Happy Halloween! (A short creepy story)

-Josephine-

It’s hard to clean them out. I pulled out the thin file, tip curved under the nail thingy that’s on my fingernail clippers. You know the one. The part we all use to clean the gunk out from under our nails. I think it was originally designed to be used on the cuticle or something. But I don’t know anyone who uses it that way.

Jamming it underneath the jagged edge I realized I should probably get a manicure at some point. I pulled in a quick hiss of air as the point jabbed in too far probing into the tender flesh. Filled with nerve endings that are normally protected from the rest of the world by my dirty nail, it hurt like hell. Lucky for me I didn’t go deep enough to draw blood.

I must admit I looked pretty despicable. Three of the lights over the bathroom mirror had blown out last week, but I’m just too lazy to get around to replacing them. In the light of the one remaining bulb, the green tiles on the counter reflected a swampy hue from below up toward my chin. I gave myself a Frankenstein grin and went back to the task at hand. Or task at nail for that matter. Cleaning my nails is usually a helluva lot easier, but the nail clipper tool was getting stuck this time.

I could hear him in the dining room flipping through my new coffee table book. It was all pictures of beat up rusty pickup trucks and century old fading barns that haven’t seen a paintbrush in decades. You’d think it would be boring, but there was something familiar to the images. They were almost spiritual in a way.

“I’ll be out in just a minute Gregg.” I shouted through the oak of the bathroom door. “Sorry it’s taking me so long.”

“No problem.” He sounded closer to the stereo now. “I apologize for the inconvenience, but I have to talk with everyone in town. What is this music you got? I like it.”

I placed the clippers back on the middle shelf of the medicine cabinet in between a half empty tube of Aim and the new package of shaving razors I bought last week, then wiped my hands dry on the daisy covered towel next to the sink. “Something my nephew sent me. He keeps me up to date on all the hip new shit. I love this record!” He was holding a disc case and reading the back when I stepped out of the bathroom.

Holding up the case he said over his shoulder, “I’ve never heard of these guys. Nice stuff. I can always rely on you for good music.” He put the case back down on top of the stereo and walked over to the fireplace resting his left arm on the mantel.

“I can make you a copy if you like. That is if you won’t haul me away in cuffs for breaking the copyright law Sheriff!” We both chuckled a little at that one.

“I won’t tell if you don’t.” Gregg held his right index finger up to his mouth pretending to shush me.

“Can I get you some water or something?” I walked toward the kitchen and started to root around in the fridge. “I’d offer you coffee or soda but I was just about to go to the I.G.A. tonight.”

“Thanks, but no.” Gregg walked over to the window and pulled the blue drapes over so he could look outside, possibly canvassing the area or some other law man stuff. “I’ve got to attend to business anyway. Have to see the Molina’s and a few more houses before I head back to the station.”

“What do you need Gregg?” I walked back out of the kitchen to the living room having found nothing of interest in the refrigerator.

“I don’t know if you heard, but Josephine Field is missing.” His hands clenched and I could tell he was upset about it. Gregg was a great Sheriff. He made sure to spend a little time getting to know everyone here in Pastor. We all loved him too. He was like our favorite uncle. He and I had been friends since we played ball together in high school. I for one wasn’t surprised when he went into law enforcement. He always had that commanding air of control in every situation. Whether it was throwing that perfect strike back in little league with a three and two count to end the bottom of the ninth or breaking up a bar fight.

“What? Oh my God. Not another one.” I grabbed the back of the couch to keep myself from falling over. This was the fourth time in three years. “Wh…” I swallowed hard on the word, “I mean, when?”

“Yesterday morning. She never made it in to the coffee shop.” Gregg raised his head toward the ceiling but kept his eyes closed. “According to Marcia she left for work around 5:30 AM, but no one’s seen her since.” His voice remained steady and matter-of-fact through the entire description. But I knew him well enough to hear the tiny tremble when he pronounced his long vowels.

“Marcia?” I had no idea who that was.

“Marcia Grayden is her roommate.” He explained. “They’ve been living together a year or so.” He raised his eyebrows a little bit at that. Then he whispered under his breath, “Pretty girls like that ought to have boyfriends if you ask me.” I don’t think he really meant for me to hear it.

All the guys in town had taken a shot at Josephine at some point. Her tip jar was always full with the hopes and fantasies of the single and married alike. She had genuine warmth to her personality that made everyone around her feel good about themselves. Not exactly flirtatious, but not exactly not flirtatious either. I always thought that those yellow brown eyes of hers could tame any lion.

“What can I do to help?” I went to get my fur lined denim jacket off the back of the table chair. “Do you want me to help put together a search party or something?”

“No.” Hands raised he walked towards me. “Hopefully we’ll find her before it comes to that. I just need you to keep an eye out for me again ok?” He sagged and I could see the weight bullying deep into his shoulders. “We’ve got to find her.”

“Sure Gregg.” I reached out and squeezed his arm gently. “I’ll do anything I can to help. You know that.”

Grabbing the hat off his head he wiped the sweat from the beginnings of a widow’s peak with his sleeve. “Thanks man. I know it’s a small town, but you’re one of the few folks around here I trust to have my back when things go downhill.”

I smiled and held my arms open wide. “What are friends for Gregg?” We walked to the door and I opened it for my old friend. It creaked a little on its hinge as he walked through to the porch.

“Keep your eyes open for strangers and stay by the phone just in case yeah?” Hat back on his head he could have been Glenn Ford or Gary Cooper in one of those old black and white westerns. He waved over his shoulder as he turned back toward the cruiser’s flashing lights.

Waving at the dust cloud kicked up by the tires pulling back on to the main road, I shook my head and locked the door. Don’t want be too careful with the possibility of strangers in town tonight. Closed all the drapes and turned the volume up. My favorite song on the album took its turn spinning around the air of the living room. “Oh which one of us is free…Josephine”, I sang along at the top of my lungs.

I grabbed the plate of leftovers out of the fridge and pulled off the saran wrap. The sauce was still tangy on my finger when I took a swipe. I balanced the plate carefully on my left hand and opened the closet with my right. Pushing my leather jacket and old dust covered letterman’s vest aside, I took the metal latch at the edge of the back wall and gave it a twist. The wall pushed back and I switched on the light so I wouldn’t trip going down the smooth cement stairs.

It’s a small town all right, and I love it here.

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Nolitangere

Early in the last century any attempt at surgery on the human heart was considered impossible. Every medical student was taught to never touch the heart. It meant certain death to any patient at the time and the prevailing concept of “nolitangere” would never change. Dr. Alfred Blalock and his lab technician Vivien Thomas swam against this stream and performed the world’s first successful surgery on the “blue baby” Ileen Saxon in 1944.

Doctors all around the world perform more than one million heart procedures every year now. What used to be a flight of fantasy is now such a commonplace concept. From quadruple bypasses to complete transplants. Extending life for decades where it would have stopped far short of that less than a century ago. Almost all of us have a family member or a friend who has gone through some sort of cardiac procedure.

If you are reading this, then you know someone for sure.

It’s raining outside today. Mist covers the grass in a thin layer between my window and the house across the way. Birds are quiet and the neighborhood dogs must all be inside. All I can hear are the drops of water falling from the sky as they land in the puddles their precursors filled up in the dirt overnight.

Chilly, but not too cold, the weather won’t start frosting for another month or so yet. I saw on the news how hot it is back out west. By the time I get home from my surgery next month we’ll be wearing heavier coats and probably hanging out under blankets in the house.

I remember coming home after I was first diagnosed with heart failure. I remember sitting down on the couch with my eyes closed. My dog Ringo jumped right up on my lap and shoved his nose against my chest. He held it there for a long time. Then he looked up at me and started licking my face. Anyone who says dogs aren’t intelligent needs to come up with a new litmus test. Ringo won’t be here to help nurse me back to health this time. But Sadie will.

I don’t know if I’m more apprehensive this time or not. I know what to expect at least. Though I’m not really sure if that’s good or bad. It’s such an odd thing to think about. I’ll be awake one moment, then nothing but black. I won’t remember waking up. I won’t remember yelling and screaming profanities at the recovery nurses. I won’t remember shouting at the top of my lungs “I need to pee!” because they just removed my catheter.

Unfortunately my wife will. She’ll have to deal with all of it. Once I calm down and regain a sense of myself, she’ll tell me everything I did and said. I’ll be completely embarrassed. I’ll shower the staff with apologies. They’ll smile and shrug their shoulders and say that a lot of their patients act like that when they come out of anesthesia. I won’t believe them and keep trying to convince them that, “I’m not really like that. I’m really a nice guy.”

I probably won’t be able to use my arms very much for a while. The operating table won’t have any supports so my shoulders will fall backwards for the seven or eight hours I’m being operated on. Small tears will occur in the muscles around the balls of my shoulders. That’s where most of the pain during my recovery will come from. My chest and the incisions in my nether regions will most likely not bother me at all.

We have a comfy couch and cable. Netflix too. I’m sure I’ll be catching up on all the crappy sci-fi that I’ve missed. Maybe I’ll watch “The Wire” or “Mad Men”. I don’t know. Any recommendations will be greatly appreciated. I’ll be on some great pain meds for the first few weeks so I might just be watching my hallucinations roam around the living room for a while.

I’m hoping I’ll be able to get in here on the computer from time to time. Since I won’t have to walk up stairs to get in my studio this time, I want to document as much of this process as I can. I may even see if Melissa will bring my hand held recorder in to my room so I can hear myself after I wake up. Maybe that’s a little dark, but for some reason it’s intriguing to me.

For now anyway, I plan on playing with my kids and kissing my wife a lot. I’m going to keep looking out my window and marvel as the leaves change colors. I’m going to read e.e. cummings, Danielewski, Matheson and Auden. I’m going to listen to Olafur Armalds, Bach, the Foo Fighters and the Damnwells. I’m going to work on my next book. I’m going to write music. I’m going to teach myself the Ukulele. I’m going to think about how hard Alfred Blalock and Vivien Thomas worked so hard to keep me and millions of others just like me alive.

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Writing is the loneliest thing I have ever done. I can’t say that I enjoy the process of writing, but I do love having written. There are fleeting moments when I get lost in the words my fingers are typing out and I am completely the story. No Id or ego, no I or Me, just the events occurring on the page.

Back when I was playing music I would get this out of body experience sometimes. It didn’t happen very often, but I would be playing a song with the band, my eyes would slowly close and there would be nothing left of me other than the music. I could almost see my hands playing the instrument like I was watching from a different place. Then I would make the mistake of thinking about it and I would be sucked back into myself.

It was rare, but one of the most amazing feelings in the world. The best part for me was that the other players felt it too. I wasn’t alone in the experience. That seemed to make it more real. We could all feel the moments when we were in “it” together. We could also tell when “it” was over.

Writing is different. It’s just me here. By myself. Alone. I complain about how I spend so much solitary time now that the kids are back in school. I see my wife making new friends and spending time out in the world with them and I sometimes become envious.

I go out into the world when I can. I try to meet people. I try to make friends. But when I’m out there, I find myself wishing that I was back here again. Alone with the stories in my head. Trying to get back to that place where I’m not even me. Trying to get lost in-between the letters and the sentences. Trying to find the empty spaces so I can float into the story and watch it unfold from nothing into something...real.

It’s not an easy thing to do. This nothingness requires a great deal of effort. All the zen koans point out different paths to take that will lead you to the same place. Attempting to get to the “Beginner’s mind” for lack of a better name.

The great masters spent years sitting still next to a tree. Some screamed at the base of a waterfall trying to sing along with the symphonies created by the crashing on the rocks. Calligraphy, tea ceremonies, Tai Chi, Haiku were all exercises to reach peace and enlightenment. Me, I played the drums and now I write on the computer.

I honestly don’t see any difference other than the addition of technology into the mix. The world is a much different place than it was fifty years ago let alone three thousand. With everything that goes on in my world these days, I’m lucky that I still have an outlet that helps me get to the nothing. However infrequent that may be.

I’ve mentioned this before, but I began writing after it started to become too difficult for me to play the drums anymore. Some poems here, a short story there until the suggestion came for me to write a novel. In that process I found nothing. One day I was sitting at my computer, and then I just wasn’t there anymore. I was the story. The sounds in my head were gone, my fingers didn’t feel the keys clicking anymore. All that happened was the story on the screen.

I could see it. I could smell the character’s sweat. I could feel the dirt under finger nails and hear the different timbres of people's voices flowing up and down like a melody. My heart pounded when they were afraid and I even heard the kitchen chairs squeak when they got up from the table. It was the first time I’d felt that in years. The first time since music brought me there.

After that moment I knew I could get there again. It doesn’t happen every day. It doesn't even happen every week. That’s not the point. If it happened every time, it wouldn’t be so special. It’s not something that should be permanent. There has to be a balance between the real world and nothing. Nothing isn’t easy. Nothing needs to be earned.

I heard quote on the radio the other day that keeps repeating in my head. The interview was about the differences between songwriting and writing fiction. The interviewee said that in many respects they are both the same thing. Trying to make something out of nothing. This I find is true. But the quote that struck me most came when he was asked if he had any advice for younger writers. He said this,

“Young writers sit around and wait for inspiration. Older writers get to work.”

Time to get to work

-a

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