Me, myself, and I.
And I giggled at the joke, so warm, my sweat like metal and my pupils scorched wide and at once the sculpture’s grasp fell from me, and sorry, I turned to see figures, bodies, walking toward me, weak silhouettes against the pallor of the hallway, and I said, “Who goes there?” and in the speaking saw at once the unmistakable scarecrow tilt: Nakota.
With three, four others, and maybe Randy back behind, it was hard to see. I thought I heard myself say, “Stay out!” though I didn’t feel the words in my throat, of course it was so hot in there it was hard to feel anything but. I waited until Nakota was very close indeed before I pushed my face to where it seemed hers was, through the shimmer, through the sweat, and said as loudly as I could, “Get the fuck out of here, and take them with you.”
Though of course she didn’t listen, maybe even couldn’t hear me through the howl of the heat; whatever, she pressed on, pushed forward, pushed in miscalculated impatience against me.
And for her trouble got a burn. Hissing back just like a cat, a snake, holding her forearm away from her body and as two backed from the fray another body passing hers, oh here’s a real brave dickhead, here’s a real toothsome treat. That one I saw with warm amazement was trying to get around me, was actually trying for the Funhole itself, and I said, “Oh no you don’t” and I grabbed, I burned, I didn’t really want to but truth be told I didn’t care, really, and really it was something to see my hand sink into his skin, into meat, like a brand, a mark forever, he screamed—I heard it clearly, even through the ever-building thrum, the sound of a monstrous engine running hot—and Nakota chose that moment for her end-around. Sneaky bitch. Backhand, didn’t think I had it in me, did you? Did you? And more, a bigger crowd crowding in the doorway, my vision snapping finally clear through the heat shimmer and I saw them all, too many, I could hear Randy yelling and I yelled back, he didn’t hear me so I did it again, “GET THEM OUT OF HERE!” and the neighbor guy and one of my, one of the Dingbats running presumably for cover, and in the room the marked man, Mr. Barbecue between the other two who had come in with Nakota but it seemed were more than ready to leave without her. Shitheels. “Take her with you,” I said, and it was somewhat comical to see them drop their buddy in her favor, I had to laugh. I had to. And them gone, and the door thankfully closed. And me all alone.
With the heat. And the burn.
9
And the cold inevitable of the morning after.
On my back in the breathing silence, Cinderella, ha-ha, after the ball, my right hand scorched a porky pink and all of me sore with the ache of extreme muscular exertion, I had done some work last night, yes. Dancing with the sculptures. Burning people. Hurting people. Proud of yourself?
But what else—turning, groaning, to find my pisspot, seeing on the floor the charcoal skidmarks, the whole room stank of burning— what else could I have done? I had to stop them. I couldn’t let them go down the Funhole, no matter what. What else could I have done?
Well, said my brain. For starts you could have stayed upstairs. Since it won’t work without you.
Oh what a trick. And see how easily I had fallen for it, stumbled into it like a practiced buffoon. B’rer Funhole; no wonder it wanted me in charge. Please don’t stay behind, you’ll miss the fun, and after all you’re the main event! Lured to sleep and then let to wake, Doris bearing the backhand tidings meant to get me down there so the show could really start. Put up the mask, Malcolm, nail it up for everyone to see, make a big production of it, let’s get the neighbors in on this. Stir the pot, Nakota, mix it up with all your mysticism and that special selfishness that can barely recognize the existence of others, let alone their safety; stir it up good and bubbly, and don’t forget to add your goons. Try to help, Randy, what can’t be helped. And you, Doris, you get the supporting role, you get to animate the human corpse, you get to play Funhole messenger.
And in the end, the eternal Why me, but after all why ask. No answer, and maybe I wouldn’t have understood one if I got it, maybe I didn’t have the necessary smarts, maybe they’d been sizzled out of me the night before in the dreadful burning flash of what almost happened, and bad enough what had: Nakota hurt again, her stupid sidekick too (how bad?), and the neighbor, maybe more, seeing, what would he tell of what he’d watched, who would he tell? One big enormous botch, even orchestrated it could not possibly have been handled more clumsily, what next, a news crew? Live from the Funhole? Even now there was no guessing how bad things really were, or how much worse they might become. All I could do now was try to repair the damage, if possible, with what little I had. Or was.
What I did have, though, what I did understand, was responsibility. Yes, of course, it was the naughty Funhole back of everything, but who got the blame: the box? Or Pandora?
Fumbling at the door, out into the hall after a careful peek, no one there. Punishing cold. My feet were bare, I didn’t remember taking off my shoes. The mask stared down at me in pale indifference, and I felt insulted, somehow, being mocked by my own face; I reached to tear it down but my arms were too short, my need for haste too great. It was a good likeness, as they say, and with its eyes closed it achieved a sort of blank serenity: a sorry peace, but then again that was more or less me; in the end he had done a good job. Malcolm’s major work: my face. That ought to piss him off.
If I hurried, I thought, washing up in the empty flat, water sluicing down my aching arms, ignoring the ugly whiff of burn that lingered there as well, if I was quick, if it wasn’t snowing—it was—well still I should be able to get back before anyone else; it was still early, not even ten. Pandora could not correct her original error, but I bet she didn’t go around opening boxes anymore. Or leaving them loose for others to open with curious fingers more ignorant than hers.
So. It was a good lock. Expensive. Not a combination lock, I could just imagine myself trying to remember three numbers—in order—in a crisis, but a padlock, the kind they show being shot with a gun and still it doesn’t open. Nakota didn’t have a gun but she knew where to get one, and I had to be sure.
The salesperson thought I was weird, counting out quarters with my bandaged hand and my two-dollar limp, but since this was not a new experience I gave her my looniest grin.
“It’s for my cage,” I told her.
She was studiously smiling, her face pointed away from my face. “I hope it works,” she said.
Bag in hand, left hand, my right held beside my body like some useless club and it certainly was. Thinking as I slogged through the parking lot, Well, this is kind of a bitch since Vanese was both the only one I could trust and the one most likely to oppose me, but I had to try. Driving slowly, maybe the last snow of the year, clogging the streets and re-eroding the dubious skills of drivers who’d had a week of dry weather to forget. Crazy or not, at least I could always drive.
Vanese answered the door and lost whatever smile she might have conjured; still she didn’t look technically pissed. “Come in, I suppose,” she said, and that made me smile.
“Well, at least I know where I stand.”
The apartment was larger than mine, which was no feat, but there was a home look to it that my place would never have. Randy’s art was everywhere, some pretty nice pieces, there were snapshots of the two of them, of friends, there was a bunch of dried stalks and leaves in a big ceramic pot. Beat-up friendly furniture. All the amenities missing back home at the flophouse of the. damned.