No Sleep till Wonderland Read online

  On my direct left, the front door is missing from the first-floor apartment. I shuffle by and peek inside. There’s a body in the middle of the floor, on display, writhing and twisting, jointless; its movement is too fast to be natural, but it is natural because fire is the body’s puppeteer. Dance, puppet, dance, the fire chants, and I vomit into my mouth. The body stops gyrating abruptly, and the entire apartment, the TV and furniture and rugs and floors and the discarded puppet bubble and melt, everything made of wax or some material that yields the deepest black smoke when it burns. I’m not supposed to go in there.

  Then I’m halfway up the stairs, and they melt too, pool around my feet and ankles, so I climb through a bog of wood. Upstairs. The air is too hot; my lungs are quitting, shrinking away from their duties, the bastards, and after all the smoking I’ve done for them.

  On the second-floor landing the flames talk to me, but I don’t understand. They’re being too loud. Their ancient roars and commands stick to the walls of my head. This time, I’ll never be able to get them out.

  The second-floor apartment is locked up, but my hands and body pass through the door like it’s a curtain. I can do this because I know someone is keeping a precious secret in here. I ghost around the apartment so the smoke passes through me instead of into me. I can’t see very well, though.

  I’m in a kid’s bedroom, and on his walls are the pictures of me that I drew in group therapy. I’m embarrassed at first, then relieved as the flames burn it all away. I hear the boy. He’s inside some makeshift nightstand, which was made from other bits and parts of furniture that don’t quite match up. He’s asleep in the top drawer. Patches of his skin are charred and still burning. I blow him out like a candle, any kind of candle that is small and can break easily. I pick him up and wish I could cup him in my hands like a firefly, but that’s not right. The fire isn’t his fault.

  The bedroom walls collapse, and now I have a perfect sight-line down Fifth Street, to Gate of Heaven, which looks old and useless. The building I’m standing in is its own church with its own turrets and spires, only they’re made of flames, and this building has its own gathering of folks below, watching, maybe even worshipping. I can feel them there, but I’m not the god of hellfire and I do not bring them anything.

  I walk through walls of flame and down to the bottom of the stairs. The boy is now standing next to me, wearing powder blue PJs. He sits and wants me to sit next to him. That’s not a good idea.

  Ten

  Someone shakes my shoulder, and that someone says something from a science fiction movie. She says something about Soylent Green is people. Don’t know why that information is important. I’m not hungry, and besides, everyone knows that.

  I think I’m still dreaming, but I open my eyes, and it’s Rita, a local homeless woman who usually hangs out in the bank parking lot across from my office. Couple times a month, I share lunchtime pizza with her in the lot and talk old movies. She’s anywhere between thirty-five and a hundred and five years old and is a Charlton Heston devotee. Who isn’t?

  She slaps my cheeks, smiles, an infectious smile even if her eyes disappear somewhere into the bag of skin that is her face, and then she takes off, leaves me alone.

  I’m in a stretcher, low to the sidewalk, oxygen mask over my mouth and nose. These are important details that take some time to verify, not that I fully trust the verifier. The oxygen tastes better than the smoky film of vomit in my mouth.

  I sit up and take off the mask. I lose a few beard hairs in the elastic strap. No pain, no gain. Me and the stretcher are on the corner diagonally across from the burning building. A roped-off crowd and twin fire engines, ladders extended, block my view of the first floor. Firemen aim their hoses at the roof and the second-floor windows. Everything is loud, a world of noise too big for my shrunken head. Flash floods of debris-filled water run down H Street.

  I wouldn’t mind curling up on the stretcher for a bit. All of which means I’m feeling back to normal, my normal. I stand slowly, making sure the earth doesn’t spin too fast. All of my body parts seem to be intact, and in the right place, or, more accurately, everything is where and how it was when I started the evening.

  Two people sprout up next to me, one on each side, and they both take an arm. They can’t have them. The paramedic asks me politely to sit. The cop is less friendly with her invitation.

  I sit and tell them that I’m fine, that I black out all the time and I keep score at home. The paramedic gives me his best professional voice: low, soothing, but insistent. I cooperate with him long enough to have my blood pressure checked and a light flashed in my eyes. I pass.

  I give the cop my IDs. She writes everything down. I’m convincing enough that they let me stand again, and the paramedic says I’m okay, but gives me a list of go-to-the-hospital follow-up directions should I experience any severe symptoms of smoke inhalation. I guess it’d be a bad time to take out a cigarette. He leaves.

  I ask the cop, “Is the kid okay?” I’m asking about the little boy who was in my hands. She doesn’t say anything right away, and now I’m afraid I didn’t make it into the building, and I didn’t save anybody.

  “I don’t know. A neighbor found him at the bottom of the stairs, hiding behind an old coat rack, and pulled him out.” The cop nods her head at the corner behind me. An older, bald, pink-skinned man draped in one of those tinfoil emergency blankets has a microphone and a camera in his face. She says, “They sent the boy right to Mass General.” She clicks her pen twice on the notepad and tells me that, according to eyewitnesses, I went into the building and came stumbling out a short time later. My stumble carried me across the street, where I puked and then dropped to the sidewalk. She finishes with “That was admirable of you to run into the building. Tell me what happened in there.”

  I’m stuck and can’t talk. I don’t remember the kid hiding behind the coat rack. I don’t remember a coat rack. Was the whole scene a dream? No, that doesn’t feel right. I was up on that second floor. Or at the very least, the narcoleptic me was up there. I helped that kid. I had to have helped him.

  I try to stick to the facts, even if I’m missing some. I say, “I was on my way home, saw the fire. There was a woman screaming about a kid on the second floor. I ran inside, upstairs, found the kid in his blue PJs in his bedroom.” I pause, waiting to see if she’ll verify that the kid was actually wearing blue pajamas. She doesn’t give me anything. I add, “I got him out of his apartment, helped him down the stairs before succumbing to the smoke and everything else.”

  “Everything else?”

  “Yeah, everything else. Severe stress tends to goose my narcoleptic symptoms into action. Or inaction as the case may be.”

  “What are those symptoms?”

  I hesitate. Which means I’m lost. “Hypnagogic hallucinations. Cataplexy.” Might as well tell her lycanthropy with the looks I’m getting.

  She writes something down in her notebook and doesn’t ask how to spell anything. “So you left the boy by the coat rack? Right near the front door?”

  “I got down the stairs with him, and then it all kind of goes black. Look I did what I could, all right?”

  “Okay, Mr. Genevich. Please remain calm.” She says it like she has proof that what I told her didn’t happen. Maybe the kid’s pajamas weren’t blue. The smoke was thick and the flames were bright, so the narcoleptic me got a color wrong. So fucking what? How else would the kid have gotten to the bottom of the stairs, if I didn’t help him? I don’t need a hero’s badge or the camera in my face. A one-on-one acknowledgment of what I did would suffice.

  She asks, “Why were you at the scene, Mr. Genevich?”

  Her tone has gone from dismissive to accusatory. Can’t say I’m shocked. The South Boston police don’t like or respect me. To them, I’m a sad clown relegated to children’s birthday parties compared to their big-top, big-show clowns. A pretend cop again.

  I’m no longer feeling very helpful. I say, “Did you talk to Rita, ask her wha
t she saw?”

  “Who’s Rita?”

  I point out Rita in the crowd. She’s behind everyone, looking for an opening, too short to see anything.

  The cop says, “Yeah, we talked to her. She only followed the sirens here.” Her answer is a shrug, brimming with impatience, and it’s a lie. She hasn’t talked to Rita. “Let’s try again. Why were you at the scene, Mr. Genevich?”

  “Like I said, I was walking home, down Fifth Street, and I just happened by it.”

  “Walking home from where?”

  I yawn and don’t cover my mouth. I’m not very polite. Mom would be mortified. “From not home. I was on a job.”

  “Where was that, Mr. Genevich?”

  I could tell her. I could do a lot things. “Sorry, client confidentiality.” I reach for my cigarettes. It’s all about timing.

  “You’re not a lawyer, Mr. Genevich. Just a PI.”

  “Really? I guess I’ve been doing it all wrong. I’m so glad you’re here to straighten me out.” I’m being a jerk, and yeah, she deserves it, but I’m also frustrated with myself. It isn’t so far-fetched to conclude she doesn’t believe me because I don’t and can’t fully believe in myself.

  “Have you been drinking, Mr. Genevich?”

  I light up, fully aware there’s already too much smoke here. “Not enough and not very well. Look, goddamn it, I’m fine, I was fine, there was just too much smoke, and I did what I could before I passed out, and…”

  The cop flips her notebook closed. She’s not waiting for me to finish. “Go home, Mr. Genevich. We may call or stop by your office tomorrow. Maybe you’ll be better equipped to help us after a good night’s sleep.”

  That hurts. The cop leaves me alone, propped up against someone’s apartment building. I’m behind the crowd, which has gathered around the news crew and the hero neighbor.

  I check my cell, and there are no messages. It’s almost 1:30 a.m., and I think about calling Gus and asking him to come get me, to help me home, but I won’t do that. It’s easier to think about closing my eyes and just disappearing, even if it’s only for a little while.

  Ambulance lights and sirens explode, giving me a jolt. The flashing lights reflect off the huddled buildings. We’re all in danger. I stub out the cigarette on my heel; maybe it’ll help spur my shoes into carrying me home. I adjust my hat and coat in anticipation of my renewed journey.

  I notice my stretcher is gone. I didn’t see it leave. Maybe it rolled away, slinked off on its own, looking for someone to help.

  Eleven

  I wake up on the couch. Again.

  I had a crazy dream about two FBI agents busting in and knocking my ass around the apartment, asking me about aliens, little green men. I had one living under my couch apparently. It said we tasted like chicken.

  My heart beats hard enough to alter my chest’s concavity. The sun is out, spewing its radiation through the windows. I sit up, blink, mash my hands around the mess of my face, and I might need to shave my tongue.

  Where the hell did that nightmare come from? My dreams and hypnagogic hallucinations are always so vivid and real, like snippets and disjointed scenes belonging to my incredibly detailed secret life, a life usually more inhabitable than my real one. But my recent dreams seem pumped up, maybe amphetamine enhanced.

  I’m wearing the same clothes I wore last night. I’m embarrassed for myself, so I take off the jacket, which feels lighter than it should. I check the pockets. My little bag of greenies isn’t in there. I could’ve hidden them in an odd place while asleep and in the throes of automatic behavior, but I’m not getting that vibe. I’m a vibe guy, after all.

  This summer, ever since Ellen left, my apartment has been a dog-eared paperback that’s missing its cover, nearly unreadable. Magazines, newspapers, DVD boxes, and assorted entertainment accoutrement crowd the coffee table and leak onto the floor, adding to the musical chairs of clutter that I don’t bother to rearrange after the music stops. That said, the apartment looks different. Stuff’s been moved, and not necessarily by me. There’s a kitchen chair on the other side of the coffee table. I know the asleep me a little bit, and he wouldn’t do that. The placement of the chair is too neat, too purposeful. My apartment door isn’t locked or latched. Someone was here.

  Maybe it was Gus, and he showed up this morning, following up on his nocturnal surveillance investment. Maybe the asleep me accepted his bon mots on a job well done, returned the amphetamines, and sent him on his merry way. If so, the asleep me is so thoughtful.

  I do a cursory search of the apartment, including the leaning tower of dishes in the sink and the butter and egg drawers of my refrigerator. No sign of the greenies. No butter or eggs either. I’ll worry about it later.

  My kitchen clock tells me it’s 12:39 p.m. The clock is a filthy liar. After a quick dry cereal and past-the-expiration milk repast and a gallon or two of coffee, I paint on a fresh change of clothes, shuffle down to my office, and crank up the computer. I want details on that fire. I’m not disappointed.

  Lead stories in all the local papers and blogs. Bold, large-font headlines at both the Boston Globe and Boston Herald Web pages; both original stories already have links to updates: Two-family town house on the corner of H and Fifth burned almost to the ground. There was one fatality—the first-floor resident whom authorities would not identify yet—and one critically injured eight-year-old boy who lived on the second floor with his single mother, Jody O’Malley, age twenty-four. The apartment lease lists her boyfriend, Eddie Ryan, as a cosigner. Yeah, that Eddie Ryan. Fire Department officials suspect arson, and while no suspects have been announced, the press is clearly presenting Eddie as one.

  Despite the late hour of the fire, Jody wasn’t home. She was drinking at a friend’s house down the street and had left her son alone. Jody O’Malley has been previously arrested a handful of times, and DSS has a file of abuse and neglect on Jody. Her son has now been removed from her custody. The updated links are about O’Malley, her documented violent relationship with Eddie, and years of oversights by the DSS concerning the well-being of her son, who had been removed from the home before, in 2006, but returned only six months later because the child’s grandmother was moving in to help out. The grandmother was never listed on the lease, and neighbors claimed she hadn’t lived in the apartment for over a year.

  There are also stories about Fred Carroll, as well. He’s the former air force lieutenant turned baker, the Good Samaritan neighbor who went into the burning building, found the O’Malley boy at the bottom of the stairs, and pulled him to safety. The cops didn’t believe I could’ve found the boy first. My continued snubbing is not Fred’s fault, but I hate him anyway.

  When I look up from my computer, four hours have disappeared. I’m not doing well today. I don’t know what to do or whom to blame. I get up and pace the room. I should never have taken the greenies. They hath forsaken me. But if I’m being honest with myself, which isn’t often enough, I know the greenies are another crutch, one too small even for Tiny Tim, and just another place to assign the blame because this day has really been no different from all the shitty ones that came before it. My time is always unstable and breaking down.

  I have a message on my cell. It’s Ellen, reminding me that the group therapy session will meet earlier than usual tonight. She has the schedule printed up and magnet-stuck to her refrigerator. She says that Dr. Who reports perfect attendance. She says, Keep it up, but leaves out the or else. Love you, too, Mom.

  I don’t call Ellen back. I call Gus’s cell twice. All I get are rings and a recorded Gus saying, “Speak and be free,” then a beep. The beep freezes me. I don’t know what to say. I want to talk about Ekat’s night, and the fire, ask why Eddie’s name is popping up everywhere, ask if he came by the apartment this morning and relieved me of the bag o’ green. If he was here, do I admit I was asleep again?

  I call a third time and leave the following message: “It’s Mark. Call me. We need to talk.” I can’t decide if I sound s
erious and threatening, or like a moon-eyed teenager pining over someone who might have dared sharing a look with me in the hallway between classes.

  Even if Gus did visit this morning, I don’t like that he isn’t answering his phone. I don’t like any of this, and I’m not sure what to do next, besides go to mandatory group therapy and draw Ellen something pretty for her fridge.

  Twelve

  This is the earliest our group has met, and it’s too bright in here. I shouldn’t have to squint indoors. Some shadows are okay, even necessary.

  Dr. Who passes a photocopy of the collective self-portraits we drew last session. There’s the doodle I drew of my head, center square. Below mine is Gus’s everything-falls-apart picture. Above me is the cat guy’s portrait, an anal-retentive stick figure surrounded by other, small, anal-retentive cat stick figures, with whiskers. He has whiskers too. Isn’t he so clever!

  There’s an empty chair in our circle: Gus’s. I hoped he would be here, but didn’t expect it. I leave my cell phone on, violating the number one group rule of phones off.

  A brief discussion ensues about the drawings, which quickly focuses on my doodle head. The agoraphobic woman in the baggy gray sweats thinks my picture is the most accurate, likes how I conveyed the height difference in my eyes, then asks me how my pulverized face happened. Cat guy cuts in and disagrees with her assessment and says there’s plenty of style but no substance to my doodle.

  I tell him I hate his cats, then I thank everyone for making me more self-conscious than I already am. That effectively ends the group chat for the day.

  Dr. Who hands out our journals. Today’s assignment is to write a sentence or two about yourself that you’ve never said aloud to anyone.

  I write and then cross out:

  All the other points of light at the Wellness Center are in deep thought, even the cat man, and scribbling down their sentences. Apparently, those secrets are easy to give up, which means they can’t be trusted. Dr. Who should know that. He hovers and gives winks and nods of encouragement.