he reached for a match, and a match was given to him.
Currently the project is going smoothly, or at least it is on the animation front. I still need to figure out how I'm going to transition in certain scenes, but I'm sure I'll think of something.
As you can see I'm going for a more orange (ahem) look with this animation, similar to my 2007 short Jitters, though I think achieved much better.
Here's a closer look at the car (and our titulat Last Man) shown in the first image. I'm not so much setting a date for the film as I am a visual style. I'm of course taking a lot of liberties with the two sentence story here, as two lines isn't terribly much to work with. The cities appear to be more stone than steel at the moment, whereas the Last Mans house is more abstract. I can say despite the somewhat 20's style, he does have a TV. And quite a few large, empty rooms.
As far as soundtrack goes, I'm thinking desolate, and rather lonely, but detached. I would be thrilled if anyone had any suggestions for songs to be used. So far, I have a few songs I'm considering using:
I also really want to use Who Saw Him Die? by Ennio Morricone as sort of a main overture, however I can't find it on Youtube anywhere - I can confirm it's on Spotify though, if anyone wants to check it out. Like I said, at the moment I am most open to suggestions relating to music, if anyone would like to help me out. Finally,
I am stuck with this image. I can't find a moment where it makes sense for The Last Man to visit the sea - I was originally planning on having him drive past, but it doesn't make much sense in context. Perhaps I'll use this image as a title card.
as always, all criticisms and recoomendations will be greatly appreciated.
I woke up this morning and immediately reached for my left arm. There was this awful, awful itching sensation. It felt like it was coming from under my skin. I have no idea what it is, but it seems to have stopped now. Hilda is worried, as usual. She keeps telling me to see a doctor, but I tell her, it’s just itching. It’s like a rash just a bit under the skin of my arm. She’s so sweet, though. For once I got up and she was right there, next to me, asking if I was alright. Usually when I get up she’s already out gardening, and I have to say good morning to her out the window. I like that, ritual, it’s cute, but there’s something to be said about waking up next to someone. Maybe it would have been better if she hadn’t though; it seems I’ve sent her into a tizzy. I’m so lucky she’s here.
June 17th
Reminder: Go to gardening shop tomorrow, we need a new hose and some pesticide. There are these little black things that are killing Hilda’s flowers.
The itching seems to be dying down. Not sure why.
June 19th
The itching has gotten way worse, if I had less self-restraint I would have clawed my arm off by now. It’s not constant, but enough to really make getting anything done. As soon as I mentioned it to Hilda she took a nosedive – it’s not my choice whether or not I see the doctor now. She went rushing out to the chemist to get me something as soon as I mentioned anything. Just dropped what she was doing and ran out. I tried to work on my writing today, but I just couldn’t bring myself to finish anything, this itch was so annoying. I think it spread up my arm, too. I just ended up watching TV all day.
Today I saw this documentary about a philosopher called Hobbes. He believed in something called a social contract – that people aren’t kind to each other because it’s in their nature, but that it’s just considered socially acceptable. That deep down, we’re all just horrible monsters looking to fuck and eat each other. He was a pretty grim fellow, but I can see his point. He’s saying that it’s not really up to us, that deep down it’s human nature to be aggressive, it’s genetically pre-programmed. I don’t know though – when I look deep down, I don’t really feel anything morose or dark. I doubt there’s anything but sunflowers beneath Hilda’s skin.
Thank God we can overcome things, eh?
June 21st
Jesus, fucking, Christ. So I went to the doctor today and sat for like, an hour and a half in the waiting room. This old man gave me his newspaper. When I smiled at him, he just sort of looked forward. He must have been on autopilot or something, but it stuck with me for some reason.
So I get into the doctor’s office, he looks at my arm and tells me we have to go through this whole ordeal of getting an x-ray. He says I’d have to wait a couple of days, but when I told him how much of a bother it was, he agreed to move things around. I was grateful. The machine made me nervous at first, I always hated these things. When I was younger my brother stole a bag of cookies from me, and for some reason that made me mad enough that I ended up breaking his arm. He had to get an x-ray, and the whole time I was waiting for him to come out, I was scared. For him and for me. I wanted him to be okay, but I also didn’t want him to tell on me. In the end, he didn’t. He lied, said he fell down the stairs. This confession’s a little late, but I only just remembered. Sorry, bro.
I get home to find I’ve already missed a call from the doctor. When I phone him back, you know what he says to me; bugs. I have bug eggs, inside my arm. Seriously – I got a cut in my arm a few weeks ago, and it got spider eggs in it. He says there’s no worry about them hatching or anything, but it explains my itching. They need to figure out the best way to solve this, and will get back to me. Seriously, fucking eggs. I told Hilda it was just a rash.
June 22nd
Knowing there are spider eggs inside me has already made the itching go down. I think it’s neat – these little things living inside me. These little creatures forming in me. Ha, does this make me a woman? I guess I am pregnant. I can almost feel the eggs moving around in my arm. Hilda sprayed the little black bugs in the garden hurting her flowers today with pesticide. I felt like running in and saving them – “my babies, my babies!” I would yell. It feels like my arm is a huge ocean, and the eggs are little boats. I can write peacefully now, I know everything’s fine. That’s not stopping Hilda from worrying though, poor thing.
June 23rd
I’m trying to keep my arm as still as possible. I remembered this Bible verse “Oh lord, your sea is so big and my boat is so small”. I’m going to be nicer to the eggs. Hilda insists on putting this lotion on my arm now, she’s such a worrywart. Seriously, I love her, but it can get really annoying sometimes.
Writing is a lot easier now – these spiders in me are a muse. I pretend they talk to me – and just the idea is pretty grim and fascinating in itself. The doctor phoned me today, but I didn’t answer.
June 24th
I ordered some Hobbes today.
June 25th
I went into the doctor again; I can’t avoid the calls any longer. The eggs are such an inspiration to me, now. I’ve started writing a new story – a horror, about spiders. They’re such a cool symbol, now I think about it. The perfect image of evil – these little horrible creatures that everyone seems to hate. There’s even an evolutionary disease (arachnophobia) that makes you scared of them. It’s genetically pre-programmed that we fear them. I looked for the old man in the waiting room – nothing. Maybe he’s sick. There was this other patient there; this daft guy, who got out his cigarette, ready to light right there in the office. Luckily he regained his wits and put them away. Smoking, eh, it just disgusts me.
The doctor gave me these weird pills – I think they’re meant to break the eggs down. I start taking them tomorrow. Goodbye, my little pretties. I feel bad about losing them; I can almost feel them in my arm, the little seeds of evil. I have to hide the pills from Hilda, if she finds out; her compassion will make her throw a fit.
June 26th
I woke up to Hilda this morning. She was awake, looking at my eyes. I could look into her eyes, and they seemed infinite. Not deep, they seemed like some sort of optical illusion – a trick. They went on indefinitely, like she had reached some sort of profound wisdom. A summon bonum. It was an amazing way to start the day. I got up, and had to hide a jump. I felt the eggs slipping around inside my arm.
I went downstairs and found my book by Hobbes had gotten here. It was resting on the doormat were we wiped our feet, neatly and patiently. I opened it up and left it by the bed. I didn’t start reading it till later – till I was done writing. I didn’t want my work to be too heavily influenced by his. I finished the chapter, making note of everything my little residents told me. I think I’ve given myself an artificial intelligence, or some kind of higher understanding now. The bugs, they know things. I should listen to them more often.
I read the first chapter of the book today. I don’t even want to go into it – there’s such a dark quality to everything this guy has to say. I love it. Hilda asked what I was reading, and I just said it was some journalist. She smiled and went to sleep. She never really listens, I don’t think. I looked over at my pills, and decided not to take them.
June 29th
I thought about that man again today – the one who gave me the newspaper. It’s all Hobbes – he didn’t give me the newspaper out of kindness or anything. It was just a social contract. Either that or he was done with it. That’s why he didn’t say anything; he didn’t feel anything. It’s all so obvious now – we all have this deep impassion inside us. This hollowness and self-interest. Take away 911, and “social norms”, and we all go back to the jungle. I don’t itch anymore – I let myself feel every ache and twinge. I adore it, now. I adore that they’re inside, I’ve embraced it. I imagine what they say, and sometimes listen to them. I wonder if they’ll ever hatch?
Today I woke up and Hilda was there, but still asleep. There isn’t as much wisdom and profound insight in her eyelids. I stayed there, unblinking a while. She didn’t wake up. I was up first, for once. I had won. I celebrated by opening my pills, and flushing them all down the toilet. It made this pretty, satisfying pink foam. The eggs will eventually go away. Or – maybe they’ll dissolve into my blood? There’s a creepy thought. Or... Maybe my body will reject them?
Ha!
July 1st
Hilda found out about Hobbes this afternoon at dinner. She asked why I said he was a journalist, and I told her because everything he says is true. Her eyes, well, they just lit up. Balancing her fork in her hands, she starts talking about Kerguard or some shit. She tells me about Jeremy Bentham and Deontology and situation ethics and all. It was really cute, watching her run her mouth off. I can’t really remember anything she said – I was rolling my eyes the whole time though, I think. It was funny; I imaged the eggs in my eyes, rolling around with me. She was bothering me. She was a lot recently. I hope I get one of those floater things in my eyes, so I can see the egg. Then it’d always be with me. After a while I just stopped nodding and continued eating. Hilda looked at me a moment, then asked about the itch, smiling. I remained silent. After a while I told her the food was good – it was okay. I laughed to myself. “There’s your social contract”, I thought. Where’s your Bennam now?
July 3rd
The rancid eggs rattle and turn in my veins with the tides. With every beat my heart sucks them towards itself, calling to them, and then pushes them back out. Like a mother teaching her child how to ride a bicycle – it reminds them it is still there, that I am still holding onto them, and then lets go, letting them venture off into the crevices of my arteries. I sometimes think I can feel them pushing through my veins, squeezing through the tighter areas of my vessels. If I look towards my wrist when I feel this I think I can see them. Little lumps that disappear back into my skin. I am a nursery. The chair Hilda’s father made me – my work chair, it’s beautiful, but the old man can’t build anything. It creaks and moans with the twisting of my body. T’s stopping me from working. My itch has become Hilda’s fathers ineptitude! I need to keep writing – about the spiders, about society, about the monsters, but the moaning – her father’s voice seeps from the chair, pulling me back. I have to stop it.
Today I saw Hilda turn to me in the garden and smile. She had been working for hours, carefully tending to the happy plants and flowers she cares so deeply for. I remember a time when even the prettiest flower meant nothing to her; but she made herself care when she decided she wanted children. It was that first night, when she came back from the homeless shelter, tired and confused with a palm full of seeds, she planted her first tree.
I couldn’t stop looking at the soil on her hands.
July 4th
Social contract day. Today, the fourth of July, the day we celebrate our independence, I first met Hilda, three years ago. After a few months, she had nurtured the writer in me, and we had our first date. We celebrate the day we met rather than our first date – I remember the day, we both met at the soup kitchen. I wonder if it’s still there, or if Hilda goes to a different one? I haven’t volunteered for months. Too busy, I suppose.
She celebrated this agreed standard contract by giving getting me this big box of books. Immanuel Kant, Jeremany Betham etc etc. A big book of ethical philosophers. She said she was excited that I was getting into philosophy, and that she couldn’t wait to read my work now – I caught the veiled insult there. This sort of proved that she hadn’t really thought much about this. I had only started reading Hobbes couple of days. I tried my best to conform, but there was only so much surprise and gratitude I could summon. The whole time I put on that smile, I could feel the eggs squirming around my face. They made my smile shake, and the corners of my mouth twinge. I wonder if Hilda could see them. I wondered if I cared. I kept thinking, “Show me your hands”. There must be dirt under those nails. She’s been working so long and so hard, show me something. Let me see!
July 5th
Couldn’t work today. Hilda’s fucking father – his hands can’t support me. I can’t work on any other chair though – it’s like he engraved his eyes in that chair. Staring into my back, ripping open my flesh. So I sit on it, with its short leg. I sit for hours. I sit for days. For fucking days. The eggs feel different. Like they’re twitching.
July 6th
I type softly now, the eggs are in my fingers, leading me to wherever they may lead. I love it. I have to type softly though, or I’d lose my powers. I’d crush them. Those books did come in handy; I’ve used them to prop up the chair, the one Hilda’s father made me. Now it sits in beautiful silence, and I can continue my work. Nothing holding me back, except Hilda herself. And the damn doctor – stop calling me. Every time she wanders in to check on me, I can’t help but feel like Jack Nicholson. Just let me work, woman! She has no idea – no idea! What I’m writing about. How could she? Still, I’m finding my inner bitterness, the social contract, harder and harder to abide by. She isn’t helping with her fucking
Her fucking
July 7th
Today I awoke to a miracle. The eggs are gone – but in their place. In their place, my God – I have the most beautiful spiders. I can feel them, their tiny legs. I can feel them walking along my muscles, under the skin. It’s amazing. It’s incredible. It’s like I raised a thousand children, like I bore them for months, and they were born; but they never left me. Like I nurtured a part of myself that’s now fully bloomed. I feel so God damned alive.
And Hilda has the nerve to walk in and ask me how I am. I’m amazing.
July 9th
I woke up this morning to Hilda’s eyes, and turned instantly. She asked what’s wrong.
Today I snuck out to the shed, and I threw away the pesticide. I tossed it over the fence into the neighbour’s garden. Take that, I thought. You thought you could get to me through the chair, and when that failed you infected my garden. The plants are lovely – she’s done a great job. I looked at a patch of dirt. Ants. Wonderful ants. I let them walk on my arm, and imagine a mirror – the spiders and the ants; they walk on my skin, each, but on opposite sides. My skin is the gravity well, and I pinch the veins. I move a spider over to where the ant is, so they walk on top of each other. It’s an amazing feeling. My inside now matches my outside. My inside matches my outside!
I wondered if the spider will tear through my skin and devour the ant. I hoped so.
July 12th
It’s almost finished – my masterpiece. It’s amazing; it’s in the shadow of Hobbes. I had to overcome obstacles, like the damn phone, and Hilda’s father, and Hilda.
And Hilda.
And Hilda.
“How’s working going?”
“The doctor phoned, you should go in.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Plant a flower with me.”
Leave me the hell alone. I’m working, I’m working damn it. Thank God for my kids – they’re the only things keeping me here. Their whispers of confidence, their soft touch. I can feel them gently, sweetly slip along my body. The tickle – it’s like a feather, like embracing a cloud of snow. It’s fantastic. I feel like they’re there with me, every time I breathe, they cling onto my teeth, they ride my eyelids with each blink, peak out of my fingernails to check up on me.
And then there’s the gentle, playful tugging. The nibbling. Its okay, sweetheart. Eat my heart out. Haha, hahahaha!
July 13th
And I’m so sad. I’m so fucking sad. I’m so, so – impossibly, incomprehensibly sad. Hilda – she would try to understand sometimes. But she doesn’t, because the sadness – the sadness is in me. It’s deep down, it’s genetic and incurable. The spiders knot in my veins. They crumple together and restrict blood flow, they give me a tourniquet. Like they’re suggesting something.
Everyone feels this sadness, but not in the same way. Everyone feels it, that’s why no one can understand it. It’s human nature, it holds all of us back. Don’t bother with it – ignore it. But I can’t, I can’t ignore it! A black, heavy blanket has been draped over our happy garden; it has been for several days. Good God, it’s hard to breathe. It’s hard to fucking breathe. The air is so thick, and my lungs are filled with
I inherited this. This sadness, this anger – it was passed down from father to son in my wretched fucking genes. And I shall pass it on to my son. Hilda holds my hand, smiling innocently at me. Her ignorance makes me hate her.
The bugs tumble into my hand as she holds it, and I pull it away.
July 15th
Ha! The doctor was wrong. They aren’t spiders. Well, they aren’t JUST spiders. There are millipedes – I see them walk under my skin, like a stream with feet, flowing up my blood. Rivers in rivers. There are others, too. Ants. The ants and the spiders fight; my body is a battle ground! The millipedes pass like Zeppelins over the red seas where the other insects do battle! I can waste away for hours, staring at my arm. They’re in all of me now; sometimes I can feel them pushing each other into my stomach. Off a cliff, they push each other, into my acid! To be digested, to be turned into me! I am the mother ship, the imperial mother zeppelin!
I joyously watch outside as my wife to be toils in the garden. It’s about to rain. I grin a huge grin, and count down the seconds. I applaud the heavens when it pours! I applaud Hilda’s patience with it as it comes down on her. Spoiling her toils, spoil the toils! It’s hilarious. It’s karmic. You ruined my toils, and now the zeppelin rains down.
That’s not pity I’m feeling, it’s eagerness.
July 19th
The doctor phoned again today – I blocked the number. Hilda isn’t sick, is she?
July 20th
Hilda saw the books propping up the chair, and went out and got a prop when I was asleep, as a surprise of sorts. Now I don’t have to rely on them, she says. The books are like the chair – when I leave them on the table, they stare at me. But they don’t tear into me – my insects protect me, my shield of bugs protects my back from their talons.
July 20th, Night
I woke up at about 2 AM, and turned to see Hilda. To see not just with my own eyes, but my inner eyes. Her skin is soft, but her eyes are shallow. Her hair is like smoke, which floats just above the pillow, but her tongue is simple, and flaps inanely as if in a steady breeze. Her fingernails aren’t covered in dirt, but I imagine her insides are. Like how the creatures of the Earth are in me, the earth itself is in her. It must be, she tends to her flowers so often. Her happy, happy flowers.
She told me, they’re not simple. She talked about photosynthesis, and the biology of plant life. How bugs rely on plants to survive, and vice versa. She said she saw a David Attenborough program that said plants were the masters, while bugs were the servants. What does that make her? The Earth must be in her, a cut, or bruise. She’s full of mud. I can tell by her ideas.
I sat there a minute, and thought about what to do. I decided to start writing this. Has she seen it, I wonder? The drawer was open slightly... Maybe she did? She’s been acting the same though. I wonder a thousand wonders.
July 22nd
Last night I stared at Hilda again. She brings out the worst in me. The anger I keep deep down, as deep down as I can. She pulls it out with her claws. I bit my skin today, until I bled. I wanted to put some of my spiders on her plants. I squeezed, but there was nothing. None of them came out. They like it in me.
I was staring at her, and I thought about the worth of human life. About the pain, about things she couldn’t possibly understand. I can’t help these things inside me – they’re there! I didn’t put them there! I didn’t! It’s human nature to have them. These dark thoughts, this sadness, and anger. It’s just a fucking social contract that my parents signed on my behalf at my birth. I thought about going to the shed again, and picking up an axe. I went down and stood there for a good ten minutes, revisiting her putrid, rancid eyes. I decided to lie on the grass and look at the stars.
I wonder if all those creatures up there are as like me as I am.
It’s in my fucking blood.
July 24th
Today I ignored Hilda. I said nothing to her. She gets up before me, she doesn’t want a conversation? Fine, I won’t speak to her. Let’s see how she deals with that. She’ll break down. She has no idea how to deal with it – how to live without me. I ate before her, and spent the day pretending to write. I tossed those books out – they were tearing into my back.
July 25th
I made a good joke today. Hilda said she wanted to talk – for us to sit down. I looked her in the eye and asked if she’d rather we sat in the garden.
She said she’d stop working there if it made me happy. That’s an oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one! My good for hers, Pfffffff. Like that would ever happen. Empty words, Hilda. I’ve read Hobbes! I feel the wasps flutter around in my belly. There aren’t any, but I imagine if there were. I would love it. It would make me whole, choppers fluttering around inside me. I’d jump and they’d plummet into the acid pool, onto the battle grounds, and the ants would pile onto them.
Bees kill wasps by piling onto them, and giving them heat stroke. I wonder if I’d feel it, if they did that. If my skin would sizzle. What if they turned on me? What if they turned on me and did that to my brain?! What if they destroy me!!!??!?
July 27th
My children toss and turn in the night now. They make me role towards Hilda, as if they want me to keep an eye on her. They’re squirming in me, and they push and pull me towards her, then back, as if she were the heart and the very atmosphere the blood. She the center of me; the sun that feeds the plants which sustain the bugs. Do I depend on her?
Or are they telling me something else? Do they want me to do something else?
Did you read that last entry, Hilda? Are you going to get me sent to jail?
Are you there, Hilda?
July
I think the spiders have started to spin their webs inside me. My muscle and fat and blood no longer seem to be enough for them. I think I’m breathing out silk without noticing it – like when you breath out smog in the winter. I don’t think my silk will float off though. Maybe I should invest in eating some flies. Maybe. Am I no longer enough for them? Can they possibly live without me? Can I, them? They were born in me, though – how could they live without me? How could the millipedes, after creeping along my bones and wading through the tar in my lungs ever walk upon the earth? I am the earth – I am the centre. How could they live without me? It would be like me, trying to walk the streets of China or climb a mountain. I’m not made for such places. They must still need me, or else, they would have starting tearing out of me by now. They would have starting coming out of me, if they didn’t need me.
July
Hild invites me to soup kitchen. I walk with her there, through the dark city. It’s barren, except it isn’t. The people here never really look. I feel nervous, haven’t been there in a while. The shelter. I see a homeless man, rattling his cup around. Every single clang echoes in my ears, disturbing the lice and ants that reside there. Is it part of my contract to give him my money? I don’t think so. It isn’t part of me to go to the kitchen, either. It’s an exercise in futility, is what it is. Expending my own energy, with no actual benefit. To restore someone else’s energy. If I waste me oxygen feeding you, I myself will have to eat to regain my oxygen. A fool’s gambit. I make up some excuse and go home. So I’m walking home, and who should I see?
The old man.
The man who obeyed his contract. The one who had been for years, who gave me his newspaper. I feel the need to confront him. I walk up to him, and tap him on the shoulder. I asked if he remembered me – he obviously didn’t. I said he gave me a newspaper in the waiting room, and sarcastically thanked him. His eyes started to glow as if there were Christmas lights reflected in them.
The bugs all rush to my side, pulling me away, but for once I ignore them. He told me it was nice to see a familiar face. His wife is sick. Really sick. He was waiting for her.
I don’t know how to feel.
I left. It was very cold.
August 1st
It’s over. Hilda asked me what was wrong, and I couldn’t stop laughing. The last few days I had been playing a game with her, sending her mixed messages, of affection then boredom. It was amusing, and I would spend time smiling to myself about it in my writing room. This darkness in me, it made me take pleasure in it. I only did it for two days. I can’t help it.
But she stood up, and she looked at me with those eyes. Those eyes that looked all the way through my head, the tornadoes, the wormholes. She told me that she loved me, but that to stay with her would be to do me a disservice. That she was damaging me, and she couldn’t help it and it was tearing her apart. She said she was sorry, so very, very sorry. I remember in the cafe, her telling me I could do it. A year later my first novel was published. Her helping me financially, emotionally. Where the fuck did that Hilda go?
She said that she couldn’t be with me if it was hurting me. She said she loved me, and she left.
I through my typewriter out the fucking window. I burned the pages. I lay in bed, feeling for the bugs. There are so many of them, and they all console me. They embrace me. I am more whole now than ever.
August
My head. It’s so hot. I can feel this horrible, unpleasant warmth in my forehead. I knew they would do this – I relied on them, counted on them, and now they’re killing me! I need the pills; I’m seeing the doctor today. I knew they would do this! My children, my boat, my sea!
August fifth.
I went in to see the doctor today. He said he had been trying to contact me for weeks, and that I’d been impossible to get. He had some important news. I sat down, clutching my head, ready to say my piece, when suddenly;
“We were wrong about your x-ray.”
I looked up at him.
Then he told me; there were no bugs. My slide was misplaced with someone else’s. There was never anything inside me besides a small portion of miscoloured flesh. I thought I could smell freshly cut grass at the time. I sat there a moment, and let myself breathe. My thoughts calmed, my headache was gone, and the vapours disappeared. I looked down at my wrist. I didn’t feel anything. Not even blood. Everything’s gone. Everything’s gone.
I have seen pure evil twice in my life. This is the second time.
It was just towards the end of what most folks would consider the American dream. Or at least, what most people figure. I can tell you for sure, it never existed. We had a white picket fence, and we were real friendly with all our neighbours. We were quaint and peaceful and happy. It was about that period – but just as it was dying. Just as front porches seemed to become less trendy, just as fathers were just starting to mistrust their daughters boyfriends. Still, it was an interesting twilight. I was heading home in the car. It was so hot that day – it was so damned hot. My wife Barbara and I were counting down the days til our grandson was to be born. Sure, Lucy was young and still living at home, but she had herself a good man who treated her right and had a bright future. It was so danged hot that day, I swear, I had taken off my tie and was unbuttoning my shirt before I even walked through the front door.
And there he was. Sitting at the dining table, hands folded, with the same, huge grin I remember he had. I remember he was cleaner than the first time I saw him. I don't know whether I preferred that. It would be a mistake to try and describe him to you. I can say he was very black. Now, not as in the skin colour or anything. Just... Pitch black. Couldn't tell his coat from his skin. His teeth were clean though, real clean. Whiter than mine, that's for damn sure. Of course, I got a good look at them. He kept smiling like that. His voice was real gravely, like his throat was filled with concrete. “Evenin' mister Rosenfeld”.
Now you'll notice one thing I haven't described was how I was. Well, I suddenly wasn't feeling so hot no more. I stood in the door, and my hand refused to leave the handle. It was iced shut to it. It took me a good thirty seconds to actually pull it free and start buttoning up my shirt again. This seemed to amuse him greatly. Or at least, slightly more than most things must have amused him. I looked over towards the kitchen. There was Barbara, white as I ever seen her. She had both arms spread wide, leaning as far back on the farthest area of the kitchen she could. Neither of us were expecting him to come by. I remember smelling the sweetest cherry pie. Barbara usually made a pie Friday. Sometimes Lucy and I would sneak a bit before supper. That's how Lucy met Daniel, actually, new boy smelt the pie from three houses down and was curious. He's a good boy, that Danny. For some reason, that's what I kept saying in my head, over and over. He's a good boy, that Danny.
“Hot, ain't it?” He didn't laugh so much as... I don't know, it looked like he was pushing his teeth outwards, closer to me. God damn, that smile. I looked over to Barbara - “Where's Lucy?” I managed to wheeze. Barb didn't say anything, but she looked towards Lucy's room. Good, I thought. She should stay there. “Now mister Rosenfeld, it's been so long...” he began. It hadn't felt long, not to me anyway. “Where's my hello?”
“Hello.” I chewed the word. That was not the kind of pleasantry I ever expected to extend to him. Barb was still as stone. Still as stone. You would of thought she had taken a peek at Sodom. “Is that a fine cherry pie I smell?” He turned in his seat. I'm pretty sure we threw that seat out. We tossed a lot of things out after that. Some soot flaked off him onto the chair – I think it was soot. “Missus, is that your baking? Are you baking that fine cherry pie?”
Now, I didn't see what kinda look he gave my Barbara, but I know from her face, that I'm glad I didn't see it. I didn't think a face could get any whiter, til he looked her away. Ain't any make-up in the world that could redden those cheeks. She didn't say anything, but she stared him down. Something about that look said she couldn't even blink. He turned around. “Damn, that's one nice smelling pie.” He cupped his hands and lent forwards a little. “You mind I have myself a slice?”
“Barbara” I choked out after a few uneasy seconds. “Get the man some pie”. I looked over at her, and she must have taken a good minute before she started moving. Not that the fella minded, he just sat there, grinning as he always did. She was so stiff in the way she moved, but she kept her calm. That's my Barb, I thought, don't show him nothing more than he's already seen. Don't show him nothing and he'll leave. She kept the knife way steadier than I could, much steadier indeed. But she was slow. Real slow. Everything was so much louder – the knife slipping into the pie, the stickiness from peeling it back, the cold clink of the plate on the kitchen table. The she just looked at me. After a while I regained my land legs and walked over to her. I weren't ganna make her get close to him. We gave each other this look, this look. She wanted to hold me. But if she did, she'd close her eyes. There weren't no way she was going to close her eyes now.
I walked over to him and put the plate down in front of him, and gently placed the fork down. He looked at it a moment, like he was about to start drooling. He didn't though. He just looked. He looked like he loved looking. Like all the fun came outta looking. Barb opened her mouth, but then closed it. She didn't want him to give her that look. Maybe he gave her the same look earlier he was giving the pie now. That would have turned me to stone, I can tell you that. I wanted so bad to speak up. To just tell him to take a bite, but nothing. I couldn't hardly hear my own thoughts, over my own thoughts. I was shaking so bad, I walked back to the door. I was hoping it would be bright enough behind me he couldn't see me shake. Every now and then he'd mutter to himself “Damn fine pie”. Then more nothing. After about four minutes, he finally picked up the fork. He ate it with such care. He was so delicate with it you'd think he were painting something. He was so steady with the fork, he made such clean cuts. Then he would put it in his mouth. That was the only time I saw him not grinning. He kept his mouth closed when he ate. At first I thought it was southern manners, that that's how he was raised. Now I figure different. The actual eating of the pie – the chewing and the swallowing – that was for him. He weren't ganna let me see that. I don't know how careful he was when he came to chewing... Lord, I don't want to know.
Barb and I never looked at each other while he ate. We couldn't bear it. When he was done he neatly placed the fork on the plate. The clink – dear Christ, it echoed. They heard it down on front street. They heard that awful echo all the way back in East Harlem. They heard that clink every damn place I've ever been. “That was some sweet pie, Missus Rosenfeld.” He didn't turn to look at her, he just kept his eyes on the plate. He wasn't full yet, he wanted more – but he waited. He savoured the after-taste. When he finally open his mouth, I could see some red still there. His teeth were complete white ceptfor the cherry now. I remember every damn piece. Everything stuck between his teeth. My heart was a loose screw being bounced around a jet engine. “Mister Rosenfeld” he lifted his head. “How you doing mister? Sure is hot today.”
“It sure is, son.” I knew his manners allowed me to call him that. I was his elder, after all, and I wanted to try to be as dominant as possible. Still, saying that, calling him that, just gave me chills. I wondered how old he actually was.
“You sweating mister Rosenfeld? They got that air conditioning where you work?”
“Yes, they do. It's mighty comfortable” I was trying to be humble, too. I don't know what I was trying to be. Safe, mostly.
“My daddy would loved air conditioning were he worked. Oh well, changing times I suppose. Still, I'm real glad you're comfortable.”
“Son... Is there a reason you came by? Not that we don't enjoy company, it's just a little unexpected.” I held my breath. Please, dear Lord, please don't take offence to that.
“Oh I'm sorry, were you expecting company? I didn't want to intrude or nothing.” He pointed towards himself. I don't know if that meant something to him, but for whatever reason I almost jumped.
“No, we're not, it's just...” I looked over to Barbara, she was digging her nails into the kitchen table now.Then she finally spoke up “Did you enjoy the pie?”
Mistake, I figure. He looked at her again. Oh God, all these noise. All this buying time. It was revolting, it was terrifying. But Lord, we had to keep doing it. Maybe he would forget why he was here, maybe he'd leave. Don't make me shake his hand, I thought. I don't wanna touch him when he leaves. He said something to Barb, and she never said nothing else. Something about the pie. I weren't paying attention – my hand had found its way to the door knob again.
He turned to look at me. “Mister Rosenfeld, you know why I come down here?”
I did know. But I hoped he had forgotten. “Yes, I do sir”. Look at me. Suddenly he was sir. Suddenly I needed a new door knob. He looked up at me and I got a good look at his eyes for the first time. I ain't ganna bother describing them. They made me feel small though. Like there was this... big, immovable... thing. Like it was in front of me and it was bigger than me and bigger than Barbara and bigger than front street and bigger than the biggest fear I've ever had, and it was bigger than the twilight of the American dream and bigger than the death of it. It was like his eyes were trying to tell me to calm down – like I was so small and they were so big that in the long run this didn't matter. But they didn't do that. They reminded me of this quote from the Bible - “Oh Lord, your sea is so big and my boat is so small”.
My entire life was the boat adrift in the ocean of his eyes.
They told me everything. “Give me five minutes.” He said, very politely. “With your missus, and I'll be on my way.”
I looked at Barbara. We both knew this was what he wanted. But Jesus Christ, the look on her face almost matched the look in his eyes. She was bone white, and I expect if she dug her nails into the wall any harder they woulda broken off. I wonder how he would have reacted to that. I opened my mouth. I was ganna tell him there was no way – that he couldn't, that this was an unfair trade. I was ganna tell him how dare he get into my house with that kind of filthy talk. Then I saw his teeth, and then I looked him in the eyes again. His eyes that told me to stop. His eyes that said no matter what I do, I ain't doing nothing, really. His vast eyes that made me so cold, so empty, so alone in the largest, blackest, most dead star in all the universe. Floating in a petrifying nothing. His “skin” - he when blinked his skin matched the darkness of the space I imagined. Then his eyes would open, and the imagining stopped.
I am nothing. I am all I can say.
But then I look at Barb. Her eyes, so much wider than his, saying something so much more human than his. The something in her eyes are nothing to the nothing in his eyes. I lose myself. I stop being a person, and I start being afraid. There is no other part of me now than fear. I can remember nothing, I know nothing, I can say nothing, I can feel nothing besides fear. I don't think anyone ever said that before- I became an emotion. I became an idea. It was the single worst moment of my entire life... And I revisit it. Nowhere near as awful, of course. But I revisit it, at least five seconds, of every day, for every day of my entire life. His eyes. Her eyes. I imagine my own eyes. Sometimes I can make myself cry over it, but most of the time, that's because I can't bring myself to blink. I apologise for dragging this point out, but the thing is, I know. I know nobody can never, ever understand that kind of fear. Not to say nothing of the vast suffering of human beings, but I can't begin to imagine something as bad.
It was this moment I knew: I never believed in ghosts. I still don't. I don't think regular people have ghosts. But people who have spent time with him... THEY have ghosts. They MUST have ghosts. The unending unimaginable human anguish that arises from his God-damned maddening terrifying eyes, it can't be expressed with just one lifetime of pain. Count the seconds between each blink;
one, two, three... What was the question? What was the question?!
“I'll do it”. That wasn't a voice of Barbara's, that's for sure. Not now anyway, she couldn't talk now. No way. I knew that voice though, and it made me go real cold. Colder than before, even. That was Lucy's voice.
Barbara and I had spared her the horror of ever having to meet him face-to-face, but she knew about him. She had heard the stories. Watered-down versions, sure, but she'd heard them. She knew, almost, what this fella was. What he really really was. She sounded scared, but not enough. Not as much as someone who'd met this man would be – should be. It will sound strange, but I was so proud of her at that moment. I was so proud. She's so strong, she's just like her mother – except stronger. Braver. She was going to conquer the world, some day. That's my girl, I thought, that's my girl, so much stronger than her papa, so much braver. Such an amazing girl, I had. I looked at Barb, her eyes were tearing up. She didn't want our baby girl to have to... to...
But at the same time... She wasn't made of the same stuff as our daughter. She had always been tough, but our Lucy... She was something else. She had steel in her blood. But she was young – dumb... Comfortably numb to the knowledge of what she was agreeing to. She didn't know that this man... Wasn't... She couldn't have known, what he was. What he was like. He eyes glittered something magical. Something wondrous. “Oh my.” he said. “Is this little Lucy? She's grown up, I see. She sounds so young. How old is she, mister?”
I didn't say anything. I was going to throw up. I looked at Barbara, she was looking at the ground. She must have been panting, or something. She could hardly hold herself up. The man looked at me. “Well... if she's as fine as your Missus...” He smiled wider than he usually did. Five minutes. Am I really condemning my daughter to five minutes of those eyes? Could I really do it?
The answer was I couldn't not. I couldn't not do it. I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. Barbara was silently crying. She was sitting on the floor now. “Five minutes...” he leant back. “With your sweetest, sweet lady...” He was silent a moment. “Is that okay with you, mister Rosenfeld? Changing the deal like that?”
How dare he ask me. How could he possibly ask me that. I would have stared at him. I tried, but ended up looking at his teeth. Still some pie there. It was still clinging to his glistening white teeth. My lips are sewn together. I don't say anything, but I think they got a bit looser. It hurt, but I pulled them apart a bit. “Well, okay then.” He got up. Something creaked. I don't know whether it was the chair or his back, but I heard it. He looked over to me, his eyes weren't hardly visible anymore. “Okay mister Rosenfeld. You got yourself a deal.” He looked over to my wife. “Ma'am. I won't be long...” Barbara was crying. She reached an arm out as he turned away from her, and she mouthed something. Something like “My Lucy” or something. I couldn't stand seeing her. I had to turn away.
And then he walked off. Into the direction of my daughters room. The room I had caught Danny sneaking into one night, when they just laughed and said I caught them. The room where Danny became part of the family. The room where my little girl took her first steps. The room where my soon-to-be granchild was conceived. What the hell am I? I heard the steps he took, I heard the floorboards creak. I counted each vile thud. I counted them like the seconds. One... Two...
On three I collapsed. I was on the floor, with me head in my hands. I was panting. What have I done, oh Lord, what have I done? What kind of monster am I? I looked over to Barbara. She was in shock. She was just standing there, face so cold, movement so frigid. She never blamed me for what happened. She never looked at me like I share a hint of blame. It was my fault though. It was all my fault. Lucy neither. For some reason, I was innocent. I was an innocent monster. In her shock, in her grief, Barbara went over to the table and picked up the plate and fork. She went over to the kitchen sink and started to rinse it. It was all automatic. She was numb now. I don't know if she was still crying or not. When she was done, she just stood there, back to me, looking out a window in front of the sink. I couldn't stay there. I had to leave, I had to get out of the house. Needed air that hadn't been near him, couldn't risk... Hearing her... Oh Christ...
I ran outside, and I heaped over. I thought I was ganna throw up, but instead I just screamed. I screamed into my hands. I screamed as loud as I could into my own chest. I couldn't scream very loud, it turns out. I was wheezing, panting, crying – not screaming. I couldn't take it. I couldn't take what was happening. After being hunched over a while, I got up. Everything was so... So peaceful out here. So calm. So quiet out on the front porch. It was as if this whole world ain't never known that man existed. It was... small, out here. A bird chirped happily in a tree.
I had one of those seats. The kind that hang, that you swing on, for front porches. I sat down there and observed everything. The American dream. The twilight of the glistening age. Oh, the beauty of it all. Of my kingdom. I looked at the tree. I think I could have cried, if from contrast alone.
I would give anything. I would give my entire life, my family, my friends, every fibre of who I am, to be that bird. To live only a few years, I wouldn't even care. Just let me be that bird. That specific bird. Let me fly away from this house and never, ever come back. Let me fly until I'm almost dead, let me as far away from here as possible, let me happy and ignorant.
I remember when I was little, I went to a log cabin with my pa. He told me I was ganna be a great pa. He pointed up at a birds nest, he said “Son, you know why you're ganna be a great daddy?”
I said no. “Because you're like me – you're like that little robin there.” He lifted me onto his shoulders, and I saw. A little red bird, hopping around its next. “You look out for your kind. You're like me like that, you know? We pass it on. We look out for our family.”
Lucy did. Lucy looked out for her family. I did. I used to. I reached for the bird - “You see him look at you? You see him peck?” I nodded.
“See, you so much bigger than him, you're so huge and he's so small, be he ain't ganna have none of your humbug if you pick on his babies!” I laughed. I said it was probably a momma bird. My dad said I was smart. He said he was proud of me. The little robin hops around its nest. It's now long dead. It's children long dead. It's children's children though? Maybe they're around. Maybe the next generation. They survived though... I'm sure of that. If robins can be happy, they're probably happy too. This bird, now, wasn't a robin. I can hear my father though. Saying he's proud of me.
I don't think about anything for a while. It's been more than five minutes. I want to go in. I want to tell him his time is up. But I can't risk it... Risk seeing...
Hop, hop, hop, little robin. This bird wasn't a robin. Hop, hop, hop. I wanted to scare it away. I wanted to scare it so bad it never came back, and hope that I became the bird. Hope that as it made it's escape, I would too, and I would look back and see my body collapse. I would see Barbara run out. I wouldn't know who she was though – I would forget. I would fly... Fly... Fly...
I knew that that was fools talk, though. I knew it was coward talk. I knew I was a coward. I remember the drive home, my dad telling me about robins. Lots of facts about them. We started talking about birds. How penguins walk so far, and how their babies recognise their voices. How some birds they gotta fall to learn to fly. How baby ducks latch onto the first thing they see. Birds treat their babies right, my papa said. He said we were birds. I remember the ocean... How does an albatross treat its young?
I looked ahead. My kingdom. My kingdom of empty bird nests.
The chair rocked gently. The little bird flew away. I closed my eyes. No, nothing, still here. The feeling began to come back to me. I wiggled my toes inside my shoes. It felt like they were filled with hot sand. Hot sand and some little bits of glass. It was hot again. I unbuttoned my shirt three buttons. I wonder what's for dinner?
Everything was quiet now. How many leaves were on the car? One, two... three... Four. Just four.
I am calm now. My daughter is going to be a robin. She will be better than me. Stronger. My granchild is going to be a fighter, too. Danny won't ever find out. He's a good boy, that Danny. A real good boy.
I look to my left. There's a shadow in the doorway, the He steps out. I look at him, with the sun behind him. His glittering teeth, his infinite eyes. There is no birdsong. The light behind him makes him so much bigger. Makes his smile, his eyes, become one. This faceless monster. I knew what I was looking at. For the first time, I really, truly knew. I knew what it was I was looking at...
It was wrong.
“Afternoon, mister Rosenfeld.” He grabbed the tip of his hat, and nodded to me. For a moment, we both looked out towards the street. This was a shared kingdom now. All the birds had flown away. In one instant, I saw every bird in every tree along the street suddenly fly away. Like smoke. Fly... Fly... Fly...He looked at me again “Their eggs are ganna freeze, mister Rosenfeld, just you wait”. He started to walk away, his hands in his pockets. “Next year will be a birldless summer.”
One, two, three... I never took my eyes off him. As he walked down the street, every now and then leaving ash when he placed his foot down. He never looked back at me. He never cared to see what he had done, the carnage, the evil he had left in his wake. It wasn't his business to intrude. It woulda been impolite. I never take my eyes off him. As he shrinks and gets smaller, as he becomes a blot on the canvas of my kingdom, as his shape becomes less human and more a figure. I never look away. I never look away, because if I do, then I know he'll be looking at me when I look back. He can feel it. He feels my eyes burn into his back. If he were to look at me, even at this distance, his eyes would shrink me. I would become the boat once more, to be rocked by his unwavering iris.
Then he is gone.
The fear, though – that remains. Every day, for a couple seconds, the fear comes back. My daughter ain't gone, Barbara ain't gone. I stay on the swing a little longer. Eventually, I would bring myself back. I walked inside to see Barbara, standing there. We embrace. Neither of us went to see Lucy the rest of that day. I notice the black smudge he left on the chair. I wonder if he ever took his shoes off. We stay there, hugging. Barb closes her eyes. She told me a couple years later that it took her two weeks till she stopped seeing him when she closed her eyes.
Lucy didn't talk for a while. We told Danny she was sick. He tried to creep in her window a few times, but she wouldn't let him. Lucy tossed a lot of things in her room. It took a while, but she eventually became herself again. But every now and then, she'd look away from us. Like she weren't paying attention. I don't know what caused that. If it's just her, or it's him.
He was right though. We didn't see no more birds for a while. The next year was a sullen one. Waking up to silence. Going to bed in silence. Sitting with Lucy in silence. I deserve it though. I deserved not having no more birds to cause sweetness in the air, I truly do.
I remember Danny telling me once, that the first time he kissed her after that, it was like she was an actor. It felt like some kind of big Hollywood kiss at the end of a picture. That it was out of place, surreal. He changed his mind later, after he had time to think about it. In a romance, where there are two guys competing for the lady. He said he was the other guy. He was the one who didn't get the girl in the end – not really the bad guy, but the less favourable of the two. That when he kissed her... it was meant to be sad. Or like it was meant to make someone else angry... That she was elsewhere... Either way, when they kissed, that next time... It was for him.
It was two years till I heard birdsong again. I collapsed when I did. I had come back. I really did fly away. I really did fly away and I was safe and loved and warm and safe and never had to think and... and I... I was... Then I was back. I felt like I had missed out on so much, but I was safe. I was safe without flying now.
Years later, Lucy spoke to me about the day. She told me... When he was... “with her”... In that sense...The kicking stopped. The baby stopped.
