“You look like shit.”
A sharp, curt nose exhale escapes me. I flash an upside-down smile, the corners of my mouth twitching upwards. My mouth then betrays me as I bite back a yawn; I clench my jaw, attempting to stifle the reflex. My nostrils flare, and the deep, prolonged inhalation takes over, followed by a heavy sigh I consciously silence.
“Thanks,” I half-respond. Suddenly, excess water pools in my eyes—a satisfying after-yawn effect. “Oh, not even a ‘you’re welcome?’”
Jack rolls his eyes. Approaching, he sloughs his backpack off of his shoulders and adjusts his pants to sit down. Beside him, I feel taller than normal, which I can only say with about as many people as wheels on a bicycle. His knee starts bouncing, as per usual, and the familiar muffled clinking of keys in his left pocket is barely audible through the hum of the city and conversations of passersby bleeding into ours. The ground rattles beneath us, and the humid stench of weed, piss, and subway juices permeate the air. I watch as the unfurling cuff of his jeans hovers dangerously above a puddle.
“No, but, for real, you look shittier than usual. You good?” Jack asks the ground, quickly
turning his head in my direction, then back down.
“Yeah, just tired,” I say, mustering up top-tier non-chalantness even I could believe. “8 A.M.s really fuck up my sleep schedule.”
Jack’s dark eyes pierce into mine, eyebrows knitted, lips pursed. A tense silence hangs in the air. I pretend to check something on my phone; though I still feel his eyes on me.
“It’s more than that, isn’t it.”
Not a question—a statement. Like he knew my answer before he even asked. Taken aback by the seriousness and intimacy shared among long-time friends, I’m struck by the words of this guy who was a complete stranger to me not even a week ago.
I want to answer. Truthfully, I do. But it feels like any response I’d give wouldn’t nearly suffice. Like I was slowly sinking in a lake-full of maple syrup, the viscous goo clogging up the air, seeping into each and every crevice of my body. And the invisible, odorless muck weighs on me—pursuing some unspoken vendetta to take me down with it. Every breath feels like I’m fighting against this aggravating, equally distributed force that defies any and all laws of gravity. Even if I were to lay flat, sit down, or stand up, the weight would always push perpendicular to where my chest is positioned at.
It’s exhausting.
And, that’s atop all the things that had to happen for today’s—as Lemony Snicket would say—series of unfortunate events to unravel. An infinite amount of choices, points, and times had to perfectly align for everything to happen. For all that was set in motion, to be in motion.
It’s crazy to think about everything that happens by chance. Arriving at a different time of year, staying a week longer, leaving an hour earlier, passing by a minute later, stopping even for mere seconds; choosing to walk, speed-walk, run, bike, drive, carpool, make small talk with a stranger, wear that band tee today, eat a pear, fake a laugh, go to a comic shop, curb daily caffeine intake; taking the bus, train, an Uber, a chance with someone, the long way back, them up on that offer, well-balanced meal claims seriously, a dreaded phone call, the wrong turn… So many possibilities, options, what-ifs that largely determine unexpected friendships, romantic relationships, pivotal experiences, lifelong trauma—
“Yo, you depressed today, or what?”
He blurts out an awkward laugh to fill in for my side of our delayed dialogue. The stale air grows uneasy. I’m startled by the breeze of cars whizzing by, whipping loose strands of hair across my face. Soon, the cloudy Tuesday afternoon reappears around me as the self-manifesting heaviness drips away. I suddenly become very conscious of what I’d done—or, lacked to do: respond.
I contort a sheepish grin and shoot back a witty comment—something along the lines of “aren’t we all?”—but I can’t seem to remember. It’s like my face and voice went on full auto-pilot before I could process what was happening. It made all the right movements and all the right sounds for me, and executed with—dare I say, flawless timing.
I make up some excuse about homework and decidedly book it home. Hopefully it came across convincing enough.
✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧
I should take a shower. Maybe standing under steaming, running water will somehow clear my head.
I turn the calcium deposit-encased knob all the way to the left and watch as water slips down the drain. Thinking about all the steps it takes to get in and then everything I’ve yet to do once the water turns off, simply not showering instantly sounds like a better idea. Since the water is already on, though, I cup my hands to splash some on my face.
The bathroom mirror is already foggy. I roll down my sleeve and use it to wipe off some of the condensation. My reflection peers through the freshly wiped splotch. Damn, I do look shitter than usual. I study the spots and bumps and dents and folds of my face and feel disgusted with myself. My gaze slowly travels down my body, lingering on all the parts I hope to change—except that, this time, something does.
I take a step closer to the mirror to make sure I’m not going clinically insane. My eyes intensely bounce around the full length of my reflection, pinging from feature to feature like a rip-off pinball machine. They halt at the sight of movement that isn’t my own.
My greasy hair is flowing behind me as if wind was blowing through it. The mirror ripples, wavering the way hot pavement seems to, distorted under odd, shimmering waves on a particularly sweltering day. Except, the bathroom isn’t some covert wind tunnel and, to my knowledge, its only heat source is from the shower’s steam. I blink—hard. And, of course, everything returns to what I expected to see in the mirror. I make a mental note to take an extra melatonin tonight. This can’t be another sleepless night.
I’m wasting water. I turn off the running shower and unlock the bathroom door when, suddenly, I’m jolted backwards. Whether I somehow slipped or was yanked off balance, I couldn’t say. Probably because the room went dark.
✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧
“If y’all can hear me, scream once!”
Indiscernible clamor and haphazard chatter fill the air—an uncomfortably humid, musty air. A few blood curdling wails echo in the distance.
“A’ight, everyone. O-kay! Simmer down. Or as low as y’all can get it. Yes, Brad, below thirty-two degrees, please! Thank you; we don’t wan’ a repeat of last month, now.”
Eerie snickers and scoffs vary in volume and pitch. They penetrate through a rambunctious, amorphous crowd.
“This might be one of the last few times Ol’ Sally works for us—I’m jus’ surprised she’s held out this long if you’re askin’ me—so if she goes out midway through, forgive me. For those of you jus’ joinin’ us, Sally’s been our sound system since ‘fore I got ‘ere, which, I’ll say, is surely longer than any of you degenerates ‘ave been down ‘ere. Plus, she’s a beaut’, ain’t she?” Forceful, hearty pats ensue, sounding, nauseously, like water lapping up against the hull of a boat.
Groggily, I rub my eyes to an unbelievably horrid sight. Towering, grotesque mutilations push past me, smearing suspiciously viscous, translucent sludge across my arm. I’m surrounded by all these nightmarish figures: some pudgy and maggot-like, others slender and prickly, any combination of creatures and hybrids pus-oozing, rancid-smelling, abscess-ridden, compost-coated, drooling, bleeding, burbling, brittling beyond my most unhinged imaginations.
Yet, the monstrous overwhelm before me is strangely calming. And I think, for a moment, this isn’t the worst way to go out. To make up for all the drugs I’ve never tried nor drinks I’ve never drunk, maybe this is what it feels like. Someone could’ve easily slipped a pack of shrooms in my lunch today. Or tipped a bit of rum in my morning coffee. Or both. Or, my cognitive judgment is already impaired and all this hypothetical synergism finally teetered into overdose territory. Clearly, I’m well experienced in the realm of intoxication. This is going well.
“‘Kay—wrangle it in, wrangle it in. We don’t quite ‘ave a full house today, but I guess we’ll ‘ave to make do.” The gravelly voice overhead is booming, though straining to be heard above the sounds of what resemble colossal shuffling and groaning. Its accent, of what I can best describe as an unusual blend of Irish with a Southern twang in a vernacular I don’t recognize, almost sounds offensive. “We’ll give the stragglers a few mo’ minutes to creep on in, but for the folks ‘ready ‘ere: welcome, to our annual departmen’al meetin’. ‘Til we get started, we gon’ get a li’l housekeepin’ outta the way. So bear with me, and try not to keel over ‘fore we done. Let’s see—”
I try to follow the eyeline of the creatures brushing up against me, to put a face to this peculiar voice. Turning to my right, I scan the patchy, reeking behemoth for anything that resembles eyes and fall short of them. Three wrinkly, gaping holes take their place. I try, then, for the being on my left, and butt up against two bulging, glassy eyes already looking at me.
“He lost them after trying to help out that kid on the roof last May,” the unsettling pair of eyes seem to say, “Good guy. Quiet, too. But they,” I notice a vague nod toward the front of the room, “found out, like they always do, and made an example out of him. Underdeveloped, nipple-sucking motherfuckers, I swear.” I take in the full scene, and piece together whom this new voice belongs to.
The two previously distended-seeming eyes retract into itself. They rest lower than I was
expecting.
“Ralphert. Al’s fine, too.” The voice appears to stem from an opening I assume to be a mouth. But, instead of the lower jaw opening and closing, the upper half of his mouth moves to form words. His head bobs up and down as he does this. It’s horrifying, but also mesmerizing to watch. He extends a slightly fuzzy, six-fingered limb. I reach out to shake it, realizing too late how clammy my hands are.
“Rey,” I lie. Stranger Danger still exists, even if Al exists purely as a figment of my
hallucinogenic imagination—because, right here, right now, he’s real. Real enough for me, at least.
“You new here?” Al stops himself. “What, somethin’ on my face?” he adds.
“No, sorry, I just—” My cheeks feel like they might burn a hole right through me.
Al cracks a smile, playfully punching my shoulder. “Just messing with ya. What department
you in, anyway?” he asks, without a pause for me to answer his first question. Before I could think of another lie in response, our conversation is, thankfully, interrupted by the bellowing, gravelly voice, once again.
“The new parkin’ structure’ll be open to you minivan Karens startin’ next week, complete with redundant parkin’ meters an’ tire spikes. Also…” This ‘head honcho’ of sorts extends the ‘O’ sound, as if reading aloud from something and losing his place on the page. “Oh, Hellapalooza presale tickets close tomorrow, but if you’d rather wait, it’ll cost nine souls at the door. We’ll be callin’ out raffle winners for the year’s growth there and a few in ‘bout an hour or so, so you won’t wanna miss it. Apparently we got lukewarm stomach acid back by popular demand, and, ‘course, the staples: stale pop, flame-licked snot, an assortment of quadruple-bypass deep fried flesh, and—a personal favorite—crispy hundred-year-old bundles of joy. So, better stay afterward to see if you get to bring any of ‘em home. ‘Cause if you don’t, I will.”
This ‘head honcho’ I’m internally now labeling as, continues. “All you ungrateful li’l shits and those just now comin’ in ‘ave to understand that even bein’ ‘ere an’ able to fund this meetin’ today was a major undertakin’, as is every year. Do me a favor and thank the wraiths on your way out, yeah? They the only ones actually volunteerin’ to be ‘ere. Anyway, hope y’all brought lunch ‘cause there’ll be a short break in a bit, but if not, we got some oozin’ nibbles and bodily fluids set up in the back next to Phyllis over there. Phyllis, wave or somethin’.”
A compact, scarred nub peaks above the crowd, moving side to side.
“‘Kay, great, thanks hon’. So, now we got that outta the way, let’s see who actually showed up today.” A pen clicks, and something—someone?—slithering by brings a clipboard to Head Honcho.
“Microaggression?”
A commotion arises, contained to a group across the room.
“M’kay. Accountin’ and payroll?” A smaller ruckus follows, this time, on the other side of the room. “A’ight, on my far left.”
“Legal department?” Another part of the crowd erupts into unenthused havoc. “Yup, in the back. Human resources? Wait, ‘course y’all here; I saw y’all on my way in. Communications?”
Silence. A hush falls through the crowd as heads rapidly turn left, right, up, down—bumping into each other in the process. Whispers scatter around.
“No?” Head Honcho lets out an exasperated sigh. “No communications. ‘Course. It’s not like they called in sick last year.” I can almost hear Head Honcho’s eyes roll to the back of his head. “And… Last but not least, Marketing?”
The loudest uproar, comparatively, bursts out towards the front. “Oh!” Head Honcho seems surprised, his voice unexpectedly carrying a tinge of delight. “Yes—front and center. Now if you don’t mind, we’ll actually start off with you.”
Al turns to face me. “So if you’re not in any department…” he says, slowly, putting two and two together.
“I didn’t see you raise your hand, or even make a sound when they were calling out departments either,” I counter.
“‘Cause I’m here for the food. Plus, I’ve been here long enough where I know who’s who and who’ll snitch on me or not.” Al pauses to look me up and down. “I haven’t seen you here before, and trust me, each and every face that enters The Pits is seared into my memory. So, wanna tell me why you’re—”
“The, what?” I cut Al off. “The… Pits? The fuck is that?”
“Where we are. What this is,” Al says, vaguely motioning to the space around us—the place we’re in.
Al squints, giving me a quizzical look. He takes a breath like he’s about to say something, but holds it, sucking his teeth. Al’s eyes soften, as they slowly find more interest in the floor. “Oh…” he starts, “You haven’t decided yet, have you.”
“Decided what?” I ask.
“To be here or not.”