Dermaphoria. Craig Clevenger
and they cascade to the sidewalk like a shower of welding sparks. The sight leaves me weak.
The man puts his glasses on and I wonder, does he know he’s been kissed by the beginning of the universe.
“That’s Otto,” you said.
Hello, Otto.
“And I’m Eric.” I give you my hand one more time.
“Lovely meeting you, Eric.” The silver wires of your bracelets throw splinters of light into the air when you take my hand.
“I’m Desiree.”
Your whisper brushes my ear. I wrap my arms around you, but you’re gone. Your fingers slip from around my heart, your ghost fades from my bed.
After my heart has bloomed to the size of the universe and all the love from the big bang to the last whisper has been cycloning through my chest for what feels like days on end, the world is one giant prison when the storm dies, at last. The galaxies shrink back to the lump of muscle behind my ribs, the sniper’s target just to the left of my spine. The sleepless night and following day weigh down like a leaden, gray forever. It feels like dying.
I thought I missed you, Desiree. I had no idea how much.
THE WRONG MOVE WILL SPLIT MY SKIN DOWN THE CENTER OF MY BODY. It will fall away in sheets like brittle, peeling paint. My eyes scrape their sockets and I hear sounds like a shrieking chalkboard when I blink. I lie motionless, but feel motion sick.
A sting to my inner thigh. I fling the sheets away and jump to my feet. The room spins. I think it’s in my head, then I think not. I close my eyes and it’s worse. Faster, faster. Ground impact will blow out the windows, collapse the ceiling and scatter my shattered bones and furniture like God flinging a handful of dice. I brace myself but the spinning slows. I hold my balance against the wall, scratching the fresh welt on my leg.
On hands and knees at bug level for the second time. Either I missed this one or it’s new, or whatever infested Jack’s room has hitch-hiked on his dumpster-salvaged wardrobe and shat its eggs into my carpet and sheets. Smaller than my thumb and the color of its own shadow, it disappears into the mottled carpet beside the lamp cord like the splatter fragment of an old stain. Anslinger’s black-bag men had planted it in plain sight.
It senses movement and bolts for the corner. I trap it beneath the empty jar and slide the queen of hearts beneath it. It looks like a smooth, black stone flailing in vain at the invisible wall.
Cuts and burns scar the desk. They’re the handiwork of the desperate and industrious armed with razors, spoons, glass pipes and butane lighters. In the drawer, they’ve left behind a rubber band, two thumbtacks, a dried-out ballpoint pen with no cap, a few paperclips and a dull razor-blade. I pull the jar away and the specimen runs for the edge, but I flip it onto its back with the queen of hearts. In spite of my hangover, my hands are steady and I pin it through the center with a straightened paperclip on my first try.
Its antennae hum, black filaments longer than its entire body, a signal for help or a last-ditch attempt to relay its gathered data back to the colony. I tap them at the base with the razorblade, severing the connection.
Across town, the detective’s monitor cuts to a bug’s-eye view of the big bang, and the blowtorch hiss of static.
Fuck you, Anslinger.
The head remains intact until I can find out what it’s seen and heard, though I may have punctured its microprocessor. I peel its wings from beneath as it struggles. I can scarcely imagine the electric insect invective it’s hurling at me from its dying, foul bug mouth. I disassemble it leg by leg, wing by wing. I break its shell into its core components, bisect its head and cross section its body four times but have nothing to show for my work. Nothing shorts, nothing sparks and nothing smokes. No resistors or transistors. No crystals, diodes, coils or microchips, only moist entrails. Whoever made this is good, so they were smart enough to make others.
Umbrella Men wave down buses and speak into pay phones. They fold newspapers and hold radios to their ears. Anslinger is tracking me. Anslinger wants to send me back to jail. Anslinger isn’t interested in me, he wants Desiree. He wants my Desiree. He’s looking for the Glass Stripper. All or none of the above. I ditch one scenario in favor of another between footsteps. I check reflections in shop windows and bus shelters. Some kid bends to tie his shoe. Left foot means, We’ve been made, pull back. Right foot means, Go, to the rooftop sniper with the laser dot firefly humming on the back of my head, awaiting his signal to pull the trigger and turn off the universe.
The sign says FORD’S. Floodlights illuminate BEER-POOL-SATELLITE TV on the outside wall. Inside, the carpet might be gray, green or black. The scant light is of scant help in determining anything. Stains on the pool table, maybe beer, maybe blood. A jukebox with “Out of Order” taped over the glass. The bartender’s shirt has “Lou” embroidered onto the chest.
“I guess you’re Lou.”
He’s wiping a glass with a gray towel, staring at my face like he’s just scraped me off his shoe.
“Have I been here before?”
“If you don’t know, then it’s time to quit,” he says. “What can I get you?”
I don’t know.
“The usual.”
Stock cars race through a haze of electric snow on the silent television mounted above the bar. Pool balls crack against each other on the beer-and-blood stained table behind me. Lou remains inert, determined to wipe the reflections off the glass with that gray towel. My hands shake. Something lands on my face and I slap my cheek, expecting a splattered bug on my fingers. Nothing but the shine of sweat, more running down my temples and neck. I pull a ten from my pocket, so Lou serves me instead of tossing me out.
“Jack and Coke,” he says. “Good beginner’s drink.”
Other customers have red and black coasters beneath their drinks. Lou sets my glass down on the bare wood, the glass hits with a cracking noise like a fast pool shot. He resumes polishing with the soiled towel.
“There a pay phone here?”
Lou responds with a jut of his chin. Toward the back. A sign points down a small hallway, RESTROOMS AND PHONE.
Anslinger’s direct line dumps me to his machine.
“Call off your tail. I’m doing the best I can, but stop following me. And stop bugging my room.” Before hanging up, I pause and add, “Please.”
Someone behind me says, “You’ve looked better, Eric.”
I strain to picture this man. I remember his clothes, khaki trousers and a peach golf shirt, but not his face. He’s with a boy dressed in a shirt stained like a shop rag and a blue windbreaker a size too large. Scabs like playground injuries stipple the bridge of his runny nose, his hair is matted as though he’d fallen asleep in the dirt. He stares at his fingers, silently moving his lips. Not a boy, but a year or two within my age. I saw him earlier, tying his shoe on the sidewalk.
The unmemorable man touches the boy gently on the back as he passes me on his way to the men’s room.
“Have we met?”
“You don’t recognize me?” he asks.
I strain to move the blood through my head, so the heat and light will coax a memory out of hiding. The bar lights surge and the jaws of an electric dog clamp onto my back ribs. I see storm clouds and smell pear blossoms for a heartbeat before my knees turn to wax.
On my back. Turning over but my legs won’t move. My arms tingle and burn like they’re asleep. Need to watch for the shattered lemonade glass. Trying to crane my neck. All I can see are the man’s shoes and shins. Spit hangs from my lips. I can’t keep from drooling, and the shoes look expensive so I need to be careful.
“How