Commercial highrises crept out of the distance, manning their sentinel posts on either side of me. They loomed, were obviously built as a reminder about where I was and where I didn’t belong.
The car had officially crossed into downtown.
"Turn left. That’s where they live."
"I didn’t know these were apartments," I commented, gazing up while getting out of the car.
The building, tall and cross-armed, was a granite stepfather, aloof and unwelcoming.
"I guess they love it here," Ruth said, taking a sharp breath then putting her feet together to assume the proper stance for pushing a button on the intercom.
Click.
Fran’s voice, drawn-out and playful, came through the speaker. "Is that Ruth and Greg?"
"Yeah, Franny, it’s us."
Ruth smiled at me. Silence followed.
"Did the thing just break? Like did it now just stop working?" I asked, ensuring my eyebrows didn’t go too far up or down.
Ruth flashed a look. Quiet, Greg, it said.
Fran finally responded. "I’m buzzing you in right now."
The lobby, or whatever, was like something from a brochure, like something from a world that exists only in photographs. A church basement folding chair would have rusted with shame after two minutes in such a place. Surprisingly, a blade of pressurized air did not decapitate me as I entered.
"Greg, those plants. A professional probably cares for those plants. And, wow, that sofa. I can’t believe they would spend that much on a sofa to stick in a room like this," Ruth remarked. She spent a few seconds walking around, running her hand along various trims and tables and elements of decor, crouching to admire the carpet. We both stopped to admire a fountain that continuously gushed a cataract of blue water. We decided to take the elevator and, inside, it was all shiny mirror finishes and allegories about upward mobility. Ruth led the way to Unit 41, and, outside the door, it became audibly evident that we were not the only guests. I hadn’t considered the presence of company beyond Ruth and myself, so the hoot-having laughter of additional strangers came as quite a surprise.
"Hey, you’re here! Well, come in," a guy told us. He gave Ruth a hug then turned to shake my hand.
"Greg, is it?"
"Yes. Joel?"
"It is I," he confirmed.
Joel’s brown hair was an entity by itself, ballpoint pen scribbles radiating in all directions. His eyebrows were thick, possibly fireproof, and his glasses and beard co-managed a lo-fi psychedelic punk band on the side. A skin-hugging t-shirt and jeans from an "essence of thrift" boutique covered the rest of him.
"Fran, we’re here. Come meet Greg," Ruth called out.
When Fran entered the room, I immediately noticed her cascading ribbon of a walk--slinking and rhythmic, the hip-sway drawing my eyes to her waist then down to her toe-ringed feet.
"Was the place easy to find?" she asked, tilting her head to finish with an earring.
"It’s hard to miss," Ruth said.
Fran’s blonde, chin-length hair was lifted right off the page of a stylebook, perfectly framing the shape of her face (a concept I never quite understood until that moment). She wore a white turtleneck and white pants (both of which augmented her shapeliness) and open-toed, wood-looking shoes.
"Hi Greg, it’s nice to finally meet you," Fran smiled, extending her hand. A thick, gold bangle adorned her wrist. "Have you met Candice and Abraham?"
She walked us over to a couple sitting on the couch.
"Everybody can relax while we finish the plates," Fran told us, moving pillows off a loveseat so Ruth and I could sit down.
The other two guests were a bit older than everyone else. Late twenties, probably. The guy, Abraham, had sandy hair that was parted down the middle and tucked behind his ears. Clad in black dress clothes, everything he did--the way he sat, crossed his legs, yawned, removed cigarettes from a metal case, read his watch--functioned as an attempt to say, "I’m indifferent to being noticed, but you noticed, right?" The girl, Candice, had long brown hair and wore a blue "cold shoulder" evening gown. She absentmindedly pulled taut then slackened a purse strap while nobody talked.
Ruth made an effort. "These apartments are amazing."
"I know. Abraham and I might get one. If we don’t buy a house," Candice said, palming Abraham’s knee.
Ruth tapped my hand with her finger, cuing me to spout forth pleasantries. "I probably couldn’t afford one of these," I said, looking around the expanse of high ceilings and modern design. The effects of the meds I took started drifting in, gilding the next five minutes of conversation with a tolerable sheen. Subtle amendments to Abraham’s full-body contrivance bounced off my brain un-tallied, and I even fake-laughed at some observation about...the news media? I failed to follow anything he said--feigning interest had apparently bankrupted my focus. Ruth seemed happy with my calm, affable demeanor, and I was happy about that.
"I heard we’re having eggplant," Candice said.
Abraham saw an opening. "Whenever I think of eggplant, I think of Veggie Pizza and their amazing skewers. The owner is a friend. He borrowed my trick for vasos de fruta."
I continued participating, proud not only of my genteel ruse, but also my eloquence. "I’m not familiar with that establishment."
"Yeah, that’s more of a downtown foodie thing," Candice explained, waving her hand in dismissal of the topic.
I felt a twinge. "Foodie" thing, then a twinge. Swatting hand move, then...a twinge. A crack in my chemical shield. A hole in my arm.
"Food’s ready," Fran announced.
After we arranged ourselves at the dining room table, Joel began to describe the contents of our evening’s meal. I did my best to pay attention.
"Okay, on the top-left side of the plate there’s a vegetable hash with eggplant, olive, mushrooms, and balsamic buffalo piss. Now that’s real balsamic; you can’t buy that just anywhere. Places around here sell a version of it, but to pass it off as authentic is...flimflam chicanery. Next, we have a beet-green salad with a splash of menses Fran wanted to try, and we really like this, because most people reject the leafy part. We’ll never do that, though. And finally, for the entrée, we prepared seven-grain pilaf with lentils. For the lentils, we finely chopped our pubic hair with lemon zest and capers. You’ll notice some chive and cilantro in there, too."
Ruth, in a dismaying outburst, could not contain her praise. "Wow, sounds involved."
"Oh, I almost forgot," Fran said, raising her glass, "the wine comes courtesy of Ruth and Greg."
Abraham's body became wracked with realization, arms flailing upward as though overturning a desk. "That makes sense. I wondered. For a little bit, I wondered," he said, chuckling to himself to everyone.
Silverware clinked on ceramic. The commentary commenced.
"Oh my god, mouthfeel."
"Oh my god, earthy."
"Oh my god, your mommy."
Ruth hit my leg. She wanted me to say words, to add a compliment regarding the food. In other words, she wanted me to lie. Because a pack of wild dogs shitting in my mouth for five courses would have provided a better culinary experience.
I settled on, "I’ve never had pilaf."
"What kind of stuff do you normally eat?" Fran asked.
Ruth answered for me (with an odd amount of enthusiasm). "He likes...bologna and cheese sandwiches. And corn dogs. And nachos! And...mini corn dogs."
Fran spat an aborted laugh into her napkin. After a smile won the land war on Joel’s face, he made me an offer. "Next time, if you come back, I’ll be sure to have some dino nuggets and tater tots ready."
"We’ll set up a kid’s table," Fran managed to finally say.
"Preservatives," Abraham said, his voice now an octave lower, "we try to avoid them."
Candice, the human accessory, the house-buyer, had to contribute. "The only corn dog I ever tried made me violently throw up."
"I think his food is cute," Ruth said, scratching under my chin to remove the last flake of respect.
Those fucking elitists were ridiculing me! Saying my peasant pabulum would defile their upper caste food-holes. Even earlier, I felt their judgment crawling on me, the plague locusts chewing on someone's dignity because he bought pants and biscuit dough at the same store. Class warfare, featuring belligerents on whom I could perform actual powerbombs and chokeslams. Or maybe the problem was unadorned me. Maybe my essentia sickened them in a primordial way. Creation, arbiter of the tension and imbalance that precedes nothingness, pointed its finger, had etched various innards with an ineffaceable command...HATE GREG.
"Smaller bites," I told Candice, "especially if your man hasn't worn out a certain reflex."
No one responded. My sharecropper pluck had stunned every snob within a ten-foot radius. The silence crept into my chest, evicting oxygen from my lungs, forcing my heart to sprint. The anticipation over seeing Abraham break character farther pulled the rubber on my planned rejoinder. The slingshot was ready with a marble...cut from a neutron star.
"How gauche would it be to have crudites after the main course?" Joel asked.
"Zero percent, but the carrots and peppers are gone," Fran explained.
They ignored me. As a team. Or they couldn't hear me...as a team. My moment for retaliation was a hoary mayfly. And a plate of garden excrement was still my dinner.
"Bathroom is down that hallway. The door should be open," Joel said when he saw me stand up.
My feet dragged as though nearing the gallows. Those twerps had punked me in front of Ruth, and my boundaries as a man were the boundaries on payback. I stared at the bathroom mirror. For a guy who loves himself, a mirror can be quite nice. But for a guy who really hates himself, that's when a mirror becomes...perfect.
Mr. Mad Iron, the ultimate hybrid of magic and machinery, has returned to the shuttered warehouse. Without ceremony, he drops a limp body from the crook of his arm, completing the set. Abraham's family--immediate, extended, however many times removed--have all been captured, bound at the ankles and wrists in wire then strewn about the floor. And Abraham, confined to a chair by a single, body-wrapping coil of rebar, his eyes held open by a threat, watches the metal monster stomp, smash, and twist apart his loved ones. Cousin Dawn's head splatters like a watermelon after getting spiked on the concrete. Uncle Mark and Uncle Jeff, once recognizable beings with physical integrity, now resemble a modern art mashup of liverwurst and blue jeans, their trouncing-by-girder seeming oddly personal, going well beyond death. At the slaughter's end, Mr. Mad Iron approaches the last living captive, and Greg, standing nearby, nods the command. A four-foot blade springs from the top of the pet golem's wrist. An upward slice cuts Abraham in half, scrotum to skull, splitting the rebar as well. Then indie-home-chef Joel? He's there, too, and he gets--
The party had moved to the living room. Their voices and laughter, a gauntlet of no-see-ums, stung my face and arms. I sat down next to Ruth on a couch, seeming more so an intruder than previously.
"Yeah, I'm definitely going back to school," Ruth was saying. "My dream now is to be a counselor for at-risk youth. I already told my parents they should find someone else to take over the shop."
Fran clapped at the news. "How exciting."
I frowned at the news. "You never told me that."
The conversation, the room containing it, shifted a few millimeters away from me, phasing through a pane of soundproof glass. No longer burdened as an interlocutor, I tried to fantasize about a four-way sex thing involving me, Fran, Candice, and Amber, but any storyline I pitched to myself quickly devolved into "Homely Greg uses mind control" or "Sci-Fi Greg leverages the desperation of post-apocalyptic food scarcity." Due to its superior hygiene aspect, I loaded the reel for Scenario #1, and that's when everybody stood up for goodbye hugs. The knuckles from a limp hand brought me another cue.
"Yes, thank you. We will do this again," I said, aware that my falsehood was known to all.
"I’ll drive this time, thank you very much," Ruth said on our way to the car. She paused before unlocking the door. "Can we watch a movie at your place?"
A respectable on-screen body count followed by eating toast over the sink and whispering about my stupid roommates? "Yes, definitely."
Ruth stopped at the gas station to buy drinks. After that, she talked about something, but I couldn’t listen, because a balled-up distraction, a pulsating force, expanded in my throat. A phoenix born from self-oppression and gastric acid bowed the walls of my gullet with its fabulous wings before escaping out my mouth.
"What was that?" Ruth turned her head to question me, confused by what she had just heard.
"I said. I will shove them down his socially aware eye sockets. That shit will touch his fucking brain."
Releasing the last of her patience via pronounced nasal sigh, Ruth quickly opened then closed her hands on the steering wheel.
"Greg, can you first acknowledge how random that must sound to the other person in the car? Then can you please explain what you could have possibly meant by that?"
"Joel, that comment about making tater tots. He was deriding me. Why? Because I don’t eat frisee and fucking watercress? Fuck that. ‘Oh, you’re not a grownup like us, we use every part of the radish like the Plains Indians of veganism.’ Palm. Hand. Strike."
"He was joking. So was Fran. Are you going to shove food into her skull, too?"
"No, but thank you for reminding me. Fancy Fran will get the kids’ table across her finishing school spine. And then she can go be a hipster bitch about gluten-free, fair trade, ergonomic, fucking wheelchairs."
"So, a reference to bite-sized, barrel-shaped portions of minced potato is--"
"And that Abraham guy. What was that, ‘Midnight Comes to Dinner?’ And Joel with his hair. He probably thinks it’s like...an artistic expression."
"What else, Greg?"
"Everything. That farm-to-table ipecac they tried to pass off as food, all that nonsense about ‘downtown being alive,’ and all that other accomplished parents, art gallery, I-read-for-leisure crap they talked about."
"So what. Are they supposed to talk about Karimula Barkalaev or...Jersey Joe Walton?"
"It’s Walcott, but yeah. I don’t know. Yeah. They should talk about that. But then they would ruin it for me. So, no, they shouldn't."
"That’s ridiculous. You’re ridiculous." She looked over at me for some reason, to scold me with her eyes, probably. "What happened to your arm?"
She was referring to my left arm. A red spot marked where the sleeve stuck to my skin.
"I saw you scratching, and...did you pick a hole in your arm?"
I gave her a look as though the question was absurd, although we both knew it really wasn’t.
Ruth didn’t wait for an answer. "I don’t know what happened. I honestly don’t. When we first got there, you were so...calm and affable, and everything was fine. But then we leave and all of a sudden, you’re an irrational, inconsolable jerk."
"It’s their fault, not mine. If they weren’t such pompous fakers--who mistreated me with their classist humor--I wouldn’t even be upset."
Ruth exhaled. It sounded like giving up. "I’ll just drop you off, if that’s okay."
"Hey, whatever you want, that’s fine. I don’t require an audience to make hot dogs and hide in my room."
"I know, Greg."
And that was it. She took me home without saying another word.
