Burn, Baby, Burn by Michael Seale (Chapter 5, 6 and 7)

 

Chapter 5

Dreaming of Lisa

Brrriiinnngggg… Brrrriiinnnggg…

The telephone sang out, cutting the silence of the warm room. To Mike it felt as if twenty jack hammers were crashing into the pavement that encompassed his skull with each ring.

Brrrriiinnngggg… Brrrriiinnnggg…

Eight fuckin’ thirty in the morning, who fucking calls at eight fuckin’ thirty? He thought to himself. The sunlight lit the small bedroom through his threadbare curtains; Mike blinked back the pins that threatened to skewer his eye sockets. Oh, god my head, he thought. He hadn’t woken up this early in how many years, who the fuck knows he thought. Who the fuck is calling me? Mike reached over for the cordless phone which lay on the table next to the bed. Ugh, his bed was disgusting. There was barely an empty space on it. Half eaten take out containers, greasy fast food wrappers and bottles littered the bed. It made himself sick at times knowing he should change the sheets but it was never worth the effort. The sheet, he supposed you could still call it a sheet, it at least had been one at one point in its life, was stained with only God knows what. There were holes and rips, and it hung off one corner. When had it all gotten this bad? He asked himself.

A half empty bottle of beer sat next to the phone, piss warm, he downed in all in one long gulp, fighting the urge to throw up, the liquid stifled the jack hammers for a brief second.

Brrriiinnnnggg… Brrrriiinnnnggg…

“Yeah,” Mike grumbled, coughing out a half dead voice and putting his head into his hands. The room was still spinning, he put his feet on the floor in a feudal attempt to stop it. The phone gave no answer, nothing, silence. Whoever had called must have decided that they no longer needed to speak to him upon hearing his grumbled greeting.

“Hello...” Mike repeated annoyed. He slammed the phone down on to the table. There is no way to satisfyingly slam a cordless phone down, pushing a button angrily just won’t satisfy the rage of waking someone up when they are this hungover. His head flopped back down on the stained pillow, Mike closed his eyes and felt the sweet swaying of a drunken sleep begin to embrace him. The phone rang out again.

Brrriiinnnggg… Brrriiinnnggg…

“Hello?” Mike said, his annoyance palatable. Again whoever had called refused to respond. There was nothing but silence, not a sound. Not even the ever present soft buzzing of electrical current that was present on the line when he normally called someone.

“What the fuck? Stop fucking calling me if you don’t want to talk, asshole.” he yelled into the phone. As Mike was about to angrily push the “off” button again, something far off on the line made itself known. Mike pressed the phone harder to his ear, setting off the jackhammers once more. Laughing, heinous, maniacal laughing came barreling up out of some dark electrical corner of the phone line. Some sort of deranged bat shit crazy kind of laugh, unnerved and unhinged. It echoed as if it was in Mike’s head and not on the line. The jack-hammering was nothing compared to this. This pierced is very being. This was a laugh of an insane man, one that has done something very wrong. Mike could feel this. He pressed the “off” button gingerly and set the phone down on the trash littered table next to his filthy bed.

His bed beckoned him once again, he rolled onto his back and rubbed at his temples, fruitlessly trying to push the strange laughter out of his mind. With his eyes closed and one foot on the floor he reached for the Lisa Loeb looking bartender, what was her name? Allie, Callie? The space next to him was occupied only by the greasy fast food wrappers. Mike smiled to himself, she must of left, he thought, smiling. Those were always the best ones. No awkward morning, no walk of shame, no I’ll call you. Most of the time he didn’t know their name or what had even happened.

The cordless sang out once again. This time Mike just picked it up and put it straight back down on its waiting base. The room spun as he sat up, the jack-hammers made an encore visit dancing a jig behind his eyes. What had her name been? Allie? He couldn’t remember.

He rubbed his eyes, ignoring the phone the rang once again and the hammering his head took with the movement. Mike could feel the urging of his bladder as he stood. He was naked, his morning wood stood at attention, throbbing with pain and a full bladder, he made little effort to actually hit the bowl as he pissed. His apartment smelled like mildew and old food with an underlying smoke tone. Mike felt as if the smell had intensified, less like a campfire and more like burnt rubber and melting plastic, electrical almost. He coughed choking on the smell and pissing on his foot.

“Ahh, fuck.” he said, wiping his wet foot onto the back of his calf. The phone was still ringing. He shook off, still at half mast, and answered it.

“What?” he yelled into the headset. His answer came. In the form of a scream. The most heart wrenching, blood curdling scream, it was perhaps the worst sound he had ever heard. He could feel the pain in it over the chorus of jack hammers pounding at his skull. The laugh started again, that disgusting, hideous laugh. They intertwined, mixing into some sort of chaotic opera of pain, suffering and hilarity. Mike’s vision blurred, he dropped the phone to cover his ears, hoping to drown out the hysteria. His room moved, slanting to the side. The screams, the laugh echoed out of his phone and filled his room. The smell of burnt hair, rubber and electrical currents filled his nose. Choking the air around him. The laughter embraced him, the screams held him, Mike crumpled. His head banging against the same small table he had once placed the phone upon. Mike was unconscious.

The brick wall scraped the skin on the back of Mike’s arm as he awoke. Mike awoke in a dirty alleyway, it stunk of piss and beer. He knew this place. He had been here, he thought. With the bartender. The street was dark, it seemed that the lamps here were perpetually broken. The smell, the awful smell. Graffiti littered the walls and dumpsters, farther down the alley he heard talking. A man and a woman. They kissed next to an open door, the man’s hands slid up her skirt and he pulled her closer to him. Another figured shuffled further down the alley, intently watching the couple.

Mike tried in vain to move, struggling against his own body. Not even his voice worked. He was helpless watching the scene. Words formed in Mike’s mind unable to leave his mouth. The woman pushed the man away in a playful way. He pulled her closer again. The little light there was hid the man’s face. The wind blew an old plastic bag into the cold air, he watched it dance for a moment before it fell to the ground once more. Mike was cold his body shivered, goosebumps run down his arms. The woman shoved the man away, this time with force. She said something angrily at him. He grabbed her by the hair, twisting and pulling. She screamed for help, the figure watching a distance away turned and left. Mike tried futility to stand, to scream out, to do something, but he was only a witness to the act, unable to intervene.

The man forced himself on her again, she fought. Her screams bounced off the alley walls, the woman struggled but the man held fast. The other, who had been watching was gone, cowardly running from the scene. Mike was alone to watch. His mind struggled with his body, sending signal after signal, trying to stand, to move, to help but he could do nothing.

The wind rushed down the alley again, the plastic bag beginning its wind dance once more. The streetlamps fluttered on and off, lighting a little of the woman’s face. It was the bartender, the Lisa Loeb lookalike. Callie, he remembered now, her name was Callie, Mike tried valiantly to call out to her, but her name only constricted in his throat. The man bounced Callie’s head off the graffiti sprayed wall like a basketball, over and over. Callie’s glasses smashed into her face, a piece of the glass embedded itself just below her left eye. Blood and hair stained the wall. Red pebbles from the brick littered her cheek. She made no more sounds, no more screams. The man let her drop to the floor. He smiled at the mess. But his smile never touched his face, only his lips move in an upward motion that most would intend to be a smile but his eyes never changed. His laugh was that from the phone, the man was laughing at the mess he had made of Callie’s face. Callie’s hands twitched as he looked at Mike and smiled. As if he knew that Mike had watched everything and was proud of it. Mike’s scream never left his lips.

The man winked, at least Mike thought it was a wink, his face was dark and hidden but it felt as if the man knew something about Mike, he thought. He knew the man as well, the but that couldn’t be. He told himself. The man bent slightly, grabbing Callie by the hair and dragged farther down the alley. Laughing that insane laugh.

Mike awoke of the floor, the cordless phone lay next to him. The sun still lit the threadbare curtains and the jack-hammer begin it’s encore. Mike looked at his black stained hands and shook with fear.

Chapter 6

Bolognese 

Prep for the kitchen was in full swing. Manu Chao blared from the speakers above Mike’s head. Tom, busy with the gnocchi had kneaded them into a light fluffy dough. First, he dry roasted the potatoes, after peeling them he mixed in flour, egg and salt. That was it, simple but sublime, Mike thought. The trick, Tom had told him, was not to overwork the dough. Bill had arrived angry, nursing yet another hangover, he confined himself to the basement work station. There he neatly cut vegetables for the quail dish. Bill had been down there the better part of the day, silently working next to the band-saw. Ollie tried and failed again at his tempura batter. The trick he had yet to master, because no one bothered to tell him, was simple, add sparkling water. The carbonation gives the batter a light touch, that normal water can’t. Last night’s artichokes were a soggy, gooey mess. Mike had wanted to tell him, help the guy out, throw him a bone, but Tom had shown him the recipe. It was right there in black and white, use only sparkling water. Ollie just ignored that for some reason. Tom would chew him out after the first order. He had secretly made a batch, to replace the one that Ollie would definitely fuck up. It was a shitty way to teach someone but Mike knew that those are lessons one never forgets. Mike stood silently in the kitchen watching them both as he picked over the mint, looking for the best leaves to use a garnish, while his eggs and sugar were whipped into soft yellow ribbons. Mike’s dessert special had become a hit, his Olive oil and Viognier cake with glazed peaches.

Bill’s girls, as he called them, prepped the dining room together. Kimber and Trish every man’s wet dream. Trish was Bill’s fling of the moment, at least that was the way he acted when she was around. The guys loved watching them set the dining room. It was a needed distraction from the tedious kitchen work. Mike nudged Ollie as Trish bent over a table, her ass perfectly angled upwards. It made him think of the peaches he had just sliced. Kimber moved around the tables setting the glasses in their place. She was an enigma to Mike. She flirted at times with him but other times she was aloof. He didn’t get her at all, normally he knew. He knew exactly which ones he had chance with and which not. But Kimber made this difficult for him and he loved it. Mike ate it up.

Before Bill had taken over the restaurant it was florist shop, before that a restaurant, before that who knows. Bill had the place renovated, he wanted his baby to look the way he wanted. Bare brick walls adorned with black and white photos from the Italian countryside, village festivals and scenes from alfresco dining. The teak tables and chairs were specially crafted for the restaurant. The bar he had covered in zinc allowing it to age and change colors with time. The florist, which had moved to a smaller space just a few doors down, delivered a large flower arrangement for the bar every week, now it was a few purple hued artichokes in full bloom set regally on the corner of the zinc bar, greeting the patrons as they entered the restaurant.

The rest of the front house team was an eclectic bunch, each tied to Bill somehow. He had made a habit of hiring friends or friends of friends.

“Mike!” Bill called up from downstairs, his voice booming over the crescendo that was Manu Chao. “Come down here.”

Mike jogged down the wooden steps, making sure not to bump his head again on the low hanging ceiling. He was worried he might make a permanent dent on the top of his head, since he had bumped it so often.

“What’s up?” he asked, half the way down the stairs.

“Did you come in and cut up the bones for the bolognese earlier?”

Mike noticed the shards of bone and bits of meat which covered the concrete floor and white tiled walls. Blood dried in scraggly lines as it had run down the side of the saw and the chrome plated drain was a dull red and brown color. Bill stood next to a red butcher’s container which was full of cut up bones ready to roast.

“Nope, I’m scared to death of that thing. I cut myself using the meat slicer, I would probably cut off a hand if tried that. Why?”

Bill eyed Mike. Staring for a few seconds, Bill’s eyes bored into him, searching for something. It was as if Bill didn’t trust what he had said. It was as if Bill thought Mike was lying. Mike felt as if he was standing naked in front of him. Bill’s piercing brown eyes searched for the truth.

“Hmm.” He finally shrugged his shoulders as if he accepted this truth, “Maybe Tom did it. He was probably too hungover to clean the shit up. Can you take the bones upstairs, we need to roast them for the bolognese.”

The smell of wet iron met Mike’s nose, as he hefted the red bin up, a flood of déjà vu filled him. Mike shook it off.

“Tell Tom, to come clean up his shit.” He yelled as Mike bounded up the stairs.

Mike’s cake was cooling as he prepped the glaze. He would then decorate it with sugared sage leaves, candied slices of peaches and a slightly soured whipped cream. It was simple and elegant at the same time. He set the cake under the glass dome on the windowsill of the kitchen where everyone who walked past could see it.

Trisha sauntered into the kitchen, her legs arriving before she did. She was a real-life version of Jessica Rabbit. She had everything. And she knew it. She was Bill’s. Although theirs was more of a “I’m with you, when you are around otherwise everything goes, kind of relationship. The problem was, well Mike supposed on whose point of view you look at it from deciding if it is a problem or not, was she always flirted with him in front of Bill. Mike knew Bill hated it, she knew it, too. That’s probably why she did it. But that didn’t bother Mike; things like that never bothered him. For him it makes it all the more exciting. Mike knew that this was not his best attribute as a friend, but he had only one other driving force besides cooking and it gets him into the most trouble. Bill thought that it just stopped at the casual flirting, but Mike knew otherwise, it was only a matter of time.

Trish smiled at him and brushed her body against his as she set the tray of espressos down. Bill was one for tradition. At four o’clock every day they all drank an espresso with sugar, lots of sugar. Trish always brought them. It was just a quick break where they all stood together and took part in getting their caffeine kick while talking about what needed to be finished. Mike watched Trish walk out of the kitchen, her ass was amazing, Bill caught his eye as he turned back, Bill did not look happy.

Goose showed up just before dinner service began, hungover as usual. Ollie had spent the greater part of the afternoon washing all the pots and pans until then.

“What the fuck, Goose?” Ollie barked at him.

“Chupa mi polla” Gustavo mumbled. He almost never spoke, especially if he was hungover and especially never to Ollie.

That night the restaurant would be fully packed for service. The stations were planned as usual, Tom calling out the orders and running the saute station, Bill on the grill, the intense heat of the wood fired grill baking his face red every night. That and the pizza oven blazing next to him. Mike was on salads and desserts per usual now. Mike had realized long ago that the kitchen was a chaotic dance, one that others might find dizzying not knowing its secret steps, but he knew them and to him it was the loveliest, most sensual dance that ever was.

Before service started Mike had one last task to finish. The cubes of wild boar meat had marinated overnight in a bath of red wine, rosemary, garlic and black pepper. The potent smell of herbs, iron and wine filled Mike’s nose as he strained the rosy red, purplish meat, catching the wine as it flowed thru the colander. He would use it later to glaze the roasting pan. The bones roasted in the oven at 230° C, they would give the sauce depth and more flavor.

Mike’s knife cut through the carrots, onions and celery like warm butter, shredding them into a fine brunoise, small pieces of vegetable confetti that would glitter in the sauce. The large pan radiated heat, the oil a shimmering slick on the surface, just about to smoke. The meat seasoned with salt and pepper; Mike give them a sprinkling of flour. The meat instantly sizzles as it hit the hot oil and metal. He had learned not to disturb the meat too often, by doing so it developed a good, dark crust on the dark red meat. Here it’s not about looking great, it’s all about flavor. The meat browns, the caramelized edges develop. Eventually Mike added the vegetables to the pan, cooking them without adding anymore color. At last he added the marinade allowing it to cook down, coloring the mix a deep shade of purple. It all cooks together until sec. Or in better words, until the wine has evaporated.

He roasted the bones, caramelizing them; they turn golden brown, black and white. The fat has rendered and bubbled a liquid gold in the bottom of the roasting pan. The little meat that held on had charred. Mike add the bones to the pan of meat and vegetables, careful not to add the fat. Then covered it all with a bit of vegetable stock and peeled tomatoes from the can. He set the lid on the large pan with a little opening so the steam can come out. Now the wait began. The sauce needs at least three hours, but they cooked it overnight, adding a bit more stock to it before they left for the night. That way it would develop the distinct flavor. The sauce should be thick and dark, with flavors of game and tomatoes that home cooked Old Italian flavor that you can only get when things cooked slow and low. This flavor takes time, it cannot be rushed.

“Are we going to the Cat tonight?” Tom asked.

“No way, I gotta get some sleep,” Mike replied. “I got so hammered last night; I can’t remember what happened at all. The last I remember I was out back in the alley and saw that bartender, the one that I couldn’t remember her name.”

“That was hilarious. She wanted to kill you.”

“Yeah, well, we were going at it in the alley. I remember that and I think I remember walking away with her, but after that nothing. I woke up to some crazy ass dream and my phone ringing.”

“You left with her? I thought I saw Bill walk out with her. I don’t know, I was so shit-faced, I passed out at Ollie’s house.”

“When I woke up, she had split, but I’m sure we went home together. I think.”

The sauce cooked on the corner of the stove. A red slick of tomato and fat bubbled away on the top. Tom tasted it.

“Hmm, tastes a bit different from usual. Maybe a bit gamier.”

“I did everything like you told me. Followed the recipe to a T. Well, there was more meat and bones than usual. I took everything that I found downstairs.”

“I didn’t say it was bad, maybe just needs to cook longer.”

Manu Chao had been replaced by Bob Marley, Tom had been listening to him a lot lately. As much Mike enjoyed reggae once in a while, it was time to change. Tom’s dreadlocks bopped to the beat. He seemed lost in his own world, of course, most of the time he was in his own world, Mike thought. Being that stoned was his permanent state of mind.

The phone in the office rang. Tom didn’t look up as it continued to ring. “Tom, you going to get that,” Mike asked, nodding my head towards the office.

“Get what?” he asked without looking up.

“The phone?”

“What about the phone?”

“It’s ringing, asshole.” Mike smiled.

“Fuck off.”

“Seriously, it’s ringing.”

“I don’t hear anything.” He continued his prep.

Mike shook his head. Maybe he was hearing things, he thought, he still felt his hangover from the night before. He actually felt as if he hadn’t slept in ages. He ignored the ringing and put his head down concentrating on his work. There was still a lot of prep to do.

Time flew by. And Marley soldiered on. Goose was downstairs making the pizza dough. Mike didn’t know how he did it, but he did better than any of the rest of them. His dough was perfect every time. Mike had never seen him measure anything out. Just poke his fingers in the dough as the machine kneaded it. He knew when to add water and when to add more flour. That was his science.

Mike also knew he that he could speak English but he refused to speak in front of Ollie. It was some sort of game that Goose played with himself, always pretending he didn’t understand what Ollie said. It annoyed the hell out of Ollie. Mike wasn’t sure if Goose truly didn’t like Ollie or not, but who knows. Who actually cares, Ollie is an idiot.

Bill keeps Ollie around because he feels responsible for him, Mike guessed. Ollie isn’t cut out for this work. He’s weak, he can’t handle the pressure. He’ll crack eventually. Bill just hasn’t realized it yet. Sometimes it seemed as if Bill might just beat the hell out of him, but he just gets his ass handed to him over and over.

The shrill ring of the phone rang out again. Mike tried his best to ignore it. Tom didn’t make a move towards it. Mike eyes swept over to Bill. He was deep in another espresso, going over some menu ideas. Ollie, well, Ollie is Ollie, and he doesn’t do anything unless you yelled at him at least five times to do it.

Doesn’t anyone hear that? Mike thought. The phone continued its incessant ringing, and no one reacted. Five, ten, fifteen rings. No one moved. Am I the only one that hears that? Mike asked himself. The phone was ringing, he wasn’t imagining it. He looked to Bill, to Tom, nothing. Finally, Mike made his way to the office; Bill eyed him from behind his espresso as he picked up the damn thing.

There was no answer, the same as the morning call. Nothing except silence, so not the same he thought. No dial tone, no deep breathing and thankfully no screaming and laughing. Mike put the phone back on it’s base without saying a word. He noticed Bill eyeing him, he turned and walked back to the kitchen without explaining himself. Just as Mike picked up his knife again, the phone rang. He looked towards the office, towards the black cordless phone sitting on it. He steeled himself, he wouldn’t give in, he wouldn’t pick it up. Mike braced himself against the pull of the ring, it took all of his strength.

Mike put his head down, ignoring the phone and put his knife to the green cutting board in front of him. He needed to slice the fennel, he need to make the antipasti. But the ringing, the ringing beckoned him, it taunted him. The phone wanted to be answered, the phone wanted him to answer it. The smell of old smoke found its way to him, just as the it did earlier. It couldn’t be, he thought. It was a dream, a very long, drunken dream. If he could only wake up, he would find himself in his filthy bed, still drunk from the night before. The smoke choked him, he coughed, causing all to stare at him. Mike raced to office, to the phone.

He didn’t have a chance to say hello, the laughing had started before he even managed to get the receiver to his ear. Mike waited for the screams, he knew the opera of terror that shook him this morning had somehow followed him here. He knew this was no dream. The screams, the laughing filled him, invaded him, defiled him. His hands shook, but he held onto the phone. Blackness covered his eyes, blanking the world before him. In one motion, Mike’s knees buckled and he was out.

At least, that is what he thought happened. But as Mike woke from his faint, he realized he was still standing and everyone was staring at him, mouths agape. Bill’s girls had stopped prepping the dining room and stared at him with looks of worry, Ollie looked as if he was watching the funniest thing in the world. Before anyone could say anything, Mike put the phone back down onto the desk.

“What the hell was that?” Bill demanded.

“The phone… the phone was ringing. I guess I passed out.” Mike said, feeling the jack-hammer in the back of his head again.

“Fuck man, you have been laughing like a fucking lunatic for the last five minutes.”

“I did what?”

Ollie couldn’t hold back any longer, he fell over laughing. To Mike’s annoyance, Tom smiled as well but managed to hold his laughter in. Kimber touched Mike’s arm, comfortingly. With her eyes she asked if he was okay. Mike managed a weak smile. The rest of them, just stood there staring, not truly caring, but just wanting a bit of entertainment, a story to recount over beer after work.

“Seriously, dude, one second you dropped your knife and almost ran to the phone, the next you were laughing nonstop. What was that?” Tom asked.

Bill had grown silent, watching from behind his heavy forehead. His long brown hair, hung partially over his face. Hiding he thoughts.

“But I fainted, I felt my knees buckle. Didn’t I” Mike was confused. He played the scene over in his head, but he couldn’t remember past putting the phone to his ear. There was nothing, a blank space.

The gawkers had moved on, realizing that the fun was gone. Bill sent the concerned-Tom and the double-over-laugh-at-everyone-Ollie back into the kitchen. Then he turned his death stare back to Mike. Mike, just as everyone else on the team, hated that stare. You felt as if you were naked in front of him, as if he could see inside of you. As if he could see every lie, every dishonest thing, every horrible thought you had ever had, it was all buried in that stare. To Mike it made him feel like a child, a feeling that Mike loathed. Mike found himself unable to hold Bill’s gaze.

“Mike,” Bill started. “Whatever the fuck you are on, I won’t tolerate it here.”

Says the man who snorts a line of coke before every service, Mike thought.

“Bill, you know me, you know I don’t take anything, that’s the truth.”

Bill’s eyes penetrated deeper into Mike’s soul. Mike couldn’t stand it any longer, he turned to walk back to the kitchen. Bill grabbed his hand, grasping it in a death lock. He bent, tilting his head down towards Mike. Mike could feel his warm breath against his skin, he smelt of coffee and cigarettes.

“Make sure, that you get the fuck off whatever you are on. I don’t want it here. Now go home.”

“Bill, I promise, I’m not on anything.”

“Then go to the doctor and get a test, until then I don’t want you here.” Bill walked away without another word. Ignoring Mike’s protests. He just walked back into the kitchen and picked up the mandolin and began slicing shallots again.

Mike followed him back to the kitchen, back to safety he thought, and stood next to the pass. Bill looked up and stared at him. Mike opened his mouth to speak and then thought better of it. Turning to leave, Mike grabbed his knife bag and said goodbye; telling everyone he would be back tomorrow.

“You comeback when you are okay,” Bill said, feigning his concern.

Trish came down the stairs as Mike changed his clothes. She is so beautiful; he thought, even now he thought with his prick. The thought annoyed him. She opened the door and got some milk for the coffee machine.

“Are you okay,” she asked Mike from inside the massive walk-in.

“I think so, I don’t know what happened. I don’t really remember anything.”

“That was so weird. You were laughing like a crazy man. It was kinda scary.”

Mike just shook his head; he didn’t know what to think. Pausing, he stared at her. Mike wanted to let her know it scared him as well, but he couldn’t. “When can I see you again?”

“I’ll try to leave early tonight.” she whispered. “Are you sure you are okay?”

The flirting, the looks, were leading up to this night. A few nights before, they had found ourselves drunk and alone. A simple kiss, but it was enough to wake something. Mike knew he was screwed me if Bill found out, but she was so incredibly gorgeous, he thought. They knew they had to be careful, but they both wanted it. Although knowing that he was getting Bill’s sloppy seconds annoyed the hell out of him, but she was so sexy.

Bill listened to them from the top of the stairs. He had heard everything. As Mike walked out of the graffiti covered back door, he sensed something, as if someone was watching him. He looked back through the small window in the kitchen and caught Bill’s death stare. It cut him, bored into him and gave him the feeling that Bill knew something which he didn’t.

Chapter 

Black eyes

Highway 7 merged with Highway 41 just past the Great Barrington Police station, which changed again to Route 23 after Bryant Court. Mike mulled over this as he drove down the ever name changing street. After a few miles, he realized that Route 23 had turned back into Highway 7 without him even noticing. A little was farther down, Highway 7 became Stockbridge Road, or perhaps it had always been named that.

Mike drove his car past the river-walk in Great Barrington and made a left turn onto High street. There looming over the street, in a beautiful old Victorian house, was Dr. Weber’s office. Mike was early for his appointment, he hated being late. He was never late, unless, well there were times that he was late and they usually involved large amounts of alcohol. But for most of the time Mike hated being late and he would actually rather wait for half an hour than be one minute late.

Dr. Martin Weber, MD and a bunch of other letters that neither Mike or anyone else without a PhD doesn’t bother to read, did a little blood work and asked a lot of questions. Questions about if he had taken any drugs (of course), which ones (easier to list the ones he hadn’t), how his stress level was (skyrocketing), was Mike sexually active (took whatever he could get), did he smoke (only when he drank), how often did he drink (everyday), how much (as much as he could afford). Needless to say Dr. Weber was not entirely happy with Mike. It would be a few days before the test results were back but until then he told Mike that he should try to slow down and take it easy. Mike said he would but he knew he wouldn’t.

Mike did not feel any better after speaking with him, in fact, he felt worse. He had listed off a few different ailments it might be. The one that stuck out to Mike was a form of epilepsy. The fuck I have epilepsy, Mike had said. Dr. Weber ignored Mike’s outburst and blabbing on about focal seizures. He droned on and on about how they start in one particular part of the brain, then blah, blah, blah. Mike hadn’t heard any of that but then he perked up as Dr. Weber continued. He said, the seizures can make him feel, see, or hear things that are not there. That is exactly what had happened which definitely got Mike’s attention. The doctor also stated that this form of epilepsy is often mistaken for a mental illness. He said the epilepsy might explain the two different episodes that Mike had experienced. Or the option is, that I am schizo, said Mike, again Dr. Weber ignored Mike’s comment, again. Mike supposed the doc had no sense of humor or that it might be more serious than he had originally thought. All he could do now was wait and see.

His car idled on the corner of High street and Highway 7, Soul Asylum droned on the radio, Runaway Train.

So tired that I couldn’t even sleep, So many secrets I couldn’t keep, Promised myself I wouldn’t weep, One more promise I couldn’t keep, It seems no one can help me now, I’m in too deep, There’s no way out… Runaway train never going back, Wrong way on a one way track, Seems like I should be getting somewhere, Somehow I’m neither here nor there, Can you help me remember how to smile, Make it somehow all seem worthwhile, How on earth did I get so jaded…

Mike sang along, remembering the video in his head. The first time he had seen it, it had blown him away. How could so many people go missing, he had asked himself that question for the next day. Things like that always seemed to touch him deeply. He remembered, the time he wanted to runaway, disappear. Mike closed his eyes and felt the anger he carried. He could see them both in his head, he could see the hurt and the anger. He felt no love for them but he could still feel the hate from him and the distant cold love from her. He had always felt like the mistake. The mistake they both had made, the mistake that ruined everything. Of course, she had loved him, he knew that, even if she was distant. She had tried to protect him; he hurt her as well. Our lives were pain then, he thought, but they are gone now. Mike blinked myself out of the self-induced trance as the song changed to Live, Smell The Drama. A telephone rang int the distance. Mike flinched at the sound, is this how it’s going to be, he asked himself. Starting the car, he ignored the distant rings, it was barely there. He must be imagining it, he thought. The more he tried to ignore it the louder and louder it got. Mike changed the radio station pretending he wasn’t nervous. Britney may have done it again, but the ringing was still there. Mike stabbed his finger at the radio, turning it off. It was then Mike realized he hadn’t taken a breath. As he took a deep breath the ringing stopped. Seconds ticked by without a sound.

Just as the ringing started again, his head jack-hammered again, pounding against his temples and ears. Pounding against the sides of his skull. Mike squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his hands of his ears. Mike opened his eyes, watched the street as he sped down Highway7.

He slammed his foot down onto the brake, but the car didn’t react. The car went faster and faster. He tried again but the speedometer pushed the needle farther and farther up. Sixty, seventy mph, eighty. The ringing echoed in Mike’s head. All other noises were drowned out. The jack-hammering pulsated behind his eyes. Spots gathered in front of them. He had no control, he could only watch this terrible drive down Highway7 or Stockbridge Road or whatever else you wanted to call it. The road was rather straight, but Mike knew that if he passed out, that was the end. The ringing crushed his skull. His eyes felt as if they might explode. Mike could feel the darkness pulling at him, dragging him to the blackness that had taken him earlier. The spots grew bigger. The ringing droned on, pulling him towards the end. Mike’s eyes closed. No, no, I tried to scream, but no sound escaped him.

The darkness was pure black, there was no hint of light, as if there had never been light. As if there had only ever been this complete blackness. This space was somewhere Mike had been before he knew that. Although how could he have been here before. Here is nothing. But here was something, he could feel it. He felt, something, no someone with him, he felt the hate radiating from them, but he could not see. He called out. A familiar laugh, a muffled cry, a child’s cry. The shroud of darkness coated Mike. And Mike knew he was not alone.

Though the darkness had taken him, he could still faintly feel the car speeding down the highway. The feeling of despair was crushing. He felt the car drift and then catch. This is the end, he thought, this is where I die. Mike could hear screaming, someone yelling at him. Is there someone, there with him, he wondered. Time had slowed and he could feel the impact of the car and the ground as it rolled. A voice, a woman’s voice. There is someone in the car with me, a woman, he thought. Her screams growing louder, then the laugh, the same familiar laugh as before. The evilness of it pierced his soul. The car rolled beneath him, a crash, loud steel smashing crash thundered above the screams. Suddenly everything was bright, the darkness was gone.

The screaming, the laughing, both had halted. Mike heard only labored breathing. Smoke filled his lungs burning them, and he dragged himself away from the wreck. The chaos was mind-blowing. Twisted metal, broken glass, smoke and heat. The mirror hung from the side of the door revealed his reflection, it was him but it wasn’t. Mike’s eyes were blue but the reflection were black. Mike pulled myself farther away from the wreckage that was once a car; not his car, he realized. Who’s car? How had he gotten here.

From the wreckage, he could hear a wet slapping sound. Frantic beating, like a wet towel on soft plastic. The woman, he thought. He peered in, her bloodied hand slapped against the plastic upholstered seat. Mike urged himself to move back towards the unknown car, but his feet didn’t move. His body refused directions. He lay frozen on, cowering on the ground before the wreck, watching the woman struggle against her seat belt. Mike was a helpless witness. No he would help her, he tried again. Tried forcing his body to act, to move, nothing happened. A woman, there was a woman in the car, he thought. Where had she come from, he asked himself. She screamed at Mike, begging for help. She looked to him through bruised eyes as she hung upside down, strapped to her seat. Her face bled; a piece of glass had shredded her jawline, leaving a flap of skin hanging, lapping over her cheek.

The car quickly filled with smoke as the fire burned hotter and hotter. Mike watched, unable to do anything. His will wasn’t strong enough. Mike could see his reflection in the black smoked glass, but it wasn’t him. It was as if Mike was watching a TV screen, or as if he was watching through someone else’s eyes. He knew it was him sitting there, he could feel the heat, the electric smell of burning plastic choked him. He knew he was here. But the image he could see was not him truly him. He looked different he thought, his hair slightly parted differently, his eyes coal black. And he was smiling, no smirking at the wreck. It looked as if whoever this other Mike was in the reflection actually enjoyed the wreck, the fire and death. But he didn’t, he didn’t enjoy it. He wanted it to stop, he wanted to save her.

Her hand reached for the glass, blocking out Mike’s reflection, calling to him, beckoning him to save her. Her skin had already charred. Mamma? He felt as if he could hear her skin sizzle and pop. Like bacon crisping in a pan. She screamed and screamed. Mike realized he was laughing. He was standing next to the burning wreck of a car and laughed while the woman inside burned alive.

The radio blared to life with another hit, Fountains of Wayne, Stacy’s Mom. Mike was back sitting in his car. The smoke, the fire, the heat was gone. The wreck, the dying woman were gone. Mike breathed deeply forcing the smoke he could still feel holding him out of his lungs. He wiped the sweat from his brow. An old man stared at him from across the street. He pointed at Mike. It looked as if he had been crying. The old man’s clothes were dirty, his hair long and messy, like he hadn’t washed in a long time. He walked across the street, yelling something, not caring about the cars that whizzed by him. They didn’t seem to take notice of him. The old man stopped in front of the hood of Mike’s old Pontiac Grand Am, his car, not a wreck, he thought. The old man slammed his hands on the hood and screamed. Wordless howls escaped him. Tears streamed down his face. His teeth were broken and rotted. His clothes were more in tatters than whole. He terrified Mike.

“Did you see?” he yelled, finally articulating something.

“What…” I stuttered.

“Did you see what you did? Open your eyes.” He yelled.

The song changed, again. Collective Soul, Shine. Mike blinked and the man was gone. Just like that, he disappeared. One second there and the next, poof, gone. Was it all another dream? How could he have disappeared? Mike looked to the clock on the dash. He had been sitting in his car for close to an hour now, how could this be?

Mike clutched at his steering wheel, he tried to rationalize it all. It had to have been two more hallucinations. That was it, that was all. Nothing more than his dipshit, fucked up brain playing a scary little movie out for himself. But it felt so real, he though. There was no way he could wrap his head around all of this, without at least half a dozen drinks under his belt. What the hell is going on, he asked himself again. Mike rubbed at his temples, his head pounded.

Then it hit him, the only way to determine if any of it was real was to trace the hallucination back to the wreck. He could see the way the car had gone in his mind. Mike jumped back into his car and turned left on Highway 7. The direction he had been driving in the hallucination. He drove out of Barrington, north past the Thornwood Inn and Fountain Pond. There it was, just past the pond, a slight break in the tree line. That was were he had crashed only minutes before.

It was a shrine, or a memorial, he supposed. Flowers, photos, and candles littered the side of the road. Mike slowed. The name on the memorial read: Naomi. Mike had known a Naomi. But she had left town, she had moved, he was sure of it. He had spent the night out with her before she moved. Mike stopped the car on the shoulder, the tires of the Pontiac screeching over the loose gravel. His hands shook. He didn’t understand. Why should his hands shake, it was as if they knew something he didn’t. Something that might shake his entire world.

Mike walked the short distance to the memorial; the flowers were old and decaying. Their bright colors faded and browned. They were crisp to the touch. The banner with Naomi’s name had a date: June 29, 1997. It was a year ago, almost to the day. It was his Naomi, not his he thought, but the Naomi that he had known. Naomi had been beautiful and smart. She had long brown hair, deep brown eyes with flecks of green. One crooked tooth; which she hated, and he remember because he had joked about it. Mike hadn’t known her well; she was like most women in his life, playing only a short supporting role. He had never good with the whole boyfriend thing, but he was great at the hook ups. They all knew how he was. He realized she never had moved, never had started the life she had talked about, never got to go to the college that she had worked so hard to get into. He couldn’t understand, why he couldn’t remember this. Why was this blacked out of his memory? It all confused him. I tried to remember the last time I saw her; but the harder he thought about it the more it all escaped him, as if that night was gone. He remembered that they had hooked up at the bar, going at in the stall. But after that, nothing, as if someone had erased it all.