Pariah

“I can’t. You killed her, dude. Then I re-killed her. How fucked up is that?”

“No, no, no. That was fuckin’ awesome. You were just like, bam-bam- bam, workin’ her over with that fuckin’ elephant hoof.” Eddie laughed as he conjured the image. “That was awesome!”

“It wasn’t awesome, it was disgusting. It was fuckin’ horrific.”

“Dude, whatever. You wanna be a wet blanket, go ahead on, but don’t harsh my mellow. I thought it was the bomb, bro. For the umpty-millionth time, Dave: no one cares. No one even knows she’s missing. She was a ghost even before I ghosted her. Look, she was barely there, anyway. She was just a creepy shadow lurking in the dark.”

Dave stopped pacing and considered Eddie’s words.

“Listen,” Eddie continued, slapping away a mosquito, “I don’t want you to waste any more time on this. Think of it this way, she died in the service of makin’ your bro feel better, like a skeezed-out dehydrated Laura Nightingale.”

“Florence Nightingale.”

“Whatever. She saved a life. Two lives.”

“How do you figure?”

“I was ready to kill Zotz, so she saved his life, not that that’s that good of a thing, but fuck it, man, she helped me get the lead out and fuck it, it was an accident, anyway. It’s not like I meant to perish her scrawny ass. She just kinda broke is all. Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones…”

“I’m made of tougher stuff,” Dave said.

Eddie smiled and slapped Dave on the back. “That’s the boy. It was a ‘tragic’ mishap,” Eddie smirked, framing his face in air-quotes. “Simple as that.”

“Well, that’s the last of it,” Karl said, staring into his empty cupboard. Not a morsel of food was left. In the last week he’d nursed each scrap in his coffers; now all he had to chew on was air. His stomach growled and he punched it hard. “Shut up,” he growled back. The kitchenette swam as his eyes teared up, hard edges wavering in lachrymosity. His knees felt flaccid but he willed himself to stay on his feet for fear if he hit the linoleum he’d never rise again. “This is so weak,” he moaned. Was there anyone he could hit up for nourishment? Even the experts at rationing were down to fumes. The end was closing in, all righty.

He stepped out into the hall and at the top of his lungs shouted, “Tenants meeting! Tenants meeting! All convene in the hall, please! Tenants meeting!”

What could it hurt?

The first to answer the call was Eddie with a curt, “The fuck do you want, runt?” Dave followed Eddie into the hall, hopping as he cinched up a pair of sweatpants. It made Karl think of couples he’d known who’d pick up the phone during sex, then sound annoyed. Why’d they pick up in the first place?

Ruth stepped onto the landing across the hall and blinked at Karl. Though he stood only five foot five-and-a- half, he still towered over Mrs. Fogelhut, the only person in the building significantly smaller than he. It was her only endearing quality. “What’s the hubbub?” she asked in her grating way.

Joining Eddie and Dave on the fourth floor landing were Alan and Ellen, both of whom emerged from her apartment. Eddie had mentioned Ellen had shacked up with the artist. Karl’s mouth drew into a thin jealous slit. Artists always get the chicks, he thought bitterly. Then he mentally kicked himself for such a puerile thought.

“What’s going on?” Ellen asked, looking up at Karl, who clung to the banister for balance. He felt woozy from nerves and hunger, but though he wasn’t a fan of public speaking he was even less an admirer of starvation. “Yeah, what’s up, Karl?” Alan added. The range of expressions varied from concern (Ellen), to puzzlement (Alan), to annoyance (Eddie), to indifference (Dave), and finally incomprehension (Ruth). Abe and Dabney weren’t present, but Karl felt satisfied with the brisk turnout. At least he still had his pipes. He hadn’t planned out his spiel, but he knew he should choose his words carefully. Eloquence might be the only armament in his arsenal. Feeling all the eyes burning into his fragile form he looked down, took a deep breath, and cleared his throat.

“Get the fuck on with it,” Eddie snarled.

“I’m hungry,” Karl peeped.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Eddie spat. “Like you’re the only one jonesing for chow. Don’t be pullin’ that shit,” he said wagging a threatening finger at Karl. “Next time you call a meeting make it your funeral, you whiny little bitch.”

“Except for the miserable mosquitoes, we’re all hungry, Mr. Stempler,” Ruth echoed, stepping back into her apartment.

Karl hung his head, braced for the final rejections.

“You all out?” Alan said, his face evincing the pained look of a man about to do the decent thing even though he didn’t want to. Karl nodded, shame coloring his bleached-out features. Like an ashen Rod Roddy, Alan waved the little guy over with a halfhearted, “Come on down.”

“Not much left,” Alan said, gesturing at Ellen and his combined provisions. “But what’s ours is yours, right?” Ellen nodded. Karl’s shoulders began to heave up and down as he tried to stifle tears, but failed. He began to keen like a baby, collapsing to the hard kitchen floor with a rickety kerplop. Once a mother, always a mother, Ellen’s maternal instinct kicked in and soon she was cradling Karl’s oversize noggin in her lap, absorbing his plentiful tears with her thin cotton summer dress. Though the touch of another human being, especially a female one, was of some comfort, Karl tasted every flavor of humiliation a person could as he sobbed into Ellen’s flat stomach. Ellen joined Karl, and soon both were wailing. Alan stood there not knowing what to do, flapping his arms at his sides.

“I, uh. I’ll make us something to eat,” he said. “Yeah, uh. That’s what I’ll do.”

As the two entwined figures on the floor filled the air with grief, Alan arranged three small plates of melba toast, turkey jerky, and dried fruit of undetermined classification. All that remained was some uncooked pasta, a few cans of chicken broth, tomato paste, artichoke hearts, a half jar of olives with pimentos, and some stale zwieback from when Ellen’s baby had begun to teethe. That and the water jugs was all there was. Maybe they could stretch it for a week or two, but after that, hello starvation. August was just a couple of days away. Alan wasn’t about to blub like his two companions, but one tear escaped as the absolute hopelessness of their situation sank in. Autumn was his favorite season. Too bad he’d miss it.

19

Abe finished yet another Dick book, Time Out of Joint, and stuffed it between his scrawny thigh and the armrest of his chair. This one was less tripped-out than Three Stigmata, but still pretty wacky. In it, the main character discovers things aren’t quite as they seem. A soft drink stand replaced by a slip of paper that reads: SOFT DRINK STAND. The mundane tilted on its ear. Things spiral off in a Dickian direction from that moment on. Illusion or whatever, Abe could use a soft drink right about now. Although it was the second day of August and a faltering breeze actually paid intermittent visits, it was still hot as hell and a frosty grape Nehi would sure hit the spot. Did they even make Nehi anymore? The quick answer was that no one made anything any more, but recently. Did they make it as of days, weeks, or months before Armageddon arrived? Just the thought of a sweating twelve-ounce longneck of that carbonated purple nectar put a nostalgic smile on his face.

Abe inched his chair a bit closer to the open window and leaned out, watching the throng.

“I’m sick of this show,” he grumbled. “Don’t they ever show anything but reruns? How’s about another NASCAR smash-up? Do something new, you cabbage-heads! Anything!”

As Abe’s shouting grew louder a handful of the undead lackadaisically raised their heads and looked up. A noseless one moaned as it made eye contact with Abe, but there was no further reaction. Abe snatched the paperback from where it was nestled and hurled it out the window, beaning the one missing its schnoz.

“How ya like them apples?” Abe bellowed, then winced as he realized he’d pitched Zotz’s book. “Ah, shit.” End times or not, Abe figured it was a crappy thing to not return something he’d borrowed. “Ah, fuggit,” Abe mumbled,