The Mystic Arts Of Erasing All Signs Of Death Part 33

All but naked, on a stepladder, cleaning dead man's blood from my kitchen ceiling, I stopped and addressed the young man I saw there.

-Is it possible, my friend, that your coping mechanisms have been over-compensating for the s.h.i.t that happened on that bus?

The young man in the window responded.

-What s.h.i.t are you speaking of?

I continued the dialogue.

-That s.h.i.t where a little girl from your cla.s.s was. .h.i.t by a stray bullet and died in your arms and you were covered in her blood.

He shrugged.

-Oh. That.

I put my hands on my hips.

-See, that's what I'm talking about, that nonchalance about the whole thing, and also just kind of being a d.i.c.k to everyone, that's not the way people react to traumatic situations.

He was unimpressed.

-It's not? You know of another reaction? You've experienced another reaction? Man, as far as you know, this is totally normal. This may be the most normal thing you've ever done in your life.

I jabbed my finger at him.

-f.u.c.k you! That's f.u.c.ked up. I'm trying to really talk about this for a change and you're being all.

-What? I'm being all what?

I froze, looked at my reflection for a long and deeply disturbing minute.

I shook my head.

-Man, I am not even having this conversation with you right now.

And I climbed off the ladder and laid myself spread eagle on the floor and stared at the flawlessly clean ceiling, and I think I may have cried for the first time in a year, but I'm not entirely sure because a huge ma.s.s of sleep loomed and got its arms round my middle and dragged down and I was gone.

Mumbling as my eye slammed shut.

-f.u.c.king almonds.

-I appreciate you cleaning up, you know.

I opened my eyes and found the daylight the pillowcases were meant to keep at bay was shooting me in the face.

-But it's not really going to change anything.

I looked at Chev, sitting on the edge of his lounger, rubbing his eyes.

I pushed myself up on my elbows.

-I'm sorry about the money, man.

He flopped back in the chair and let out all the air in his lungs.

-See, that's the point right there.

I shaded my eyes from the sun.

-I didn't even know he gave it to me, Chev.

He shook his head.

-f.u.c.k the money. That is not the point. You missing the point is the point. I get the money thing, I get you going to see him. He's your dad. I understand that more than you do. Jesus, man, I saw him like six months ago.

I sat up.

-What?

-When you didn't stop acting all f.u.c.ked up after a few months, I went and saw L.L.

-Chev.

-I didn't know what to do, you know? Thea was like, He'll heal in time. He'll heal in time. People I talked to, the grief counselor at the hospital, they all said you needed to confront what had happened, talk about it in a supportive environment. Well, I knew sure as f.u.c.k that wasn't gonna happen. I read these books on Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, they described you pretty smack-on. I mean. People I talked to, the grief counselor at the hospital, they all said you needed to confront what had happened, talk about it in a supportive environment. Well, I knew sure as f.u.c.k that wasn't gonna happen. I read these books on Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, they described you pretty smack-on. I mean.

He laughed.

-Dude, you could be the poster boy for PTSD.

He untwisted the sleeve of his black T, where he'd tucked his pack of smokes.

-But knowing what the situation was, that didn't help me to figure out how to help.

I was still wearing the cleaning gloves. I pulled them off.

-I didn't know you were doing all that.

-I know you didn't. didn't. You didn't have a clue. You didn't have a clue.

He lit his cigarette and blew smoke.

-Web, it wasn't just me, it was everyone you know. At first, anyway. We were all running around trying to figure out how to get your s.h.i.t together. The guys from the tattoo shop, teachers from the school, Po Sin, some other parents from over there. But you were so, man, acting like such a d.i.c.k. People just got tired. They didn't know how to deal and got frustrated. It was tiring, man. Jesus, it is is tiring. tiring.

He looked around for an ashtray, couldn't find one, flicked on the carpet.

-So. I went and saw L.L.

-Man. I.

He held up a hand.

-No. Don't. Now is not the time. I mean. I went over to Chez Jay, took a look at him, man, I started to cry. And. You know, not because I was p.i.s.sed. It was, man, it was so f.u.c.king good to see him, you know.

He clenched his teeth.

-And that hurt like a son of a b.i.t.c.h. Let me tell you it did. Talk about feeling guilty. Anyway. He turned around, saw me. Know what he said?

I nodded.

-The wrong thing.

He took a long drag.

-You got that right. Said, Ah, Chev, come to see me after all these years. What's gone amiss, son, lost the strength of your convictions? Ah, Chev, come to see me after all these years. What's gone amiss, son, lost the strength of your convictions?

I closed my eyes, tried to imagine he was mistaken about what my father had said, knew he was not.

I opened my eyes.

-Did you hit him?

Smoke drifted from his nostrils.

-No. I walked out. Because right there, man, in that moment, I ceased to care anymore.

He leaned forward, elbows on knees.

-The man had finally, after the, after the accident, after the s.h.i.t he told us, he had finally, in that moment when something could have been done, he had finally gone too far. Man, I didn't even know there was road left to travel on that route, but he found it and drove it and that was the end of the line for me. I didn't hit him. I did not want to hit him. I just wanted gone. I walked out.

-Good.

He nodded.

-Yeah. Good. But here's the thing, man, the point.

He looked at the floor, shook his head, looked back up at me.

-Like f.u.c.king father, Web, like f.u.c.king son.

I opened my mouth.

He closed it.

-No. Wait. Listen.

I listened.

-He wasn't always always like that. He was always a son of a b.i.t.c.h, always talked s.h.i.t, but he wasn't always like that. He was always a son of a b.i.t.c.h, always talked s.h.i.t, but he wasn't always mean. mean. That didn't really start till after the accident. He didn't really start forcing everyone out of his life until after the accident. That didn't really start till after the accident. He didn't really start forcing everyone out of his life until after the accident.

He scratched his shoulder.

-If that rings any bells.

He got up.

-So it's not about the money. Or about you seeing L.L. If my dad were still around, no matter if he'd turned out to be the biggest b.a.s.t.a.r.d ever, I'd want to check on him every now and then. It's not even about you hurting my new girl's feelings so bad that she doesn't want to come here and I had to go to her place and sneak in and out of her bedroom because her folks would freak out if they knew her new boyfriend was a twenty-nine-year-old rocker with a tattoo parlor.

He walked to the hallway, stopped.

-It's about you not trying to get better. It's about everyone else trying so hard that they wear themselves out and can't try anymore, and you just letting them beat themselves against you while you act like nothing f.u.c.king happened. Acting like you're no different. Like you haven't changed at all.

He turned from me.

-Web, it's about me me getting tired, man. It's about, I, man, it's about I feel like I'm on that same road I was on with L.L., about thinking we're almost out of blacktop. And you just keeping the pedal to the metal, and not even trying to put on the brakes. getting tired, man. It's about, I, man, it's about I feel like I'm on that same road I was on with L.L., about thinking we're almost out of blacktop. And you just keeping the pedal to the metal, and not even trying to put on the brakes.

He put a hand on top of his head.

-And I hate that feeling, man.

He walked into his bedroom.

-I hate it.

And he closed the door.

Me, I sat on the kitchen floor and thought about how it was a good thing I'd cleaned up as well as I did. Because if Chev had known a man was killed in his apartment last night, the s.h.i.t would really have hit the fan.

Then I got up, cleaned myself up a little, put on some clothes, got the keys to the Apache from Chev's jacket, and went out to go talk to a man about why the girl I'd fallen for, and, you know, already thoroughly alienated, had been kidnapped.

THE WORLD WITHOUT ME.

-Cut you bad, cut you like Rambo cuts a redneck.

-Yeah, sure, I know. To avoid that, I'll stay over here.

-Cut you like I cut that other motherf.u.c.ker.

I sat on the stripped mattress.

-Yeah, about him, you may find that it's in your best interest not to brag overmuch about how you cut him.

Jaime emptied his nip bottle of Malibu and added the empty to the vast array of them heaped at his feet. To judge by the population density around his chair, and by the paths worn through them between the chair and the door and the bathroom, he'd apparently done little since I last saw him other than drink Malibu, void his bladder to make room for more, and stumble to the liquor store on the corner for fresh supplies. He'd most certainly not had the maid in during any of his sojourns out.

He felt in the plastic bag in his lap, found it lacking, turned it inside out, found it still lacking, and dropped it on the floor.