Dystopia Read online

  "I have a little more change," he said, sliding fingers into his pants pocket.

  She said she was game and tapped at her goldfish as its features bulged curiously.

  They barely fit inside the booth and she told him it reminded her of an old Marx Brothers movie she once saw, where a ridiculous number of people crammed into a tiny stateroom. He said he'd never seen that one and worked on spinning the piano-type stool higher.

  "You think it wants to have its picture taken?" She was staring at the tiny, wriggling creature in the Baggie, and puckered her lips, smiling.

  Somehow, she and Gregory managed to finally get in position and, as she sat on his lap, he dropped in two coins. They waited for the red light to signal them, and when it did, they made funny faces as the machine buzzed and exploded light in their faces.

  The groaning booth recorded their four poses in under thirty seconds: one with no expression, the second with tongues out, the third with crossed eyes and crazy smiles, the last with them kissing and her holding the fish up proudly, as if it were a newborn child.

  When it was done, they laughed and freed themselves from the booth, waiting outside for the photos.

  But they never came.

  They waited ten minutes.

  Twenty.

  And finally they walked away impatiently, passing Madame Destiny; wishing her a good life. She seemed to move in the shifting colors of the arcade, head turning slightly inside the glass box, eyes flashing dread.

  The two of them bought tickets for the house of mirrors, and as they disappeared into its maze, a small boy eating a chili-dog walked by the photo booth. He heard a developing sound and watched as a narrow strip of photos slipped from the booth into a metal catch.

  He took the photos and peered at them curiously, biting into his chili-dog. In the first exposure was an expressionless, young couple, in the second the woman looked scared, the man hostile. In the third, she looked terrified and he had a look of darkening imbalance. In the last exposure, the man looked satisfied, while the woman looked dead, throat slit, eyes glassy.

  The boy searched for the couple to give them the photos, but only found a Baggie, with a dead goldfish in it, as he stood in the empty lot of the market, shivering under neon.

  The Screaming Man

  Bob froze in mid-bite.

  A man inside him was crying.

  It went on for an hour and wouldn't stop; helpless moans drifting up his throat.

  He was unnerved and went to his doctor, who placed a stethoscope to Bob's chest and heard the man thrashing about inside, voice muffled by muscle and skin, yelling like some trapped animal, within Bob's ribcage.

  "Bizarre," said the doctor, moving the stethoscope; a chrome checker, slowly hopping.

  "What is it?" asked Bob, hearing the man's voice becoming angry; a faint echo of rage laddering-up, into his mouth.

  The doctor said he didn't know.

  He listened a bit more, had the nurse come in, place her ear to Bob's mouth. When Bob parted his lips, the man inside was screaming at the top of his lungs, and she pulled back, startled.

  The doctor recommended further study.

  Bob left the medical building and began to hear another voice: a woman's, pleading for mercy; tortured by something. He tried to ignore it, found it impossible. The man and woman, within, almost sounded as if they were arguing with each other, snarling back and forth.

  The hospital.

  Specialists. Tests.

  No one could say.

  They all gathered around him, suggesting he remain for observation, but he hated the gloom and loss of the huge ward.

  On the way home, in the car, he noticed new voices and began to count; six, possibly seven. Children. Old people. All calling out with desperate fear or warring fury.

  A friend suggested a psychiatrist.

  "I think it's your imagination," said the psychiatrist.

  "Then why do others hear it?" asked Bob.

  "Maybe they only believe they do."

  "My doctor recorded it. Listen."

  Bob played the cassette he'd brought and the reassuring office became a torture chamber; sounds of pain, dread and horror filling it.

  The psychiatrist thought it over. Shrugged with vacant theory.

  "The imagination is powerful. Perhaps you're literally creating these voices."

  A kind of nightmare ventriloquism was the implication; merely a subconscious trick.

  Bob knew that wasn't it.

  The psychiatrist could tell. Shifted focus.

  "Or," suggested the psychiatrist, "we are simply hearing the voices in you, that are in all of us. It's the power of suggestion."

  "That's crazy," said Bob, unconvinced.

  "Depends on how you look at it," said the psychiatrist.

  For the next twenty-four hours, Bob remained in bed, listening to the voices multiply, feeling their suffering sounds vibrate his ribs.

  He tried to drown them by drinking large amounts of water. It didn't work. He tried to crush them with food. It only seemed to make them stronger.

  "Perhaps you are nurturing them," suggested his wife. "Making them feel you care."

  After restless night, Bob decided to get up and go about his business. To do otherwise would be giving in to the chorus of pain.

  Over the next few days he began to realize that, though the voices remained, they would settle down when he'd had a good day.

  On a very good day, they would stop altogether.

  On bad days, they all screamed; a rabid asylum.

  He began to imagine they were only his emotions; the various shades of himself. The many beings within, calling out in pain. Needing his attention. Hurt by the people and experiences he'd come into contact with over a lifetime. Feelings in reply; the death wounded knell of an endangered species.

  He began to consider them a kind of hidden family.

  Forgotten selves.

  At night, as they howled their emptiness and despair, fighting among themselves in deafening dispute, he would struggle to calm himself; breathe evenly, allow only good thoughts. Sometimes it took hours. But gradually, each voice would still; slowly relax, become silent.

  He thought they might be sleeping, and he was afraid to think about anything upsetting, not wishing to wake them.

  At times, he wondered if he'd been born guilty; done something unforgivable. If this was his punishment for unknown sins.

  But after awhile, he mostly lost interest in the search for an explanation, realizing somehow there was none. Or none he was supposed to know. He came to see that curses and blessings were often interchangeable, rarely simple.

  And he lived like this for the rest of his life. Forcing himself to see the good, managing to subdue the zoo of horror within.

  Despite occasional consultations, no one ever came up with a reasonable explanation. In time, it lost all importance to him. He slept better, felt better.

  He even decided the voices had come to save him; that vengeance and deliverance had merged.

  When he died, the autopsy revealed nothing unusual.

  Except for the deep scratches and tooth marks that covered his bones.

  Holiday

  It was sunset.

  The inn was settling into night and vacationers wandered up from the beach, tired and sunburned. It was very hot in Bermuda—like a desert with an azure sea seeping from one side.

  The waiter brought my drink and I rested my feet on the patio wall overlooking the ocean. As the sea churned easily, wearily, from its day, a man sat down next to me. His hair was white and there wasn't much of it. His skin was fair, almost pink, cheeks sunburned and high. About sixty to seventy, I figured.

  "Mind?" he asked, half-finished drink in hand.

  "1 could use the company." He seemed harmless enough.

  He settled down into the chaise, and together we watched the waves spreading over the sand and retreating. Birds with long, thin legs sprinted awkwardly, over the sand, eventually lifted skywar
d.

  "Flyin's a hell of a thing," he observed, after a long sip.

  "I can't do it," I agreed, and he smiled.

  "Where you from?" he asked, eyes sizing me.

  "Los Angeles. Just down for some sun and free time." A waiter in penguin-proper sidled over and the man ordered us another round.

  "My treat," he offered. "Makes me feel good."

  I nodded thanks as he winked paternally.

  "What's your name?" he asked, taking another swallow.

  "Karl," I answered, ready for trouble. The way I saw it, paternal winkers always made trouble for you one way or another.

  "Pretty nice," he appraised its sound. "Karl . . . yeah, pretty damn nice."

  "Thanks," I said, growing less than fascinated with the exchange. I decided not to ask his name. Why wave the red cape?

  "Say, Karl, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"

  No objection, so he went ahead.

  "What did you get for Christmas last year?"

  I swallowed a mouthful of ice after crushing it to bits. "What?" I was starting to feel the liquor.

  "For Christmas . . . what did you get?"

  "You serious?"

  He was looking a bit sloshy himself, wiping his mouth with one hand, thoughtfully, drunkenly. He gestured away my stinginess and I nodded, unenthusiastically.

  "Power saw from the wife, shirts and a record from the kids, binoculars from the folks, and a wine-making kit from the people in my department." I tinkled the ice around in my glass. "Oh, and this magazine I subscribe to, Realtors Life, sent me a barometer with an escrow chart. Helps you figure percentages."

  The other round arrived and he paid the waiter. Tipped him good.

  He sighed as he mumbled through my recitation of gifts. "What was the record?" he asked.

  "Music from Hatari. Horrible stuff. Oboes imitating rhinos, you know?"

  He nodded and swallowed half his new drink with a liquidy gobble. We didn't say anything else for a few minutes. Some of the inn workers came by, lit the tiki torches, and we watched them. Bugs were flying around, drawn to the glow. We swatted one or two.

  "I love it down here," he said, voice blurry. "Just wish the hell I had the time to get away more often."

  He looked at me with bloodshot eyes. "But in distribution . . . who has time to vacation?"

  How the hell did I know? I sold condos and houses and made deals for closing costs and termite inspections. Dullest stuff in the world. Distribution was for pamphlets dropped from helicopters, as far as I could tell.

  "Yeah," I answered, being polite. Why get a paternal winker mad if it could be avoided?

  The sea was glowing from a butter-colored moon, and the man shifted in his chaise.

  "How'd you like the power saw?" he asked.

  "Not bad. Blades were pot metal, though. Break like icicles." Nosy guy.

  "Yeah, I know the one." He reached a hand out to mine. We were both woozy. "I like you," he said. Drunks always said that, in my experience.

  "I like you, too," I said. "But I didn't catch the name." When they stick their hands out, you have to ask.

  He winked at me as our hands met, under that butter-moon.

  "Santa," he whispered, leaning in close, breath like a scythe. I looked at him with a half-smile.

  "Beg your pardon?"

  "Santa," he repeated, nodding happily.

  "As in Claus?"

  "Well, of course. What else?"

  I tried to not look any different. Why upset him?

  "Sorry," I said.

  He pulled back and yawned.

  "Yeah, well . . . anyhow, I'll be leaving first thing in the morning. Have to get back to my place up north. Me and the wife have tons of work." He laughed a little; a tiny, drunken, aren't-things-ironic laugh. "Christ, it's already bloody May. Practically no time to do anything. Glad we had a chance to shoot the breeze, though."

  He stretched and yawned again, spilling some of his drink onto the patio where just he and I sat, the warm breezes blowing.

  "Oh," I said, watching him from the corner of my eye. The insane look different, my father once told me. Just look closely and you can see it.

  "Anyhow, you have a nice trip back to . . ."

  "Los Angeles," I reminded him, finishing off my drink.

  "Right," he nodded. "Say, care for another drink? I can have the waiter get you another. . . just say the word."

  I declined the offer. Don't get indebted to nuts. Another piece of advice. That one from my mother.

  He turned to go.

  "Hey, by the way, Karl. . ."

  Yes, Santa? I couldn't bring the words to my mouth.

  "Yes?" I said.

  "Sorry about all that junk you got. I just can't seem to get those little bastards of mine to turn out any decent work. But I'll try and drop off something this year you'll like."

  I must have smirked.

  "Need an address?" I asked. I was smirking for sure.

  He stopped dead in his tracks, looking hurt.

  "Address? You putting me on?" His eyes were still twinkling, but they looked a little miffed. "I'm Santa Claus. I know where you live."

  He stared at me and I stared back. Hard to know what to say at a moment like that.

  "Tell me something," I said, "how come when I was eight, you didn't bring me that autographed picture of Joe DiMaggio I asked for? I wrote to you and everything."

  He looked uncomfortable. "Well, sometimes it doesn't go the way I'd like," he managed, looking away in what seemed like troubled thought.

  "Oh," I said. "Sorry. Didn't mean to put you on the spot."

  He nodded, seeming to accept the apology, though obviously put off. I suddenly felt awful.

  "Forget it," he said quietly. "It's not your fault. I probably shouldn't be so candid about things."

  His voice sounded vulnerable and a little sad.

  "The wife keeps telling me to keep my big mouth closed. People just don't like to hear about what I do for a living." He shrugged. "Scares them or something . . . I don't completely understand it myself."

  I looked into his moist, open eyes.

  "How come no beard?" I asked.

  He rubbed at his cheeks with a rough hand.

  "Shave it off when I come down here. Only way to get any decent sun. But I get a burn every damn time."

  As I watched him, from the corner of my eye, he sighed and grabbed at his fat stomach, tucking his shirt in. "Gotta lose some weight . . . you don't know any good diets do you? But no fad things. . . something that'll work."

  I shook my head no, feeling kind of sorry for him. Nuts, but sweet, I figured.

  "Hey, sure you don't want to stay for another round?" I asked.

  No harm in my asking, I thought.

  He smiled, glad we were getting along again.

  "Nah . . . I should get back and get some sleep. Leaving in the morning, Karl."

  I stood up to see him off.

  "Well, nice meeting you, Santa."

  That time it felt good.

  "Same here, Karl," he said. "And like I said before, don't worry about this year." He winked at me, "I'll see to it you get something really nice; something you'll like."

  I looked at him and smiled. "Thanks."

  "Don't stay out too late, Karl," he said, and in a couple of seconds he was gone, tottering back to his room.

  Well, I sat out there until midnight and thought a lot about Santa. His twinkling eyes and his fat stomach and his thin silver hair. He sure did look like Santa Claus.

  But, I mean really, truthfully, honestly, what was I supposed to think? The man was clearly on a permanent holiday upstairs.

  So, for another twenty minutes or so, I watched the black Caribbean hissing over coral and finished off another drink.

  Somehow, I finally made it back to my bungalow, and thought for a little while in the dark. Sure, Santa Claus had looked like Santa Claus. But if looks were all it took, a lot of people could be a lot of people they weren't.
The world would be crazy. Out of control.

  And thinking sleepy thoughts along that line, I fell deeper into my pillow and nodded off.

  The following morning, as I checked out, I peered at the desk clerk, going about his prissy duties. I lifted my voice, slightly, as I observed him tabulating my bill.

  "I was chatting with a gentleman last night. A Mr. Claus?" Why explain the whole thing? Only be setting myself up, I figured.

  But in a surprise turn, the clerk lit up, his mouth turning into a silly looking O.

  "Oh," he cooed, "I'm so glad you reminded me, sir. Mr. Claus left this morning. . ." He turned and grabbed something from the mail slots as he continued chattering. "Flying north, I believe he said."

  Now there's a surprise, I thought.

  Then, he handed me something as he spun back, smiling all the while.

  A manila envelope

  And so the plot thickened, I thought. I thanked him, paid the bill, and found myself a fat couch to sink into.

  A few feet away, a wedding cake fountain dribbled as I unsealed the envelope. Maybe an apology, I thought. Although a wanted poster would have been more appropriate.

  But as I slid what was inside all the way out, my heart smoked to a stop.

  It was a picture of smiling Joe with a fat-ended slugger raised over one confident shoulder. And it was made out to me.

  Clipped to it was a handwritten note:

  Dear Karl,

  Was up late last night and couldn’t sleep. Really sorry about that Christmas. ’39 was a bad year for me. The war was starting up, and my helpers’ hearts just weren’t in their work. The world wasn’t in very good shape then, Karl, and I had my hands full. Hope this makes up for it. Have a Merry Christmas.

  Your drinking pal, Santa

  P.S. Maybe I’ll see you around the 25th.

  I’ll be looking for you, I thought, as I read the note, trembling like some delighted kid.

  I’ll be looking for you.

  Bedlam

  The pleas began after midnight.

  From the next room over, seeping through heater vent.

  Marc tilted his head. "Hear that?"

  Susie was half asleep; a murky squint. "What's going on?"