Trash in a Ditch, Pt. 16 (Fiction)
[check out this part on my personal page, where it looks better]
I focused on the road until I had put three streets between me and the mall. I inserted the CD of Joy Division’s album Closer into the dashboard player, and as the drumbeats bounced and an industrial growl burst forth—the very breath of some mechanical beast—my bones softened and my back slid down the seat’s backrest. I drove aimlessly, obeying traffic lights and signs as if I were practicing musical scales for the thousandth time.
That workshop had pinned me. Now that I had freed myself of its weight, this luminous world against which I squinted opened up to infinity. It was much like how I had felt when I left previous jobs or was fired, when I realized I had seen my bosses’ and colleagues’ faces for the last time. Like a molting tarantula, my exoskeleton crumbled and a new form emerged. Yet I called self-destruction liberation. That quitting jobs felt like a heroin hit proved that I was doomed. My life would unfold in cycles; at the end of each, I would foreknow that some certain doom would befall me, and to elude it, I’d set my former life on fire then run. What future awaited someone who needed to spill his blood to sate the wild god within?
I pulled out the pack of cigarettes and was sliding one out, catching its filter between my teeth, when I pictured myself lighting it, only for the flame to ignite the gasses that filled the car. I pushed the cigarette back with the tip of my tongue.
I parked in a deserted lot, near an abandoned trailer slathered in graffiti. I got out to stretch my legs, to smoke. I wandered up the street while pedestrians hurrying to their destinations passed me by. I wish someone had invented teleportation. Dozens of these people would jump from point to point, and I’d get to stroll through deserted streets alone.
I passed by bars and restaurants, clothing stores and junk shops, until, like an old man, I needed to rest. Slumped on a bench, I watched the wisps of smoke rise from my cigarette and fade. I was drifting on a spacewalk, an astronaut whose tether had come loose. The doom that had pursued me since birth was coming. At last I would recognize its shape.
Now what? Would I flee to another city, look for another workshop that spat out enough money so I could pay the rent? Would I repeat another revolution of the cycle—a count I had refused to continue after the tenth? I shuddered, and my features contorted in disgust. I covered my face with my palm until I took a deep breath and relaxed my muscles.
A new job. New faces. Their stares would dissect me. My presence would unsettle them and silence their conversations like a fart no one would admit. And months later, when my anxiety had multiplied until it burst its container, I would get fired, or I’d quit. At the beginning of each cycle, I would show up at some boss’s office, whom I would have warned he’d interview a disfigured veteran. The boss would control his gaze to ignore my dead eye, my scars. “We understand your difficulties,” he’d say, “but we’re in business, not charity.” Why should they hire me? Because I need money to sustain this life that feels as if some poison were corroding my entrails. Pay me enough to keep me afloat even though I’d rather drown. I drive my own car, if you consider that a plus. But distance yourself least a mile away from my vehicle, please. Now that I think of it, it might be best to submerge it in a lake. Forget that I even owned a car.
Almost a year ago I had enlisted at that workshop because, somehow, I convinced myself that this time, here, things would work out. As always, I had ended up dragging myself out from under the rubble. Why should I bother seeking what the world had to offer? Whatever resonated in others’ minds like a symphony of classical music would echo in mine like fingernails on a chalkboard. Whatever goodness remained in the world, I would squander it. And once I had wasted my energies—since all my efforts would fail—the misery of that experience would swell the heap. A day would come when the pain of bearing those memories would surpass the comfort of tobacco, movies, music… and that moment loomed near, like walls of reaching, monstrous arms as I wandered in a dark room. Why would I ever want to risk it? No one would desire around long-time someone as disagreeable, disfigured, and malicious as me, a person who would never change. Knowing myself, knowing my prospects, why should I remain chained to this medieval instrument of torture?
I raised my face on instinct. My gaze connected with that of a girl of about ten passing by the bench, fixated on my dead eye. Her face had paled before her rational thoughts could take hold. She tugged her older sister’s hand to hurry her along.
I watched them walk away until I lowered my head, resting my chin on my chest. A pressure tightened my throat. Out of the dozens of strangers roaming the streets, how many would be shocked by the sight of my dead eye? How many people’s spirits would I ruin each day simply by existing?
I wish I could just materialize deep in some forest miles and miles away from any human being. But I remained slumped on that bench under the Texas sun, unemployed, alone. A rowboat carrying a ton of lead. How had I convinced myself that I could rest? I had to toss my baggage overboard and disappear. I had just sacrificed my only source of income, and any passerby could report my car for the stench it exuded.
I stepped into a trinket shop where some mother would spend five dollars to keep her children quiet. The door chime had jangled a warning. Light streaming through the shop window warmed plastic. Behind the counter, a girl in her early twenties wearing a loose plaid shirt—with rolled-up sleeves that revealed scars from horizontal cuts on her forearms—swayed as if struggling to stay awake. When she saw me, she straightened up, and her eyes went wide in an effort to keep her lids from falling. I could hear her thoughts: What a wreck of a person has just walked in. I wish I could deny him service because of his looks.
I turned the squeaking sunglasses display by the counter. Judging by the scent the salesgirl exuded, she must have slept on a bed of marijuana leaves. I chose a pair of aviator sunglasses with bottle-green lenses, and put them on. Once the lens covered my good eye, it smoothed the edges of the colors, muting them like the tones in my apartment at dusk with the lights off. For a heartbeat, the world seemed soft, almost kind. These sunglasses concealed me; I spied through the glass of an interrogation room.
When I spoke, my voice croaked.
“Better that way, huh?”
The salesgirl nodded nervously. As I slid cash across the counter, one corner of her mouth curled upward in a parody of cordiality.
When I climbed into my Chevrolet Lumina, I knew I would bury the corpse. The attendant at some car wash might inquire about the stench of my vehicle, so I’d need either to strip it for parts or abandon it. Once both the corpse and the vehicle had vanished, I would have closed this cycle for good.
-----
Author’s note: this novella was originally self-published in Spanish about ten years ago. It’s contained in the collection titled Los dominios del emperador búho.
Today’s song is Joy Division’s “Atrocity Exhibition.”
I focused on the road until I had put three streets between me and the mall. I inserted the CD of Joy Division’s album Closer into the dashboard player, and as the drumbeats bounced and an industrial growl burst forth—the very breath of some mechanical beast—my bones softened and my back slid down the seat’s backrest. I drove aimlessly, obeying traffic lights and signs as if I were practicing musical scales for the thousandth time.
That workshop had pinned me. Now that I had freed myself of its weight, this luminous world against which I squinted opened up to infinity. It was much like how I had felt when I left previous jobs or was fired, when I realized I had seen my bosses’ and colleagues’ faces for the last time. Like a molting tarantula, my exoskeleton crumbled and a new form emerged. Yet I called self-destruction liberation. That quitting jobs felt like a heroin hit proved that I was doomed. My life would unfold in cycles; at the end of each, I would foreknow that some certain doom would befall me, and to elude it, I’d set my former life on fire then run. What future awaited someone who needed to spill his blood to sate the wild god within?
I pulled out the pack of cigarettes and was sliding one out, catching its filter between my teeth, when I pictured myself lighting it, only for the flame to ignite the gasses that filled the car. I pushed the cigarette back with the tip of my tongue.
I parked in a deserted lot, near an abandoned trailer slathered in graffiti. I got out to stretch my legs, to smoke. I wandered up the street while pedestrians hurrying to their destinations passed me by. I wish someone had invented teleportation. Dozens of these people would jump from point to point, and I’d get to stroll through deserted streets alone.
I passed by bars and restaurants, clothing stores and junk shops, until, like an old man, I needed to rest. Slumped on a bench, I watched the wisps of smoke rise from my cigarette and fade. I was drifting on a spacewalk, an astronaut whose tether had come loose. The doom that had pursued me since birth was coming. At last I would recognize its shape.
Now what? Would I flee to another city, look for another workshop that spat out enough money so I could pay the rent? Would I repeat another revolution of the cycle—a count I had refused to continue after the tenth? I shuddered, and my features contorted in disgust. I covered my face with my palm until I took a deep breath and relaxed my muscles.
A new job. New faces. Their stares would dissect me. My presence would unsettle them and silence their conversations like a fart no one would admit. And months later, when my anxiety had multiplied until it burst its container, I would get fired, or I’d quit. At the beginning of each cycle, I would show up at some boss’s office, whom I would have warned he’d interview a disfigured veteran. The boss would control his gaze to ignore my dead eye, my scars. “We understand your difficulties,” he’d say, “but we’re in business, not charity.” Why should they hire me? Because I need money to sustain this life that feels as if some poison were corroding my entrails. Pay me enough to keep me afloat even though I’d rather drown. I drive my own car, if you consider that a plus. But distance yourself least a mile away from my vehicle, please. Now that I think of it, it might be best to submerge it in a lake. Forget that I even owned a car.
Almost a year ago I had enlisted at that workshop because, somehow, I convinced myself that this time, here, things would work out. As always, I had ended up dragging myself out from under the rubble. Why should I bother seeking what the world had to offer? Whatever resonated in others’ minds like a symphony of classical music would echo in mine like fingernails on a chalkboard. Whatever goodness remained in the world, I would squander it. And once I had wasted my energies—since all my efforts would fail—the misery of that experience would swell the heap. A day would come when the pain of bearing those memories would surpass the comfort of tobacco, movies, music… and that moment loomed near, like walls of reaching, monstrous arms as I wandered in a dark room. Why would I ever want to risk it? No one would desire around long-time someone as disagreeable, disfigured, and malicious as me, a person who would never change. Knowing myself, knowing my prospects, why should I remain chained to this medieval instrument of torture?
I raised my face on instinct. My gaze connected with that of a girl of about ten passing by the bench, fixated on my dead eye. Her face had paled before her rational thoughts could take hold. She tugged her older sister’s hand to hurry her along.
I watched them walk away until I lowered my head, resting my chin on my chest. A pressure tightened my throat. Out of the dozens of strangers roaming the streets, how many would be shocked by the sight of my dead eye? How many people’s spirits would I ruin each day simply by existing?
I wish I could just materialize deep in some forest miles and miles away from any human being. But I remained slumped on that bench under the Texas sun, unemployed, alone. A rowboat carrying a ton of lead. How had I convinced myself that I could rest? I had to toss my baggage overboard and disappear. I had just sacrificed my only source of income, and any passerby could report my car for the stench it exuded.
I stepped into a trinket shop where some mother would spend five dollars to keep her children quiet. The door chime had jangled a warning. Light streaming through the shop window warmed plastic. Behind the counter, a girl in her early twenties wearing a loose plaid shirt—with rolled-up sleeves that revealed scars from horizontal cuts on her forearms—swayed as if struggling to stay awake. When she saw me, she straightened up, and her eyes went wide in an effort to keep her lids from falling. I could hear her thoughts: What a wreck of a person has just walked in. I wish I could deny him service because of his looks.
I turned the squeaking sunglasses display by the counter. Judging by the scent the salesgirl exuded, she must have slept on a bed of marijuana leaves. I chose a pair of aviator sunglasses with bottle-green lenses, and put them on. Once the lens covered my good eye, it smoothed the edges of the colors, muting them like the tones in my apartment at dusk with the lights off. For a heartbeat, the world seemed soft, almost kind. These sunglasses concealed me; I spied through the glass of an interrogation room.
When I spoke, my voice croaked.
“Better that way, huh?”
The salesgirl nodded nervously. As I slid cash across the counter, one corner of her mouth curled upward in a parody of cordiality.
When I climbed into my Chevrolet Lumina, I knew I would bury the corpse. The attendant at some car wash might inquire about the stench of my vehicle, so I’d need either to strip it for parts or abandon it. Once both the corpse and the vehicle had vanished, I would have closed this cycle for good.
-----
Author’s note: this novella was originally self-published in Spanish about ten years ago. It’s contained in the collection titled Los dominios del emperador búho.
Today’s song is Joy Division’s “Atrocity Exhibition.”
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