No Sleep till Wonderland Read online

Is that what I wanted to do? I can neither confirm nor deny. I mumble something noncommittal but incredulous into the phone. I have the ability to grunt and stutter in a manner that subtly communicates my complex thoughts and emotions. Everyone wishes they were like me.

  “I’m just giving you a hard time. I know you’re a professional.” She laughs, and my life’s number one regret has become this phone call. She adds, “I actually think dinner is a great idea, but I can’t tonight. I’m not even in Southie right now. I’m still at the gym, and I’m about to head over to work. Maybe later this week?”

  “That’s fine. Just trying to, you know, help you out, with your situation.” I really need to stop talking, as in give up talking, and for an extended period of time, but I’m too stubborn. “Has Eddie or the police tried contacting you again?”

  “No. Should they have?”

  I shrug, but you can’t hear that over the phone.

  Ekat says, “Hey, did you find one of my rubber bands in a strange place?”

  “Oh, yeah. A very strange place. I found it while standing in my bathroom.”

  Ekat laughs. “Very funny. When you fell asleep, I couldn’t resist your ankle.”

  “My ankles get that all the time.”

  “It is a nice ankle, and it kept me entertained while you were asleep.” There’s a pause. I hear her waiting. “Hey, are you okay, Mark? You seem a little off.”

  “Not much of a phone guy. I present much better in person. The Mark Genevich Experience. I’m going to take it out on tour soon.”

  “I didn’t mean to embarrass you with the rubber band thing. That’s it, isn’t it? I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  I have an idea of how much did and didn’t happen last night at Ekat’s apartment, and it’s a lousy idea. I say, “No, I’m fine.”

  “Now I’ve embarrassed you just by asking. God, sorry, I always put my foot in mouth.”

  I snap the rubber band back against my wrist again. It hurts. I say, “Shut up and don’t worry about it.” I’m louder than I intend, and we grudgingly share the silence of the aftermath.

  Ekat says, “Okay. All right. I have to go to work, Mark. I’ll call you as soon as I know something. I promise.”

  “That would be peachy.” Peaches again.

  “And you call me if you hear from Gus, okay?”

  “I will.” I don’t know how or why, but I screwed something up. I hurry to add, “Thanks for the rubber band.”

  She hangs up, and I’m hung up. I should make a few more calls, but I’m done with the phone.

  Okay. I have a new plan. I look at my watch, and there are still a few hours of daylight left. I’m going to waste those hours, throw them way like the lima beans I refused to eat as a kid. I’m waiting until it’s dark. Then I’ll go back to Gus’s apartment and invite myself inside. I’m so rude, the guest who only shows up when nobody’s home.

  I close up my office and drift upstairs. My apartment is just as I left it, a scene from a postapocalyptic movie. I’m seeing it with new but tired eyes, and it’s never been this bad, this far gone. If Ellen Genevich were to come by, make her first visit of the summer, first visit post–group therapy, she’d explode, and then everything would be a mess, as if everything wasn’t a mess already.

  The decrepit state of my apartment is more than an act of rebellion toward dear old Mom and the therapy. It says something about my inability to live on my own. Yeah, my apartment is talking to me. My hands are over my ears, but I still hear it. It says what I wrote at group therapy: It’s my fault. It was always my fault.

  I really should do something about this. I should do a lot things. Instead of cleaning or doing, I crash-land on my desert island couch. Hands fold behind my head like they know what’s best for me, and I close my eyes. During my waking hours, I don’t allow myself to daydream, as entering that unfocused state is tantamount to ringing narcolepsy’s dinner bell. I indulge in a daydream now, though. Come and get it, big boy.

  I imagine that Ekat accepted my dinner invite, and we decided to eat at my apartment. I imagine rushing out and getting some groceries. I have a brown bag full of meat and vegetables, all her favorites. Next up is the frenzied cleanup and preparation of my apartment. I wouldn’t have gotten the place clean in time, but I would’ve tried. I’m wearing my best suit, but no tie, one or two of the top buttons undone. Prior to her arrival, I would’ve obsessed over the one-or two-button decision like it would determine the future. The doorbell rings, and she’s standing on my doorstep, smiling, bottle of wine cradled in her arms. She’s wearing a sleeveless, black dress. Her hair is down, bangs partially obscuring her suddenly shy eyes. She’s also wearing a smile of hers I’ve never seen before. We’ve dropped into a scene from a generic romantic comedy or a beer commercial, but I won’t let myself dwell on the negatives. My groceries have become something good cooking in the kitchen. I hear the sizzle of meat and low rumble of boiling water, and the air smells perfect. She tells me the place looks great, and I tell her not to open or look in any of the closets. We laugh. I’m funny, and she’s delightful. She hasn’t come in yet, but we’ll eat well and have a magically predictable time. No surprises, no disappointments.

  I fall asleep, and I dream my impossible dreams.

  Nineteen

  It’s after 2:00 a.m., and the thrill is gone. I’m standing in the alley next to Gus’s apartment building. It’s warm and humid, but I’m shivering in a light breeze that doesn’t whisper anything. Breaking and entering Gus’s darkened apartment doesn’t seem like such a great idea anymore. I’m afraid of what I might find. I’ve always been a buyer’s-remorse kind of guy.

  I have the tools of the trade with me: a set of picks and a tension wrench. The set was part of a business-warming gift from my old chums George and Juan-Miguel. The other part of the gift was my gun-shaped cigarette lighter. Bang, bang. I thought the whole package was a gag gift until they started locking me in rooms and stealing my apartment and office keys to force me to practice lock picking. My friends, they always knew what was best for me. I got to be okay at it, but I haven’t tried picking a lock since before the van accident.

  The motion-detecting light is on, shining above me and the side door like an accusation. Can’t say I want to be in the spotlight, so I pry off the outer casing and unscrew the lightbulb. Great idea, right? Now I can’t see a thing. I blink away the afterimages of light, my private sunspots.

  Gus’s building is old and hopefully not all that updated. The side-entrance door rattles a bit in the frame. There’s no deadbolt, just a simple door handle lock, and a loose one at that. I could probably push on the door and pop it open, but I can’t risk making too much noise. Instead, I pull out the plastic.

  I slip the credit card between the door and the frame, adjacent to the doorknob, and it slides in easy. I tilt the plastic while pulling and pushing on the doorknob. The card slides in a little deeper, kicks the lock to the side, and the door opens. Transaction complete, and I don’t need a receipt.

  I shut the door behind me and stand in the dark. I grope the walls for a light switch, find one, and flick it on. A dewdrop of a light fixture hangs in the small hallway; below the fixture are two doors. One goes to the basement, the other to Gus’s apartment.

  The air in here is hot and stale, like a lunch bag full of breath. God, I want a cigarette. I’m still shivering, but that’s the afteraffects of waking out of a deep sleep and then animating against my body’s dearest wishes. I shuffle past a stairwell and into a smaller, secondary hallway with white stucco walls stained with black smears and streaks, about waist high. I’m guessing handle-bars made these and that Gus keeps his bike out here. It isn’t here now.

  Gus’s door is purple with black polka dots. It’s a door that should only be used by clowns, supervillains, or diminutive musicians from Minneapolis. It’s recently painted by the feel of it.

  I call Gus’s cell one more time. No ring tone comes from the other side of the purple door.

  I twi
st the knob freely, but the purple door doesn’t open, and I don’t know why until I see the deadbolt is one of the black polka dots. Cute. It’s hard to tell in the dirty yellow light of the dusty hallway, but I think it’s an older lock and hopefully a simple pin and-tumbler setup. I take out my set of picks and open the box. The collection of odd-shaped metal is pitted, discolored, and smells like a jar of old pennies, the years long rubbed or worn off.

  I insert the tension wrench and twist the lock in both directions, looking for give. Next I try one of the picks, its head bent and wavy. My hands shake, and I grope for my creaky and warped memories of how to pick locks. George and Juan-Miguel aren’t behind the purple polka-dotted door, ready with a mock cheer once I finally get it open.

  I have no feel. I’m flailing, scraping around the inside of the lock instead of reading it. The pick catches on a couple of the pins, and I try to force them up, but my fingers are clumsy and blind. Like me, they changed a lifetime ago. I am that jar of old pennies.

  I make another run at the lock with a second pick. The end of this one is more rounded and smooth. No go, and my sweaty fingers slip and I pinch my skin between the pick and wrench. Ow!

  I suck on my pinched finger and empty the box of picks; their not-so-delicate meeting with the floor makes more noise that I thought they would. I’m too frustrated to care. There, in the bottom of a small pile is the rake pick, a piece of metal with a cascading set of jigsaw bends. I forgot I’m supposed to try this one first.

  The rake pick feels too light and brittle for the job. A hummingbird instead of an eagle. I jam the rake in as far as it’ll go and pull it out quick, raking upward against the pins and applying torque with the wrench. You can never have enough torque.

  There is some movement, so I try it again, pushing up hard enough on the rake pick to bow it out. I pull and turn. The metal digs into my skin; my skin goes both red and white around the metal. The tension wrench turns the lock one-eighty, and the deadbolt slides back, a raspberry tongue going back into a mouth. The purple polka-dotted door opens, and I didn’t know the magic word.

  I shake out my cranky fingers and gather my box of picks. The box is as heavy as a weapon inside my coat. I ease inside, a vine growing into Gus’s apartment. The linoleum in the kitchen creaks under my Sasquatch feet, and his fridge hums like an industrial nation. My heartbeat is still louder. The air in the apartment is as stale and still as the back hallway. No one’s been in here for days.

  Progress is slow and painful and irreparable. I make it to his bay windows without tripping or breaking anything. My not-so-secret view of the porch and street disappears as I pull the curtains and blinds across the glass, strengthening the interior darkness.

  I have a flashlight and turn it on, but it’s too small and cheap. The beam is weak and limps around the apartment, illuminating nothing. Rage against the dying of the light. Me and my weak beam sulk back to the kitchen and turn on the lights. Honey, I’m home.

  Not really sure what I’m looking for. I operate under the edict of I’ll know it when I see it. The cleanliness of his apartment screams at me. There’s an initial rush of guilt and shame when I think of my apartment by comparison. Mostly I’m struck by the oddness. It’s too eat-off-the-floors clean.

  The floors and molding are hardwood and stained dark. The walls are a deep blue, the color of distant oceans. The kitchen is a set piece in a museum. Counter and tabletops are spotless, chairs pushed in, everything in its place. Utensils sparkle in their racks. The sink is clear of dishes. Even the cabinets are stacked and ordered. Goldilocks is here, and everything is too just-right.

  Didn’t realize that Gus the bartender/bike messenger is a type A, OCD personality. And I thought I sort of knew him.

  I wander through the rest of his place, look in closets and dressers, peek under beds, and it’s all just as clean and orderly as his kitchen. Nothing seems to be missing. There’s certainly no sign of a panicked flight or a struggle/rough visit from Eddie or someone else, unless the sterilized apartment is a sign of poststruggle cleanup. Eddie doesn’t strike me as a clean-up-after-yourself type of guy, though. I’m so judgmental.

  It was only a handful of days ago that I coma-ed on Gus’s couch, but I didn’t store any scenes or images from waking that morning, only a memory of a black hole of a headache and vague impressions of his apartment, which are being corrupted by the new-and-improved images. His apartment could’ve been in this condition days ago. I don’t remember. I feel like it wasn’t, but that could be a perception clouded by the thunderhead hangover I had. I’m my own unreliable witness. Story of my life.

  I settle back in the living room like dust. While his place isn’t on the East Broadway side of Southie like Ekat’s apartment, Gus’s interior is nice, as are his accoutrements. Flat screen TV, shelves full of DVDs, and new computer system complete with a high-end laser printer, photo quality. I recognize the make, and it’s an upgrade over what Ellen uses in her photography studio.

  Is Gus’s rent that much cheaper than Ekat’s because of the locale? I doubt it. More likely, Gus is living beyond his means. Wouldn’t be a shock. Why should he be any different from the millions who are brainwashed into believing they are a part of the disappearing middle class, own everything on credit, and are one paycheck away from being homeless? So says someone who’s subsidized by his mom.

  Maybe Gus creatively supplements his hardest-working-guy-in-Southie income. Jody’s no-comment answer to my Eddie-plus-Gus-equals-drugs question seems more revealing in the face of his closet consumerism.

  I’ve sweat through my jacket, so I take it off and throw it on the couch. It’s a wet dog that should know better than to lie there, but I’m a softie. I let that jacket get away with murder.

  Next to the sprawling couch is Gus’s computer desk. It’s black and funky, ergonomic, but not all that practical. It’s a cubist’s wet dream, with the computer screen and components fitting flush inside the varied rectangular parts of the desk, the wood acting as a protective skin. There’s no one unifying desktop, but multiple and separate plateaus at different heights for the keyboard, mouse, and a writing area. Maybe the desk is art. Maybe I’m dreaming, and it’s a giant bug, Gregor Samsa made into furniture. The desk chair is a misshapen torture device, and I refuse to sit in it.

  I turn on the computer, and I’m jealous with how silent it is and how quickly it boots up. The operating system is password protected, and after three quick and futile attempts at cracking the code I give up. I poke and paw around the desk, into the overdesigned nooks and crannies. Wedged next to the hard drive are a sheet of half-used labels and a partially melted sheet of laminate.

  What does Gus do with laminate? Who is this guy, really? What would he think if he found me snooping around? Maybe I should just wait him out, assume my default position on his couch, grow roots, and stay put until he comes home.

  I’m broken out of the me-as-a-couch-tree reverie when the alley door slams shut and artillery-loud footsteps fill the rear hallway. My cultivated silence is shattered, along with my calm and confidence because I don’t remember if I locked the doors behind me. I step away from the desk on wet spaghetti legs.

  The kitchen door opens, and Eddie shambles inside like a zombie. Not a slow braiiiins-zombie, but one of the new fast ones. We make everything—even zombies—meaner and faster and more violent now. I grab my coat off the couch and put it on like it will protect me. It’s still wet.

  Eddie walks across the valley of the apartment, pointing at me. It’s not polite. “You!” He stops at the couch that’s between us, a leather moat. I hope he can’t swim. “The fuck are you doing here?” Eddie’s chest heaves, a growling engine, filling and emptying, so inefficient and greedy.

  “I’m not really here, Eddie. I’m a ghost. You don’t believe in ghosts, so go home.” The front door is a few paces behind me. I could reach it if my feet would move. I’m not sure they will. Those strange little bastards at the end of my legs are just so unpredictable.


  I don’t like the look of Eddie. That’s a general mission statement of mine, but it applies to the here and particular. He’s a smudge on a window. His clothes are dirty and don’t fit, and that makes him the bad guy. His eyes are dark, red wounds, and he blinks constantly with eyelids made of sandpaper.

  He says, “Where’s Gus?” but it’s not a demand. It’s a whisper. Suddenly, he’s the kid afraid to earn the attention of the boogeyman in the closet.

  Either Eddie knows where Gus is or he’s scared of the answer. I say, “He’s in my pocket. I only take him out at parties.”

  “How the fuck did you get in here? Do you have a key? Gus give you a key? Why’s he fuckin’ me like this?” Eddie goes loud again, and his wild shifts in volume and mood are concerning. He grips the couch like he wants to tear it down the middle. His knuckles grind and roll over each other. “Why are you doin’ me like this? Huh? I never did nothin’ to you.” He talks fast, too fast for his own tongue. He wipes his mouth, then looks at the back of his hand like he expects to see what he’s going to say next written in blood. Eddie’s in rough shape, but he’s gearing up for an offensive.

  I say, “I’m just looking for Gus. He didn’t return the two cups of sugar he borrowed from me last week.”

  “You went to Rachel’s place today.”

  That was fast. I knew he and Jody would coffee-talk about my visit. I hoped their chat wouldn’t happen for a couple of days, not a couple of hours. There’s no reason to be angry about it, but I am. I briefly indulge in an image of Jody, Rachel, and Eddie as the Three Neros, dancing and fiddling away while all of Southie burns.

  I say, “I went to a lot of places today, Eddie.”

  “Shut your fuckin’ mouth. You went to Rachel’s, and you told Jody that you saved JT. The fuck is that about? You fuckin’ liar, man. You fillin’ her head with shit so she believes you about me. That’s it, isn’t it? Then you tell her I was the one who burned up her fuckin’ place. Now she won’t let me in, won’t talk to me, won’t listen to me. She called the cops on me, you fucker. I just wanted to talk. She locked the door. She thinks it’s me. This is all your fault, pretend cop. All your fault. I didn’t do nothin’.”