I walk outside holding a lukewarm ceramic mug of unnecessary coffee.
I spent most of the morning on my laptop, perusing various articles for mentions of any company by the name “Agarico”. There were none. I worried that maybe I’d misheard Bradford, that it was something else, but the memory of the word rings true. Some phantom organization with no records. Either that, or he's lying. More lies, more deception. The last thing I need right now is a further illusory layer.
I don’t like words that have no traceable etymology.
When I was young I had nightmares about a man named Merrick. I have no idea why that was his name, where I initially heard it, or why this character in particular took that name. Dream people are like that- in certain ways, they’re more human than us, because they’re pure instinct, raw and vibrant, and we therefore try to dismiss them.
In my dreams, Merrick was a friend of my dad’s, he would come over to the house and ring the doorbell, stride in- I remember seeing his long trenchcoat unfurling around his legs, a massive gray thing he would promptly discard on the big sofa in the living room. My dad would come up to him and pat him on the shoulder, behave extremely cordial. If I recall, in these dreams he was a friend of my father’s from his job as an advertising executive on Madison Avenue, or before that, from the days in Vietnam- my dad hadn’t seen active service in the theater but he was a clerk stationed at an outpost in the states- I think the latter.
I never saw Merrick’s face before the transformation took place, he was too tall for me to see, taller than even my father, who in real life stood 6’ whereas I was unusually stunted for my age, so I would stumble aimlessly around this world of giants, this normally comfortable home environment warped and twisted by Merrick’s vile presence.
My father was jovial like always, warm and receptive, telling his jokes from the old country, stories or anecdotes that littered his mind. And Merrick would sit, gangly legs crossed- he was thin, a beanpole, really- and take it in silently, without saying a word. My father’s voice would be distorted through several layers of haze, his lips moved in slow motion, the room would be enrobed in a golden aura.
And then, the color would drain from it, it would turn all sickly red, I’d look at my hands and they’d be covered in blood and then turn towards the staggering behemoth that Merrick had become, a looming shadow with two bright, piercing quartz diamonds penetrating to the core of my soul from underneath his wide-brimmed hat, his stringy hair blowing back and forth on unseen winds, and from his invisible mouth, there came the rasping voice:
“I was never really here.”
And then the room would howl and blow as if being ripped apart by a hurricane, and my dad would sit like a statue, motionless, a block of marble while the vortex hurled objects around him, hand poised in midair, and as the noise reached its crescendo, and my eardrums imploded-
I would wake up, imaginary sound still ringing in my brain, reeling from the effects my mentality had on itself, and I’d be screaming at the top of my lungs. My mother would appear in the doorway, bring me a cup of tea and a sandwich and pat me on the back, tell me that everything would be all right, even if she didn’t know what would work or how to approach such an issue.
Months of therapy followed, practices and exercises. Charts with esoteric symbols, triangles and squares, squishy toys I could hold to relieve stress, meditation techniques with incense and breathing rituals. None of it worked. I’d have the dream with Merrick once a week, every other night I’d be alone in some featureless infinite void, fingers clawing at me well into the abyss, fitful restless abandon, my blood pressure rising to unbelievable levels-
I asked my father about Merrick, who he is or where he came from, and all my father could tell me was that he didn’t know why I had the dreams that I did, but they’d go away eventually, he’d kiss me on the forehead and talk every night at the dinner table about how my health was improving, but the nosebleeds continued and the headaches increased.
Maybe that’s why, as the years have progressed, I’ve been searching for smaller and smaller boxes to fit myself into, because otherwise I’d be trapped in the screaming cyclone that rips my sinews from my flesh, the all-encompassing whirlpool morass of human consciousness, the loud fray of understanding.
The caffeine has settled down to the bottom of the cup, I take a final sip and a deep breath, lean against my Camry like a crutch, a metallic appendage. It’s baking hot out here, fire weather, Sheila’s probably dealing with more burn victims at the ER. Even if they aren’t careless, anyone can start a fire under these conditions. Muggy, inescapable weather, the sort of day where you want to strip all your clothes off and go for a dip, soak your head inside and out.
I grab the garden hose off the side of the house, turn the faucet on heavy, damn the water bill, I’ve taken two showers already but it’s not enough. Need to run this coursing snake over every exposed inch of skin, rejuvenate my cells with the universal solvent. I probably look insane to the neighbors, but I don’t care.
Once that’s done, I spray the hose off the side of my car, to Hell with the paint job, they say in the owners’ manual you’re not supposed to do this, but it’s too hot, could use a nice rinse, take some mud off the rims and tread. The water cascades over the windshield and bounces off the windows, spraying me in equal measure. A rainbow inexplicably forms, lasting a few seconds before I turn it away and lug the hose back over to its spot, kill the faucet and feel around for my keys. There they are. Jangle.
Keys in the slot, rev up the engine, put on the seat belt- careful, it’s as hot as an easy-bake oven. Slide it home. Another deep breath, warm climate doesn’t help my circulatory problems any. Reach down for my thermos, retrieve my pills from the glove box. Down two with the awful lukewarm juice from last night, no idea how this will interact with the sedative or traces of whatever that powder was, but the state of my insides is the least of my concerns.
Good to have a day off, to have no particular obligations or goals, just the breeze caressing my hair follicles and the afternoon scent of minerals wafting in from Walker Ranch. Past the antenna, down the hill, beyond the demarcation line. Things are good. Breathe.
I haven’t gotten around to seeing a lot of town yet, at least not as much as I’d like to. We strolled down to the Riverwalk the first chance we got, every travel blog we checked espoused it as the most active area around, the must-see attraction. She was enamored by it, I was pleasantly surprised at how well-kept the Arkansas is compared to the Platte, neat little cement borders and no natural features. A modern serpent.
But I know that’s only for beginners, I know I can get deeper than that, off the beaten path and into the less respectable side of things. Show me your secrets, damn you, let me peel off another layer of context and don my chameleon robe yet again.
I pull over next to a hill covered in a thick layer of shrubs and grass, take off my shirt, check my watch. 3:05 P.M. It’s instinctive, even if I have no deadlines I do it out of habit. Roll the windows down, feel the sun on my chest and the warm air entering through my nostrils. I stare up at the sun through my visor, it’s crawling down beneath the rim and sparkling in colorful shards across my retina. Cloudless sky.
My attention is drawn to the signpost. Locust Street. And above the unwavering telephone pole stands like a piquant gentleman, arms outstretched to bear the burden of so many chattering souls, blazing current shuttled through the metal box on its side. Locust Street. The domain of the festering swarm, bright hungry things gnashing mandibles in the holes and underground burrows, set to unleash a venomous plague at any moment. Any moment-
I stand up, shirtless, thermos in hand, pour the remainder of the sickly sweet mixture into the dirt, watch as it evaporates in the dust, run my hand over it just to make sure. Cross the road after looking both ways. Need to find a water fountain so I can refill.
The lake. Modest, scrappy thing, but it’ll do.
If I look sick, it’s because I am sick, whether because of the precise temperature or the distinct lack of water particulate in the atmosphere- a Coloradan phenomenon not exclusive to these parts- or maybe you can chalk it up to the way all these incompatible drugs are engaging in a calculated assault on my nervous system, little spasmodic twitches. No difference, this park is likely littered with a couple tranq users every other day of the week.
Sure enough, out on the pier, leaning over the guardrail, one ragged old skeleton in a hoodie smelling the foil. That’ll be Eddie in a couple years, you go straight from- what was it he called it? Old hickory. It isn’t as acute as tranq, at least I presume as much because I’ve never done any, but when I was working late shifts back in Denver a particular month we were rushed with a fresh supply of junkies, sleep-cut mannequins with quivering limbs and wide-open stares. They’re spreading, all of them, people so low down the rungs that they’re reduced to simple animal behavior. At every bus stop they huddle in the cold, eyes soaked with tears and faces red from the influx of toxic poison.
And all around them, the lingering scent of burning plastic.
I ignore the addict, ignore the two children running around near the trash can, their father staring down into his phone in the shade of a sprawling oak. My eyes remain locked on the water, the life-giving source, the abiogenetic compound. I can’t break my attachment to it, my dependency on it. I can’t stop.
In one smooth movement, my limbs snap forward, my brain having only microseconds to take into account the inertia, legs heaving forward and then knees bending and springing up as I leap headlong into the depths, catching a moment of refreshing air, not caring about getting wet or whether this is allowed under the current legislation or whether anyone is watching.
I plummet ten feet, splash down into the mire, droplets rushing out around me as I make the impact and break the surface tension, and then the surf envelops me, my face is aquatically suffocated, and I’m 15 again and wading out into the streetlamp-lit borders of the Hudson, my sister is warning me not to go in too deep, it’s twilight and she can’t see me in the gathering dusk below the soot-drenched smokestacks.
She’s nagging me about the currents that can rush in without warning, but I don’t hear her very well because her voice is reverberating in the chasms, bouncing around without a definite pattern. I continue until the water reaches my ankles, then my knees, then my hips.
It’s 2024 and I feel nothing.