of the van. He has tools and furniture and glassware and copper pipes, but it all reminds him of nothing, So that’s okay.
He does not linger on himself. He’s waiting and hoping for nothing. Thinking nothing, but planning, chewing gum, shifting in his sore old bones, restless, waiting. Where the fuck are they?
The mailman-woman drives from mailbox to mailbox, with a key for most of them, and as she passes Shayne’s van – It’s my van! – she gives him an apathetic nod. It’s the best he’ll get today. He’s not sad. No, not sad.
Love this song, Shayne taps on the steering wheel. Eddie Money wants his girl to help him forget the emptiness of existence. Shayne turns up the blown speakers. There’s a porcelain doll under his foot which he doesn’t notice until it shatters under his foot. He grabs the shattered doll and throws her into the back of the van with the rest of his shit. The doll cut his thumb, Dammit. The cut almost reminds him of something very sad, or maybe it’s Eddie Money that almost reminds him of something very sad, or maybe it’s the waterfalls coming down the windows, or maybe it’s the waiting or something.
Fuck it, who cares?
Shayne’s leg bops out of control and he’s chewing stiff, flavorless gum – Extra, my ass! He taps an arrhythmic medley and hums. This is bullshit. No one drives up the road, but a crow swoops across. The wind is blowing up here, high up here on High Rock, waiting. Shayne sucks his bloody thumb and gets up, climbs into the back of the van – Eddie Money to commercials – and counts his belt buckles, 17, and his hat collection, 13, and his Hawaiian button-ups, 6, and his ratchet sets, 2, and his copper pipes. He’s almost done though, and then… out the back window he sees the car-family, Here they come! Shayne smiles a jagged yellow range of teeth.
Chewing and rushing back to the driver’s seat, and as the car pulls up behind him, he rolls down his window and waves his friendly fingernails for them to go on by. The car is from out of town and so is the family, three pretty little children, young mama, and that guy in the car. They didn’t look at Shayne.
Fuck Eddie, he says with a bite and pound on the wheel. Living in the lap of luxury and all that. The car-family knows Eddie, somehow. They don’t matter. When the night goes down in the city. Fat-raindrops drop. In the dark daylight he needs headlights. Shayne keeps his headlights off. With fingers excitable to his arrhythmic tapping on the split skin of the steering wheel, he watches them pass. Maybe there’s something left, and by the end of the day, when the night goes down on the city, he’ll be sure of it.
Making a living. That’s life. He chews and starts the engine with a cough after they round the corner, out of sight. He won’t do anything bad, he promises himself, knowing that his word is his honor and his honor is his code and his code is the way and the way is right and right is rain and it’s raining today, washing the van – thank God in heaven – a Baptism. He reaches back and touches his pilfered, leather-bound Bible. All Mary’s, full of grace, he mumbles, the son, the spirit, and the holy sacrament, amen, and he means it. He does mean it when he says it.
Cleansed, he slides the van into drive and follows the road as the mailman-woman ignores him on the way out. He’s always waving. It’s a dead end and there’s no outlet, so that’s good. He’s chewing and pressing the pedals, belts whining.
The car-family takes the driveway slow, scraping where the driveway has eroded from the pavement. Perfectly private behind that overgrown-wild-tree laid the house. Where no one can see you is a best kind of place. But lo! The limbs have been limbed, exposing that grand swirling trunk of moss and a driveway. Now the house has become exposed. It’s raining less now, only a little bit less, but less. He slinks the van past the driveway and hides the van behind some brush – lushly green, filled green, concealing. And now he moves in slowly, watching. He thinks, It’s my house! It’s a vacant house, unclean, so it’s his house. They’re cleaning it today. They’re not family anymore. She’s dead and there’s no changing it. Eddie left yesterday, but they locked it and the sign on the porch says ADT or some such acronym meaning there’s an alarm system. Shayne is smart. Much smarter than everyone, so he doesn’t do it, he waits. The van is off now. He smiles into the rearview, but doesn’t see much, only him, and then he gets out of the van with three lollipops in his fist. Kids like lollipops. That’s a good thing and Shayne is a good person. Shayne is a smiling person as he walks through the overgrown grass, worn-out Reebok’s squishing. This is a good thing he’s doing for them. The place still looks like shit, but he likes it like home, which isn’t much but that’s life, okay. Chew on that and then he does, but the car-family is not there! They should be there, the car pulled down the driveway. There’s no one there. That’s impossible! He runs out to the road, but there’s no car in sight. He checks the bushes, but there’s no car. That’s impossible! he says again. Shayne is right, that is impossible. The car went down the driveway, unless it drove into the woods, but he checks that too and he’s getting wetter as he pushes through the salmonberry bushes and the blackberry bushes and the bushes, finding no trace of the car-family, car, or tire tracks in the overgrown everything. I saw them, didn’t I? He almost thinks, but then he does something else and his thoughts wander away. He stops almost thinking for a second as he rummages at wild through the back of his van, putting the lollipops back into the middle console up front. He finds something, but then he finds another thing and the first thing is forgotten for a second while he fondles the second thing. It’s a nice enough thing, he can sell it for sure. He’s good at selling things, even old things, even broken things, and any kind of things. He turns the key and turns on the stereo. He does not listen to the music. He only plans again, changing the plan. The fuck with it, he barks, grasping a third thing, which is a hard, heavy thing, but nearly worthless. He throws down all of the things, except for the third, heavy thing, and turns off the stereo and pockets his keys. He goes to the door of the house.
The house is vacant. The owner is dead. Shayne knows (knew) the owner of the house from Goldie’s. I still know her and I still know her better than anyone else probably, but now she’s dead so it doesn’t matter anyway. No one liked her very much. Not even Eddie. The house used to be white, but now the siding is much darker than that, with layers of mildew and tree fodder, a sickeningly deep grey/green. Mossy roof, soggy furniture, dripping spigots, busted cargo truck with spray-painted messages: Smokie Pot and leaf prints in brown spray-paint and Live, Laugh, Love and a crossed Z – almost looks like a swastika – and Blues, F Fritz, Billy. The tires are flat to the rims and it is an Econoline cargo truck. Black lichen, mold, or mildew by neon orange spray paint on the roof, No Eze. A bumper sticker atop the filth reads DEFUND DEFEND THE POLICE, I FIXED IT FOR YOU, LIBS. And a For Sale sign on the windshield. No one has made any offers. Blue tarps and trash bags, old tires and windows, a toilet bowl and tank with bracken ferns growing up and around them, rusted bicycles under a tree – chains hanging limp –, cinder blocks at random across the yard and missing tools withered almost to dirt. Shayne doesn’t see anything at all because this is his house. Eddie said so – well, he said I could stay there anyway, so it’s his house. Shayne does not have a key, but he knows a code or he has to smash his way in.
After cupping his hands and peeking inside, he knocks on the sliding glass door. Hey, Eddie? He knocks again, immediately repeating, Hey, Eddie? trying to sound friendly and not anxious, not excited. Caught up in the rush of this, Shayne likes this rush! So he lines up like a pro-pitcher, gripping the hard, heavy object from his van, jabs one heel into the soggy porch, kicks up the other foot, winds up and jerks his shoulder –Getting old, that’s life! – throwing the hard, heavy object through the sliding glass door. Oh shit! he says, sounding surprised, Eddie, the window broke! Shayne looks around the property, at the thick forest between them and the neighbor – That neighbor’s a real son-of-a-bitch. There’s no movement or sound for an indeterminate duration of time, so Shayne kicks the shards away from the frame, making safe room for his entrance.
Eddie, I broke the window on accident, he says, as he steps across the broken class atop the fetid carpet. Eddie? The place is empty, no people, little furnishings, and bad odors. The sliding door is now effectively open letting in some fresh air. Shayne doesn’t think about the air inside the house at all; he has a plan.
He runs back to the van and pulls it around back. He hauls in some of his things, copper pipes, lighter, et cetera, et cetera. By the time he gets set up and gets to work, it’s near dark, No, it is dark, isn’t it? Shayne does not care about anything but his creation, his vice, his one true love. He does not notice anything else either, but remains leery of any nascent sound. Shayne does not notice anything out of the ordinary, until the chill comes. The chill calls his eyes down the hallway, where nothing’s happening. The chill emanates from the back room. Shayne grabs a wrench and yells, Who the fuck’s back there!? I gotta gun! No one responds. The curtains sway in the wind rushing down the hall like winter. Who the fuck’s there!? Come out or I’ll shoot your fucking kneecaps! No one answers.
The TV behind Shayne turns on, and an older gentleman narrates a television program: whereupon the evil lord forced Sogoro and his wife to watch while their three sons were beheaded. Then he had the parents crucified. From the cross, Sogoro vowed: “My ghost and my family’s ghost’s shall return to haunt you.” Shayne flips the switch on the little TV, and the room goes quiet; the tin-foil bunny ears wobble. Hard, heavy rain falls on the mossy roof overhead.
Lord Jesus, help me, Shayne says. He rushes back to his project in the copper pipes and the glass bulbs. Jesus, my lord, protect me for all my sins. He preps his materials and gets the smoke pouring. For I am but the son of God, almighty, and I have not thy heavenly light in me. He breathes in his creation, his vice, his one true love and sighs the laughter of hyper-silence. Protect me and come upon thee, my lord and savior, Jesus Christ, amen. The room vanishes in the smoke. The place is gone, all that’s left is Shayne and his creation. He floats then and then he flies upon newly sprouted metallic wings. He’s never been this way before, but he might like it. And then he does like it, he does. The smoke of pouring evening into twilight and the smoke of pouring twilight into the night; Shayne’s alive again!
Congratulations.
He is the son of God and touches the book. Divine light up his arm like a battery-recharge or a vial of new blood, pumping the heart and shining the divine into this shadow-room. The TV turns on and Shayne coughs, drops a hot bit and catches it in his palm, burning his palm. The older gentleman’s voice has grown hoarse and overloads the cheap TV speakers: …the phantoms often had been the victims of such crimes, and that they had not reached peace by the ends of their lives. Some due to premature death, others, an inability to process and come to… The hard, heavy thing from Shayne’s van bashes into the screen of the machine and he’s at war with the thing, that mechanical world, he’s destroyed it like Captain Britain or Hulk.
The TV won’t give up without a fight, however. The narrator’s damaged voice vibrates the room, slowly descending in speed: …the phantoms can even become aware of their own existence, and with the aid of psychotherapy, can process repressed thoughts, traumatic experiences, and emotions that led to their disquieted deaths.
Shayne pulls the chord out of the TV and the wall. The TV falls onto the old carpet. Shayne collapses against the wall and slides down into the broken glass. He’s shivering, heart bubbling the rib cage. The air coming in through the broken sliding glass door feels warm now. So he lunges past the glass and runs for the woods.
The TV turns on again, right behind him and chasing him. It’s on legs!
He runs from the warped narrator’s narration: Marianne, Please help… {gzzt!} The haunted nature of the {gzzt-gzzt!} to bother the Reverend. His family, on the other hand {gzzt!} …ory.
The volume rises to impossible levels as Shayne runs through the wet darkness. His son {gzzt!} his father of colluding with the phantoms, {gzzzzzz!} banished from his own family manor. For good this time.
Shayne dashes through the brush, in his buggered-out state, slashing the brush, bringing his manic hands and his manic arms and his manic run and his maniac blast-off super-force thunderfuck and my maniac fire bursting the earth with fire and glass and blood and again, the return of thunderfuck-fuck-fuck, and breaking through to the other side! to face anything the forest can bring. He’s bleeding badly from his thigh, gushing. He’s on fire, an explosion of death! I’m dying! he screams into the pitch of cloudy night. He squats and removes his Hawaiian button up – That’s my best shirt! – and wraps it tenderly around and again his thigh, Tight as a tourniquet! He screams, To whomsoever might be chasing me out here in a steam-breath firefall. He breathes into his hands and he is shivering and he is sweating too. His bleeding has been reduced, he’s gonna make it. I’m gonna make it, he screams, pounding his knee, I’m making it happen now! It’s all on me now! Right the fuck now!
Branches snap and out steps the TV. It fills his ears with filth: octagonal summerhouse overlooking the “nun’s walk” at the edge of {gzzt-BwOOOOOOOO!} the reverend’s health did not hold up to the strain of his work and on {EeRRHSSH-gzzt-gzzt!} fire ending in a near fatal series of first degree burns {SHK-gzzt!} Marianne!? Marianne are you there!? {AWWWWMMMM!} Mari… {tik} pop-pop soda pop on brand Tuesday, thank you for that, please. {tik-tik-tik} go ask your mutha! {laughter, applause, theme song}.
Jesus! Shayne falls into the seamless wilderness, out of breath and screaming, Help me, Lord! I’ve done bad this time, again, and, and, I’m sorry, I’, I’m, I’m real sorry, I’m really sorry for it and I repent for all of it, and on my mother’s grave, I’ll do anything, anything!
The TV abruptly blasts into a commercial: Do you like to run? {hee-whoo-hee-whoo} Well, I do. {hee-whoo-hee-whoo} And when I do, I wear Marianne, Please Help Get {hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-whoo- hee-whoo-hee-}
Shayne sprints through the scorning brush, stabby and crowded, unseen and numbing to the touch like his favorite fire. And he runs and he runs, but he does not run, he flies and he flies, but he does not fly, he glides, he does not breathe, for he is nearly breathless with fire!
Shayne trips over something on the ground, something ice-cold, numb, something terrific beyond compare but beyond description – for it cannot be seen in the dark! But it is cold. A burst of moonlight blasts the scene and flickers between the maple leaves. The TV struts aboard a pair of hairy, human legs, illuminating in blue, the phantom.
She’s forlorn and vacant-eyed, expression outstretched for him, grasping for him with her wrinkled, thin-fingered hands, all blue aglow in a night-bloom. She has a question for him, Are you ready?
Yes, Shayne whispers, yes, please Lord Jesus, Lord Jesus, please, grant me grace upon thy, thy crown of, of veil, a veil, of a veil, a veil, veil… He is on his knees now, bowing to the specter. She draws from him whatever it is that he has that she wants and she begins to glow brighter and brighter as he tries to pray: Mary’s holy mother of grace be grace upon these, my heavenly father upon thy grace be thine mother… or… ught… it’s been awhile Lord, I know it’s been a real longtime, a longtime, but I promise that, you know. I’m gonna do my best for my fellow man. I promise you that, Lord. In God’s name, amen, amen...
The woman-phantom, glowing brightly, glowing blue or white, not smiling, with an unanswered question on her face and hair of hurricane, opens her eyes wider than possible, moons bursting, her eyes! And upon her screams, she drains the life from him, for good and for all, his life force first, consumed and joining with her in a stream of winds. He is now joining with It. Shayne is emptied now of thoughts and dreams and hopes and all that garbage he never believed in.
Shayne shrivels into a pile of trembling phantasms, awaiting his pleasures’ return.
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