Trash in a Ditch, Pt. 3 (Fiction)

[check out this part on my personal page, where it looks better]

I staggered out of the bedroom while pressing my temple to contain a throbbing headache, and from the dining table I was greeted by the sight of the duffel bag open and gutted, clots of blood around the zipper. T-shirts, pants, and the undergarments of my military uniform lay spread out across the table, rolled into cylinders and secured with elastic bands. Balls of socks. Razor blades and shaving lotion tucked into a plastic ziplock bag.

To distract myself, I opened the balcony door and stepped onto the two-foot ledge that served as a terrace. I leaned against the railing. Delivery vans were stirring the stillness, and a few sleepwalkers were getting into their cars on their way to work. The sky was so clear it seemed clouds existed only in someone’s imagination, so the air would stay mild until daybreak.

I rubbed my face. Before I drove to the workshop, I’d reserve a few measured minutes to breathe in that mix of desert air and traffic fumes.

The stretch of street on my left reminded me of the landscapes the Coyote would paint on a rock wall to catch the Road Runner. Past a winding path between trimmed lawns, a parking lot surrounded a beige, boxlike building housing a Mexican restaurant, and right next door stood a single-story Jack in the Box. Above their roofs rose a tall pillar, like a ruin missing the roof it once supported, showing the Chevron gas station logo. At the end of the road, the cars coming and going looked like grime on an old lens, blurring with the distant silhouettes of trees, one-story buildings, and billboards.

I had gotten to know this view the day I traveled to the city, was guaranteed a job at the workshop, and wandered around until I saw the vacancy sign in front of this apartment block. Such a backdrop convinced me that I lived in a solid world, but for all I knew, those cars and pedestrians that came and went may have vanished from existence as soon as they disappeared from sight. Sure, I’d grown familiar with the stretch leading from my apartment to the workshop, plus a few miles on the outskirts among the oil fields, but the rest of the world could have disappeared, erased into the void between planets.

I took a deep breath and returned to the living room. I dragged the duffel bag into the shower, soaked it under the spray, and scrubbed away the clotted blood. Diluted blood stained the rush of water flowing down the drain. When I was satisfied, I left the soaked bag in the sink. A trace of the stench of urine and excrement lingered in the fibers, woven into them.

I wandered around the living room. What had I left out of place yesterday for the future version of me, the one getting up in the morning, to deal with? The breakfast mug beside a spoon crusted with dried milk. The open box of cornflakes. On the other side of the counter I had stacked the three freezer drawers and the ice tray.

A chill went through my guts. I checked each drawer to see what food would go bad. A few boxes of instant noodles, steaks wrapped in plastic. Fortunately, my paycheck didn’t allow me to stock up on too many supplies. By tonight, after getting home from the workshop, I’d cook whatever my stomach could handle, and toss the rest in the garbage.

I washed the breakfast mug. I brought it along with the box of cereal to the dining table. I fetched cold milk from the fridge. As I poured cornflakes to fill the mug, the sound of that little cascade satisfied me like a dog hearing food rattle in its bowl. I splashed the milk in. Sitting there, lifting the spoon to my mouth, I lost any sense of actually having breakfast, and whenever I snapped out of it, my gaze was glued to the closed freezer door. The fridge’s hum called to me like a prayer echoing in a church. My insides rumbled, the milk tasted bitter. I left the mug by the sink.

Under a lukewarm shower, I braced my hands against the wall and blew away the water running over my mouth. I could call in and say I’d woken up sick. I could fake it. But no, I couldn’t. If any clue on that dirt road led the police to me and the very next day I, someone who never took vacation days, failed to show up at work, that would instantly label me a suspect. To survive until the boy disappeared, I had to stick to my routine. I’d endure the anxiety, the waves of chills threatening to rattle my spine, for the rest of today, Thursday, and Friday. Those forty-eight hours of the weekend were mine. I could travel without making excuses. I’d hide the body in some bushes and close this chapter as if the boy had never crossed paths with my car.

I walked around the bedroom looking for yesterday’s shirt, until I remembered I’d thrown it away. I put on a clean shirt. At the front door, before putting on my sunglasses, I fumbled with my key ring as I pictured what a cop would notice if he came in. Nothing among my small hoard of belongings hinted at a boy, and nobody would show up here for the rest of the week. I’d dodged that bullet. Until the weekend, my apartment would serve as a mausoleum. The boy would lie there, oblivious to the world of traffic and work baking in the sun.

I put on my glasses and headed downstairs. In the heat of dawn, I wanted to tug at my shirt collar to cool off. I took refuge behind the tinted lenses, which blocked other people’s stares the way a one-way mirror does in an interrogation room.

Traffic was still lined with cars and delivery vans. How would my coworkers see me over the course of the split shift? I had to act the same as always: the guy who keeps quiet, stays out on the periphery. But in my mind’s eye I saw myself sitting at my station on the line, hunched over another anonymous metal part, struggling to hide that I’d killed a child. During breaks, I’d hurry around the staircase leading to the supervisor’s office, avoiding her, and duck into the bathroom to take a deep breath. When we all went out to the yard, I’d huddle with the other workers—a colony of elephant seals—in the rectangle of shade under a small roof, to smoke while the sun roasted the tips of my sneakers, and my lungs filled with that superheated air smelling of dirt and metal. And the entire time I’d be anticipating the moment someone discovered the corpse packed away in my freezer.

For these three days, all my energy would be devoted to keeping that shield in place. The rest of the time, I’d be a vegetable.

My mind had dissolved, but suddenly I jolted upright behind the wheel as though my guts had turned to ice. I nearly rammed into the car ahead of me; the line had stopped at the sign before the intersection. I slammed on the brakes, and the tires squealed. Through the rearview mirror of the car ahead, the driver frowned, studying my reflection.

I clutched the steering wheel like I wanted to rip it off in one yank. Three days until the weekend. Yesterday was Monday, not Tuesday.

I grabbed my phone and held it over the wheel while I waited for traffic to move. I followed the line of cars. When I spotted an opening, I sped into a tight turn, arms twisting on the wheel, crossing into the opposite lane. The front right tire mounted the curb. When the car crashed back onto the asphalt, the suspension squeaked, and I jolted in the seat. A delivery van approaching from that lane laid on its horn.

I kept glancing between the road and my phone’s contact list until I found the landlord’s number. I called. It rang once.

“Who’s this?”

The man sounded like he’d barely turned his head toward his phone’s mic.

“This is Alan Kivi. You were coming to check on my apartment this morning, 3F. But I’m working from home and need to focus.”

“You’re not here.”

It was hard to think while driving. The landlord must already be in my apartment, and he sounded irritated, though not in the way someone would if they’d found a dead child.

“I stepped out for an errand. I’m on my way back.”

“We agreed on this time, a general inspection every Tuesday at 7:45. I have limited time for each unit.”

While he spoke, I parked in the first open spot outside my apartment block, jumped out of the car, and sprinted upstairs. My nostrils flared so I wouldn’t pant into the phone.

“Sorry, but something came up and I have to juggle it from home. My hours are tight too.”

I slid the key in the lock and flung the door open. I stepped inside while pressing my lips together so I didn’t exhale too loudly. My eyes swept over the fridge and the closed freezer, the stack of plastic drawers on the counter, the dirty mug and spoon in the sink, and on the dining table, the cylinders of army uniforms, the socks, and a plastic bag of toiletries. Standing to the right of the doorway, the landlord was facing me. A gaunt man in his forties, crow-black hair streaked with gray, wearing frameless glasses and sharply creased pants.

It reassured me that my sudden entrance startled him, the same way you might surprise someone who’s cleaning a room only to look up and see a stranger standing under the door frame with a hollow grin. I had hoped that the day I rented this place would be the only time I ever saw him. Whenever I moved out, if I survived this apartment, I’d slip a note and the key through his mailbox and vanish.

He tucked his phone away. As if to avert his gaze, he turned to the entryway cabinet, ran a finger over the dulled varnish, and rubbed that fingertip against his thumb.

“You could wipe things down once in a while,” he said. He tapped the cabinet, near a pile of dusty coins and old keys. “To prevent damage, you should gather your coins and stuff in a tray, just like you’d use coasters under your bottles.”

I shut the door behind me while trying to breathe through my nose. Sweat clung to the hair on my forearms in thick drops, and a vibration pounded in my skull, making it hard to think. I stepped between him and the kitchen area like I was absentminded.

“Sorry I didn’t let you know.”

He ventured deeper inside.

“I can inspect while you work. I won’t make a sound.”

“No, I really need to wrap this up before I head to my main job, and I can’t concentrate with someone moving around in the corner of my eye.”

He gave me a once-over. Like dozens of other people, he peered at my sunglasses, maybe thinking I was joking by wearing them indoors, maybe debating whether to ask me to take them off.

“I can’t come back this week.”

“The apartment will survive.”

He craned his neck over my shoulder to look at the stack of drawers on the counter.

“All that food is going to spoil. Is something wrong with your freezer?”

I wanted to grab him by the shirt and toss him out. I’d told him to leave, and he was still getting on my nerves. I worked hour after hour to afford a one-bedroom with a kitchenette carved out of the living room, and I had to put up with someone who wouldn’t go when asked. No privacy, no peace, even in the space I paid for.

“The freezer works. I was just cleaning it out. Really, I need to finish up and get back to the workshop.”

He pulled out his key ring, twirling it around his finger, and then his features twisted as if a sudden jolt hit him. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and massaged his temple.

“If you wanted to postpone the inspection, why didn’t you let me know?”

“I forgot, that’s all. There’s no mystery. I’m just disorganized. If my head worked better, I doubt we’d have ever met.”

He rubbed that circle on his temple and stared right through me. Maybe he was thinking of fitting my inspection into the rest of his week, or maybe he was waiting for some kind of bribe.

I reached into my back pocket for my wallet. I counted fifty dollars in two twenties and a ten, and held them out. Already I pictured the meals I’d be missing for the next few days.

“For your trouble.”

He glanced at the bills, and through those frameless lenses I watched his pupils widen. He took a step back and raised one hand like I’d just offered him a line of coke.

“No, no. Let’s just forget it. Tuesday next week, can I come then?”

“Same as always.”

“At the same time?”

“If it changes, I’ll let you know.”

He let his gaze slide away. He opened the apartment door, nodded a goodbye, and slipped into the hallway. I rushed over and peered through the peephole just in time to see him heading for the stairwell.

I slumped back against the door. While my pulse calmed, I mustered enough saliva to wet my mouth. My face, my wrists, my back all itched like spiders were scuttling across my skin. If the landlord had suspected I was lying, would I have noticed?

I limped to the bathroom. I tossed the damp duffel bag onto the floor and filled the sink with cold water. I plunged my face in up to my ears. The bubbles from my nose rolled across my cheeks, and the freezing sting dulled.

I pulled off my shirt and used a towel to dry my neck and chest. I scrubbed my armpits. I wanted to sit under the warm shower again, but every passing minute came off my shift at the workshop.

I paced the apartment. What else had I forgotten, which tiny clue would betray me? Today I’d been certain—just as certain as I knew I’d woken up here, just as certain as I’d known where to find a clean shirt—that it was Wednesday. I would have shown up at the workshop like any other Wednesday, until a line of cop cars parked outside and the officers swarmed in to arrest me. While they handcuffed me and pushed my head down into the back seat, I’d wonder how they found out.

I needed to keep a shield even against my own mind, my own impressions. I had to double-check every fact in case this broken brain was trying to sabotage me.

I collapsed onto the moth-eaten wreck of a couch and propped my elbows on my thighs. I’d call work. I remembered the way my supervisor smiled, as if chasing off the darkness of the world, and I heard the echo of her tone with us, the same one she’d use with a baby or a drooling old man. I dialed her number. She picked up.

“I was surprised you weren’t here. Are you okay?”

Instead of faking coughs, degrading myself with that performance, I tried to keep my voice free of anxiety.

“I woke up nauseous, and threw up. I think it’s been coming on for a couple days.”

“That why you disappeared yesterday?”

“When?”

“We got together to celebrate your birthday. A surprise. But you vanished. I called your cell a few times in case you were still around.”

She’d pry some excuse out of me, like I’d asked for a party in my honor.

“I barely use my phone. Whenever I need it, the battery’s dead. Sorry.” I cut her off before she scolded me about my phone habits. “But yes, I’ve been feeling sick for days. I figured I’d rather throw up at home.”

“Too bad,” she said, half-playful, half-scolding. I pictured her pouting her lower lip. “I bought a chocolate-pecan cake. A shame you missed it. Your coworkers devoured it, but at least they’re grateful to you.”

She paused, waiting for me to thank her. Nobody had asked her to plan that ambush. What about me, or my behavior, made her think I wanted her to gather a bunch of people I barely tolerated so they could shine a spotlight on some personal milestone I hadn’t mentioned? In her world, as she looked over her minions from that big window in her office, maybe she saw us all as identical little cogs, each with a slightly different face.

She let ten seconds of silence pass.

“If you need to, stay home. If you feel better in the morning, come in. I’m sure your coworkers can manage one day without you.”

“No, I was calling to say that although I’m running late, I’ll be there soon. Throwing up cleared my head, and I took some medicine.”

“You’re sure?”

“You’ll see me at my station in a little while.”

We said our goodbyes. I hung up, removed my sunglasses, and buried my face in my hands. I stifled a groan. My animal self must have sensed a threat before my rational mind did, and as much as I wanted to shut down, I had to brace for an impending assault. My head was pounding. I stood up and looked at the closed freezer door. The landlord had said he’d be back next week, but could I risk believing him? Maybe I had annoyed him enough that he’d pop in unannounced another morning this week, claiming he had a gap in his schedule. Meanwhile I’d be on the line at the workshop, assembling one piece after another, and during each break I’d dread seeing flashing red-and-blue lights reflected in the windows.

I went to the bathroom and lifted the duffel bag. Water dripped into the puddle around my feet. I dried the bag off with a hair dryer and set it down, open, a few paces from the freezer. I waited, crouched in front of that closed door, as though some chemical shift in my brain might ready me for what lay inside. As much as I wanted to bury the boy in there and forget him, I had to keep him near, under lock and key, a key I carried in my pocket.

I opened the door and let the cold air wash over me. Part of me wanted to revel in the chill a moment, to clear my head, but inside, among the frosted walls, sat the plastic-wrapped package whitened by ice. Taut plastic forced the body into the shape of a Thanksgiving turkey, folded and compressed, the boy’s back and buttocks bruised purple. The soles of his feet. Around his torso, a band of skin as wide as a tire had turned black with necrosis, and on the back of his head, among thinning hair, a gash revealed a mass of blood and tissue—like an egg cracked open and left to rot.

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Author’s note: this novella was originally written by someone I have to assume was me, about ten years ago. It’s contained in the collection titled Los dominios del emperador búho.