Cemetery Strike Page 5

  I sat in a waiting room, dreaming up huffing, hoping it wasn’t just some fluke that wouldn’t work again. When I finally got admitted to his office, I sat down and right away told him that Crystal accused me of something I didn’t do and then threw me out.

  He said, “Don’t you remember me heavily suggesting not to room with her?”

  “I remember,” I said. The guy had my balls tied up to a pulley system on his ceiling and a gun on his hip. Of course I said I remembered.

  “Then why’d you do it?” He tugged on that string, choking my balls. “Huh, John? Why?”

  “She helped me, at the time,” I said. “When we moved in together after rehab, everything was great.”

  “You’re changing me, John.” He shook his head, showing disappointment. “You’re making me think I should’ve been much harsher with you. I don’t like the feeling of regret. Tell me John. Did I make the wrong decision betting on you?” He didn’t want an answer, so I kept my mouth shut. He said, “From now on I should just give my cases orders, that’s what I should do from now on. Don’t let anyone make their own choices. Is that it, John? ‘Cause if you give them an inch they’ll take the whole yardstick and start whacking you with it.”

  The last line was so ridiculous that one burst of laughter ejected itself from my lungs. He had me for a little while, but then the last line changed it.

  Satisfied with himself, my PO leaned back in his swivel chair like he just said the most amazing truism the world had ever seen. His fat squeezed between the armrests, spilling out to the floor. I wanted to tell him not to lean back too far, because I didn’t think I could help him off the floor if he tipped over.

  He sat there, waiting for tears of amazement, his hand on the string tied to my balls, his eyes just looking at it. I guess this was the part where I told him he could trust people. I said, “I don’t wanna ruin it for the next guy. I should’ve listened to you, but to be honest, Crystal was a piece of ass. At the time––”

  “Again it’s that immediate feedback that’s ruining you. You’re so smart, John.” He gave some slack to the string, took out the featherduster and started tickling. “With all the tests we’ve given you in and out of the joint, you’re right on the line of being a bright guy. You just need to be able to plan better, and to listen to authority.”

  “You sound like my counselor.”

  “It’s funny you should mention him, ‘cause I’m sending you there, right after you report to the safe house.” He gave a full tug on the string, causing my face to wince. Then he slipped a packet of papers out from his desk and stood up. I stood too, ready as hell to go. With my back already turned and my hand on the doorknob, he said, “Oh, and John. Before you go I’ll need a urine sample. It’s procedure, before being placed in a home.”

  Fuck. I’d been high the night before. I saw a gorgeous ballerina dancing because of what the Chinese delivery guy called meth gas. Methane gas, rye? Would it show up in my system? I started imagining myself in prison, no dead bodies in sight.

  My PO said, “You’re gonna be fine with the urine sample, right John?”

  I nodded, but no, I wasn’t fine. I had my balls tied to a pulley system and I wasn’t huffing bodies.

  “ ‘Cause you don’t look so good all of a sudden,” my PO said. “I’ve been doing this a long time, John, and the way you look I should get the cuffs out right now.”

  “Let’s take the piss test,” I said, swallowing my spit.

  “Oh. By all means.” He gestured for me to walk out of the office ahead of him.

  Probably because of the sweat dripping out of my Woods Edge baseball hat, my PO took such an interest that he personally watched me piss into a cup. I tried to turn away from him, but the dude kept moving angles so he could see whether or not I was slipping in fake piss. Moving as close to the urinal as I could, I spilled some on my hands. Then, finished, I put the cup on a little shelf designed specifically for it.

  Even though a box of gloves were right next to the cup, my PO took the container in his bare hands and stuck in a thermometer to see if it was body temperature, like I could’ve handed him someone else’s warmed-up piss on the spot. He just grunted and huffed the whole time, fat poking into his lungs and stomach and neck. Satisfied with the temperature, he took out the thermometer and stuck in the strip to see what unlawful chemicals were inside of me.

  And we waited, piss dripping from my hands, sweat from my head. I couldn’t even run out of the bathroom to escape to the cemetery so I could huff one last time before being escorted away. His fat body blocked the door, and there was no way I was getting past him.

  Finally, my PO took the strip out of the cup, poured the piss into the sink, and threw the cup into the trash. He said, “Alright John. I don’t know what you’re hiding, but you’re all clear here.”

  “I know,” I said, my face hot.

  We were still in the bathroom. His fat body framed the door so I couldn’t leave. I almost asked if I had to wash my hands before he would let me pass, but I didn’t want to start being rude. Not with my balls all tied up. So I just waited.

  And he didn’t move. He just looked at me like to see if I zipped up the right way. Then, still in the bathroom, and still blocking the door, he pulled out his fat, beat up wallet from his back pocket. I thought he was gonna start throwing dollar bills at me, but he took out a card from one of the flaps, wrote something on the back, and said, “Go to this address, John. That’s where you’ll be staying. Sign in, grab a shower, then report to your counselor. I’ll call to let him know you’re coming.”

  I had the card in my hand and some other paperwork he’d already given me. We were done, but he still blocked the door, imprisoning me. I felt agitated, but I was trying to keep it in by just staring at him. The horns on my head began to throb. I needed to leave, but I knew if I asked him to get the fuck out of my way it would’ve made things worse. He’s that type of person. The type of guy who will push you to say or do something stupid and then call you out on it. So I just stood there, waiting, violence bouncing all around my insides.

  At some point he turned to leave and then checked himself. He said, “Interesting hat, John.”

  “What?”

  “Interesting hat. You’ve never worn a hat before? You always just let that dazzling hair of yours flow. Why the hat today? And why wear it so low on your head?”

  I don’t know how blood didn’t start dripping from those horns. I said, “I don’t know what to tell you, or what you want, or why we’re still in the bathroom. I’m wearing a fucking hat.”

  “Whoa John,” my PO said. “Easy there.” He tugged on the string to see if my balls could still feel pain. He said, “It’s my job to be perceptive. Being aware of my surroundings kept me alive out on the field. And in here, it helps me help people. I know things about my cases that they won’t even admit to themselves.” His fat weighed hard on his neck and shoulders, he breathed so heavy. He said, “Like now, with you. I feel like you have something else to share.”

  “I have to get out,” I said.

  He fixed his belt, tucking in globs of fat. “Sure John,” he said. “Thanks for coming in today. Great job with the urine analysis.” He sidestepped. I grabbed the handle and yanked open the door.

  “Oh, and John.”

  I’d gotten three stomps away, but he held me there midstride, imprisoned by invisible strings.

  He said, “How’s that new job working out for ya?”

  I stood there, my body vibrating with anxious numbness, not wanting to understand the words.

  “If there’s too much conflict there, you know what to do. I mean, the strike, the media. The stench alone would be enough to set someone off. It might be a bit much for you. If you need to find something else, I won’t hold it against you. You could take the time to find something else.”

  “I’m fine there,” I said. “I’m fine.”

  ––––––

  The couple that ran the safe house was pretty
hands off, which I needed right then. They also had no personality whatsoever. An older husband and wife duo, they probably kept working to remind themselves why they needed to help the community. But looking at them, at their lack of enthusiasm for life, it was like they’d forgotten even that. In the foyer, the man read me a list of rules, had me sign the paper, and then the woman handed me a key. After that, they basically stayed nonexistent for the rest of my time there.

  I walked down that musty hallway myself, pausing in front of me and my new roommate’s room. I knocked. No one answered. Looking at the white door, its paint cracked like eggshells, I started thinking what I always thought: Why is this bothering me? I don’t care. I don’t care. So what, the place smells and no one wants to be here. So what? I knocked one more time before shoving in the key.

  The room looked like a prison cell that someone’s grandma spiced up. There was a desk and chair on one wall and a bunk bed across from it. The top bunk had a photograph of two young Hispanic women at the beach with their bikini thongs on.

  “Aye papi.” A strong arm slapped my back.

  I turned. It was Armando. He’d caught me looking at the photograph of the women in their ocean undies. He jumped up on the top bed, laid down, pointed to the photo, and said, “Mi esposa y mi novia. Abrazando. Ha.” Then he kissed the two fingers you’d put in a girl’s twat and patted each woman on the face.

  Fucking Armando. We had gotten hired at Woods Edge on the same day, with similar backgrounds, probably with the same recommendations, and for the same reasons. I don’t know why they would’ve put two of us together. Even at a safe house, where they were just there to house us, they should’ve known. Our PO should’ve known, at least. Being so observant and all.

  So yeah, no one thought to stop me and Armando from rooming together. So of course we became friends.

  ––––––

  When I finally got in to see him, the counselor asked, “What brings us here today?”

  I said, “Didn’t Turner call you and set this up?” I didn’t feel like talking. I’d already been detained in too many rooms where I didn’t want to be. It’d been a long day. And I just kept dreaming up that ballerina, wishing for this session to be over.

  The counselor said, “He did, yes. Even so, I try to get as little second-hand information as possible. I’d much rather hear it from you.” He put his pen in his mouth. He never wrote anything with it, but he always twisted it in his fingers or bit down on it. “So please explain to me: What started this last chain of events?”

  “I lost my piece of ass,” I said. “I got no one to sit on my face.” I think the headache from my horns was coming back. I suddenly didn’t want to be there.

  “You know, to me, when you describe a break up like that, followed by being forced to move to a new home, and all along working in a stressful, almost unreal environment, to me, it’s…a bit…disturbing. I want you to think about how you’re processing all of the…”

  Disturbing. That was the best word he could find. Dr. Moe, the government-paid counselor employed to encourage me to be a mentally stable American citizen able to produce taxable income, called me disturbing. All while his job was to make me normal, not show me how I wasn’t.

  So I prompted him. “What? You said in the beginning if I opened up we’d be done with all this much sooner.”

  “Oh, have no doubt––we’ll be finished quicker than if you aren’t truthful. But this. To the degree you speak of it. It’s something we should explore. But first, let’s shift gears for a moment. Your father,” he said. “Moe, you call him. You said he died without accomplishing much, without doing much of anything.”

  I said, “You know, doctor––”

  “I’d prefer if you called me Charles.”

  “Dr. Charles,” I said, now standing. “I don’t see how the fuck you bring up my father after I tell you there’s no more vagina to swallow my face. It’s kinda sick, if you ask me. It’s almost like you’re trying to mix my father’s failures with my girlfriend’s genitals.”

  “Can I stop you there? Let me explain. Please, John, take a seat.”

  I sat, but right on the edge of the seat. And I wouldn’t look at him.

  “Listen carefully, John.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “John. If you’re––”

  “Stop using my name as a control device.”

  The room got hot. I could feel my devil horns bulb up.

  “Please,” Dr. Moe said, putting his hand up. His hand had the limp pen between two fingers. “Now this is just a hypothesis, but I think you use sex as a way to gain meaning.” I shifted in my seat, chewing my teeth. “The act of sex, merely talking about it, gives your life meaning and importance. After linking what you shared with a few major points from our previous sessions, it seems evident to me that you use drugs, sex, cigarettes, food, and any other addictions you might have as a way to attain meaning.” He licked the pen, satisfied with himself. Then he said, “And John. I think what it comes down to is your own accomplishments. Your own measure of meaning and importance in this world. You have to think about what makes you important.”

  I got up and walked to the door. Before even touching the door, I turned back and said, “If I leave now are you gonna tell Turner I walked out?”

  “We’re done. John.”

  I slammed the door behind me.

  I guess I should share some words about my father, just so you don’t think I overreacted with the counselor. In middle school, the court ordered me to live him because my mom told the judge she couldn’t get me to go to school. The truth is, though, she had her own boyfriends and parties to deal with.

  My father’s name was Aimo Wall, but everyone called him Moe. The guy––King Moe himself––lied about everything. And he didn’t make up interesting stories about his past. He lied about little things. The way some people tell bad jokes, he lied. The way sleazy guys wear cologne, he emanated a smell of cigarettes and syrup and lies.

  That’s really all there is to King Moe, except that he died alone and he’s buried at Woods Edge. Or I guess I mean he was buried there.

  Chapter Six

  Alyssa Alliano, local celebrity turned international star, yoga bitch turned political correspondent, is the one who brought the cemetery strike to the rest of the world. What really blew it up was the interview she had with the president. If you watched it, you saw more than just her legs. You saw my toothy face, too, in the background, on the president’s own home television.

  The beginning of the interview was set up like a briefing, like Alyssa Alliano was giving the president information he didn’t know by showing him video clips of the strike. I think it was mostly to give the public the president’s disappointed reaction while the country watched him experience the strikes firsthand. Watching, he kept holding his chin and shaking his head. Right as they got to the part with me in it, the president stiffened as I said, “I guess we want what everyone wants…More.”

  Right when I said that, the president said, “Pause it here, please.” And the screen behind the president froze on my face. “That’s a poignant remark,” the president said. “Everyone involved wants more. The unions are insatiable. The boards are greedy. The workers want more for their families. It’s a truthful remark.” The president turned back toward Alyssa Alliano. “What is the gentleman’s name?”

  “I don’t recall, Mr. President.”

  With me grinning in the background, the president said, “The man on screen here,” and the president of the United States pointed at me, presenting me to the world, “has opened our eyes to the greed that plagues our great nation. And that is why I scheduled this meeting today. To help resolve the issue that has been hurting one of the greatest cities on our planet.” The president looked solidly at the screen, at everyone home watching. He folded his hands together. He said, “This bureaucratic war is being waged at the expense of grieving families, religious beliefs, the public health, and spirituality itself.
That is why I urge the union and the board to come to a swift resolution. I urge each party involved to do whatever they must to end this without delay. And if it drags out, then I, acting on behalf of the federal government, will be the one to do more.”

  I watched the interview with Armando. We were sitting on the secondhand couch in the common room of the safe house. While watching, Armando got up, licked his two fingers, and rubbed the screen where Alyssa Alliano sat, getting rainbow cum on her skirt. Afterward, me and Armando went outside and smoked a pack of cigarettes while he chanted, “Mas, mas, mas, mas.”

  The whole next day at work all the guys called me “Mr. More.” Even the Hole of a Bitch was cool about it. It felt like being known, but in a good way. And I needed that after all the shit that happened with Crystal, my PO, and Dr. Moe.

  ––––––

  A couple days after the interview aired, right as me and the other guys finished placing all the morning’s bodies on top of layers of fallen leaves (fresh bodies for me to huff later), Crystal showed up. She stood at the locked gate as we came back to pick up our picket signs.

  When I looked at her she stepped closer to me, her head down. She said, “I saw you on the news.” And her finger touched my shirt.

  I said, “It’s November. Shouldn’t you be at home having your period.”

  Instead of getting pissed off, she grabbed my balls and twisted my nipple through my shirt. Then she kissed me. I hated her for abandoning me, but she had her tongue in my mouth, so I pressed mine into hers. Then she bit it and wouldn’t let go.

  “Thuck. Le’ go.”

  She just laughed, my tongue still between her teeth. Then she let go and said, “Why haven’t you visited me?”

  “Because you kicked me out.”