The Last Time: Part 1
You never know these days when you do anything if it’s for the last time. So I just keep jerking off in defiance of death. It’s the perfect quarantine pastime. It’s not an antidote to loneliness, though. Never was. Trust me. I’m an expert in both.
Since the crisis started my dog walking gigs have dried up like pooch piss on a sunny sidewalk, and of course my private eye days are long behind me, unless you count my existential examination of life. That’s an ongoing mystery. Few clues to share right now, sorry. The world is always one step ahead of me, making it hard to follow. I was always lousy at surveillance, anyway.
Now everyone is getting laid off. I’m still trying to get laid, or get off. That was always hard to do, even before social distancing, one trend I actually pioneered, but as usual nobody knows it but me.
I got my share of poon tang, I guess. But as I grow older, I find myself masturbating to memories of sex more than actually creating new ones. Life is not a gourmet buffet. Like presidential elections, it’s often a case of choosing between bad and worse. Like growing old vs. dying young. Not sure, but I think I’m in the high risk demographic for this thing. My underlying condition is I’m a loser by nature. That tends to undermine one’s chances of beating anything, except one’s self.
On the bright side of this noir equation, I’m a pretty pessimistic person anyway. I doubt I’d ever test positive for anything, except negativity.
I’m lost in this morbid contemplation of my own doom mixed with mental images of Bettie Page when the phone rings again.
Since the crisis started my dog walking gigs have dried up like pooch piss on a sunny sidewalk, and of course my private eye days are long behind me, unless you count my existential examination of life. That’s an ongoing mystery. Few clues to share right now, sorry. The world is always one step ahead of me, making it hard to follow. I was always lousy at surveillance, anyway.
Now everyone is getting laid off. I’m still trying to get laid, or get off. That was always hard to do, even before social distancing, one trend I actually pioneered, but as usual nobody knows it but me.
I got my share of poon tang, I guess. But as I grow older, I find myself masturbating to memories of sex more than actually creating new ones. Life is not a gourmet buffet. Like presidential elections, it’s often a case of choosing between bad and worse. Like growing old vs. dying young. Not sure, but I think I’m in the high risk demographic for this thing. My underlying condition is I’m a loser by nature. That tends to undermine one’s chances of beating anything, except one’s self.
On the bright side of this noir equation, I’m a pretty pessimistic person anyway. I doubt I’d ever test positive for anything, except negativity.
I’m lost in this morbid contemplation of my own doom mixed with mental images of Bettie Page when the phone rings again.
The Last Time: Part 2
.My smartphone. Yes, I have one, though it’s smarter than me . Not entirely sure how it works, but it takes pictures and I can talk on it, too. Look at me, figuring things out for myself.
I answer it because what the hell, a voice is a voice, and that’s always good these days, especially if it’s coming from outside your own head. Not sure who it could be. I hardly know anyone in Seattle even though I’ve been here for years. Hard to maintain associates in this gloomy town, even if I wanted to. Relationships hit icebergs even in the warmest conditions. It’s called the Seattle freeze. Ironically, that’s one reason I moved here from San Francisco so long ago. Some like it cool. I’ve always avoided eye contact, except for actual eye contacts, unless there was a hot body attached. Now all anyone lusts after is antibodies.
I suppose that’s crude and sexist. But in a global pandemic, it’s petty to pick on our human faults and foibles. We’re all going to die anyway. If not this, something. So what if we’re bastards. Nature doesn’t care. It’s not personal.
Okay, maybe it is.
I answer it because what the hell, a voice is a voice, and that’s always good these days, especially if it’s coming from outside your own head. Not sure who it could be. I hardly know anyone in Seattle even though I’ve been here for years. Hard to maintain associates in this gloomy town, even if I wanted to. Relationships hit icebergs even in the warmest conditions. It’s called the Seattle freeze. Ironically, that’s one reason I moved here from San Francisco so long ago. Some like it cool. I’ve always avoided eye contact, except for actual eye contacts, unless there was a hot body attached. Now all anyone lusts after is antibodies.
I suppose that’s crude and sexist. But in a global pandemic, it’s petty to pick on our human faults and foibles. We’re all going to die anyway. If not this, something. So what if we’re bastards. Nature doesn’t care. It’s not personal.
Okay, maybe it is.
The Last Time: Part 3
I’m half hoping it’s my missing wife on the line. But no, just music again. So maybe it is her. Once more, like old times, it’s the sound of a scratchy 45, not the kind you shoot yourself with after swilling a bottle of tears. Sinatra singing “The Last Dance.” I put it to my ear and get up and dance around the dingy little room by myself, Billy Idol style, the cheap dive’s red neon sign beaming from outside the window like a satanic spotlight. Once the song ends, as it always does, the caller, no ID, hangs up. I try dialing *69 but that doesn’t work on these fancy 21st pocket computers.
Years ago, in the previous century, pre-pandemic—the cultural divide in our common consciousness— a stalker I labeled The Phone Phantom used to leave me these mysterious musical messages on something called an answering machine. I had no idea who it was, though I had my suspicions, until I met Val, my missing wife, who confessed. She was courting me from the shadows of my consciousness long before we got met ’n’ married. I hope she’s still on my trail, wherever she’s hiding now.
I remember the last time we kissed, the last time we made love, the last time we watched movies together. The last time we laughed. I wish I had her here with me now, I mean in physical form, not this spiritual jazz. Solitude for me was a thing of the past, I thought. Now it’s everyone’s present. A present we’d all like to re-gift.
So I jerk off again, thinking of Val and Bettie Page and all my many lovers, real or imagined, trying to get a grip on reality, but it keeps slipping through my sticky fingers, despite my ennui-induced erections.
I can’t remember the last time anything was this hard.
Years ago, in the previous century, pre-pandemic—the cultural divide in our common consciousness— a stalker I labeled The Phone Phantom used to leave me these mysterious musical messages on something called an answering machine. I had no idea who it was, though I had my suspicions, until I met Val, my missing wife, who confessed. She was courting me from the shadows of my consciousness long before we got met ’n’ married. I hope she’s still on my trail, wherever she’s hiding now.
I remember the last time we kissed, the last time we made love, the last time we watched movies together. The last time we laughed. I wish I had her here with me now, I mean in physical form, not this spiritual jazz. Solitude for me was a thing of the past, I thought. Now it’s everyone’s present. A present we’d all like to re-gift.
So I jerk off again, thinking of Val and Bettie Page and all my many lovers, real or imagined, trying to get a grip on reality, but it keeps slipping through my sticky fingers, despite my ennui-induced erections.
I can’t remember the last time anything was this hard.
Next!
We're rolled onto the treadmill as soon as we’re spit out of the oven. Death is already waiting to pop us into its mouth one by one, like Lucy and Ethel in that chocolate factory bit. Something is going to eat us alive, sooner or later. Just a matter of when we get snatched off the assembly line. Then we’re chewed up and swallowed back into the beast of the belly, shat and flushed down the cosmic drain into the eternal sewer.
I don’t know about you, but I’m afraid of Death. Life scares me too, but Life is a foe I know. It’s the unknown killer lurking in the shadows that keeps me perpetually paranoid. Sometimes that paranoia flares into panic, which isn’t helped by all the chaos and suffering on TV. I turned off the news to watch giallo movies instead. Stylized sex and murder, Italian style, is so soothing by comparison. Sometimes I just stare into space, waiting to disappear.
Like now, gazing with passive sadness at the eerily tranquil still life of Puget Sound outside my window, which is as deceptively quiet and peaceful as a beautiful butchered corpse floating face down in the water, an oblivious heron hitching a ride on her ice cold back as they both float in the misty sunlight.
I don’t have a thermometer other than my dick, but I know I have a fever and chills. Not the kind I get watching Edwige Fenech stretched out nude. More the kind that means I just got slashed down the middle by an unseen stalker. I don’t have a cough. But my throat is sore as hell, I got pink eye, and I’m shitting more than Satan after a day’s worth of devouring sweet little souls.
I think back on my life as I sit there in the dark, a blanket around my shivering shoulders, jazz on the radio, a near empty bottle of bourbon on the nightstand. I’m too tired to even dream of better times.
Doesn’t stop me from hallucinating them, though.
I don’t know about you, but I’m afraid of Death. Life scares me too, but Life is a foe I know. It’s the unknown killer lurking in the shadows that keeps me perpetually paranoid. Sometimes that paranoia flares into panic, which isn’t helped by all the chaos and suffering on TV. I turned off the news to watch giallo movies instead. Stylized sex and murder, Italian style, is so soothing by comparison. Sometimes I just stare into space, waiting to disappear.
Like now, gazing with passive sadness at the eerily tranquil still life of Puget Sound outside my window, which is as deceptively quiet and peaceful as a beautiful butchered corpse floating face down in the water, an oblivious heron hitching a ride on her ice cold back as they both float in the misty sunlight.
I don’t have a thermometer other than my dick, but I know I have a fever and chills. Not the kind I get watching Edwige Fenech stretched out nude. More the kind that means I just got slashed down the middle by an unseen stalker. I don’t have a cough. But my throat is sore as hell, I got pink eye, and I’m shitting more than Satan after a day’s worth of devouring sweet little souls.
I think back on my life as I sit there in the dark, a blanket around my shivering shoulders, jazz on the radio, a near empty bottle of bourbon on the nightstand. I’m too tired to even dream of better times.
Doesn’t stop me from hallucinating them, though.
Temperature Check
I was thrusting my thermometer into her furiously when I woke up and realized I’d been humping my pillow, which was now soaking wet, and not just from sweat. My dream girl had evaporated in the gray light of day again.
I’ve been there too many times. I’ve been here, too. Now I don’t know the difference between here and there.
Everybody knows the truth, and the truth is, nobody knows.
My cellphone pings, meaning I got a text message, so it ain’t music again.
It says, “Test results positive.”
The sender is Unknown. I suspect the nature of the test being referenced. I just don’t remember being tested. I’ve already been self-diagnosed as a chronic hypochondriac. It’s a fatal condition that is simply taking its time, because eventually, my fear of dying, especially alone, will confront my actual agent of Death.
My little dark room is full of monsters. Most of the time they’re invisible, but after I shiver and sweat enough, trying to sleep, I can see them, eyes wide open. I grew up watching horror movies. Now that I’m living a dystopian nightmare, they’re mere manifestations of the ghouls haunting my psyche all along. They don’t scare me. I just want them to leave me alone.
I’m gonna be killed by a monster, I’d rather it be one of those bosomy lesbian vampires from an old Hammer flick. Of course, since she’s a lesbian, she won’t enjoy the sex as much as I will, but she’ll enjoy my demise much more, so it’ll even out. I don’t believe in taking advantage of women. The pleasure must be mutual.
I feel my forehead. It’s on fire. I swig the rest of the bourbon then rub the bottle all over my face, pretending it’s the fleshy breast of an undead succubus, cold and firm. But empty, devoid of soul.
I sucked it dry, beating it to the punch. But it’s the only medicine I have. Now it’s gone. Time to venture out for a refill. Wish me luck.
I’ve been there too many times. I’ve been here, too. Now I don’t know the difference between here and there.
Everybody knows the truth, and the truth is, nobody knows.
My cellphone pings, meaning I got a text message, so it ain’t music again.
It says, “Test results positive.”
The sender is Unknown. I suspect the nature of the test being referenced. I just don’t remember being tested. I’ve already been self-diagnosed as a chronic hypochondriac. It’s a fatal condition that is simply taking its time, because eventually, my fear of dying, especially alone, will confront my actual agent of Death.
My little dark room is full of monsters. Most of the time they’re invisible, but after I shiver and sweat enough, trying to sleep, I can see them, eyes wide open. I grew up watching horror movies. Now that I’m living a dystopian nightmare, they’re mere manifestations of the ghouls haunting my psyche all along. They don’t scare me. I just want them to leave me alone.
I’m gonna be killed by a monster, I’d rather it be one of those bosomy lesbian vampires from an old Hammer flick. Of course, since she’s a lesbian, she won’t enjoy the sex as much as I will, but she’ll enjoy my demise much more, so it’ll even out. I don’t believe in taking advantage of women. The pleasure must be mutual.
I feel my forehead. It’s on fire. I swig the rest of the bourbon then rub the bottle all over my face, pretending it’s the fleshy breast of an undead succubus, cold and firm. But empty, devoid of soul.
I sucked it dry, beating it to the punch. But it’s the only medicine I have. Now it’s gone. Time to venture out for a refill. Wish me luck.
The World Before
Wait. I can’t leave my room. I’m sick, contagious. Plus I hate people. Been trying to avoid them all my life. Now they do it for me. Makes it easier.
I’m even social distancing in my dreams. Except for the wet ones.
There’s nobody out there on the streets. It’s dark now. Maybe it’s safe to sneak into a market and grab some groceries and booze.
I can’t remember how I even wound up in this hotel, alone. Last thing I recall is being home with my wife. There was no pandemic. The only plague on Earth was humanity. Now Nature was reasserting dominance. The air is cleaner, animals are happier. Only people are suffering. I have empathy only because I’m one of them.
I could just sit here and stare at myself fading away in the dirty mirror. Or just watch TV. They only have three channels. News, horror movies, and porn. The essentials.
At least I have some cash. Fuck it. I go down to the front desk. The dude is wearing a mask. Not the surgical kind. He looks likes a mutation, a hideous freak. I just keep walking, outside into the silent night.
I see a neon sign that says OPEN. It’s actually a bar. The news said they were all closed. I’m curious. I go to the door and see another sign: INFECTED ONLY.
A big bouncer comes out and stops me once I pull on the handle. He’s a monster. Literally. He looks me over carefully, sizing up my signs of physical illness. I see a stripper dancing on a stage behind him. Her body is perfect. Her face is a nightmare.
I’m reminded of Times Square in the late 70s and early 80s, when I was a young hotshot journalist, before I became a private eye. It was a neon-lit hellhole, full of smut and vermin and viruses and bodily fluids, everyone crammed together, sweating, bleeding, cumming.
Dying.
Feels like home again as I walk inside.
I’m even social distancing in my dreams. Except for the wet ones.
There’s nobody out there on the streets. It’s dark now. Maybe it’s safe to sneak into a market and grab some groceries and booze.
I can’t remember how I even wound up in this hotel, alone. Last thing I recall is being home with my wife. There was no pandemic. The only plague on Earth was humanity. Now Nature was reasserting dominance. The air is cleaner, animals are happier. Only people are suffering. I have empathy only because I’m one of them.
I could just sit here and stare at myself fading away in the dirty mirror. Or just watch TV. They only have three channels. News, horror movies, and porn. The essentials.
At least I have some cash. Fuck it. I go down to the front desk. The dude is wearing a mask. Not the surgical kind. He looks likes a mutation, a hideous freak. I just keep walking, outside into the silent night.
I see a neon sign that says OPEN. It’s actually a bar. The news said they were all closed. I’m curious. I go to the door and see another sign: INFECTED ONLY.
A big bouncer comes out and stops me once I pull on the handle. He’s a monster. Literally. He looks me over carefully, sizing up my signs of physical illness. I see a stripper dancing on a stage behind him. Her body is perfect. Her face is a nightmare.
I’m reminded of Times Square in the late 70s and early 80s, when I was a young hotshot journalist, before I became a private eye. It was a neon-lit hellhole, full of smut and vermin and viruses and bodily fluids, everyone crammed together, sweating, bleeding, cumming.
Dying.
Feels like home again as I walk inside.
Dead Dreams
If you live your life in constant fear of dying, you might as well already be dead. I was dead inside anyway. The rest would catch up soon enough, one way or another. Maybe I shouldn’t be patronizing this place, even though it’s a sanctuary for Infected only. I’m not even positive I’m positive for the virus. But the bouncer seemed to think so, and I need the company, and the booze. It’s my only medicine.
What the hell. Life has always been a series of calculated risks.
I’m just sitting on a stool staring at my drink, wondering why I’m even here. I don’t mean the bar. The planet. The shapely but grotesque stripper on stage keeps gyrating to songs by The Cramps. The bar is dark and ancient, lined with leather booths and velvet paintings of naked Tahitian girls. There’s a tiki statue inside a glowing fountain in one corner. It’s leering at me, like Death. I give it a nod. It just keeps grinning.
There’s hardly anyone else around. The few here are in booths, hidden in shadows. I’m almost alone at the bar. One guy sits at the other end, his deformed face mostly hidden from me as he contemplates his own drink without sipping, as if wondering whether to dive into a pool of acid or just hope things get better.
Like me, he’s probably thinking of everything that might’ve been, pre-pandemic. But it wasn’t the virus that killed off our dreams. It was Life itself.
I sip my tropical bourbon cocktail, recalling my mother dying in an insane asylum, my dirty cop father getting shot down in an alley, my older brother jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge. My many long lost loves. My self-aborted career as a journalist, my long, fruitless so-called career as a private eye. My days as a dog walker.
All gone now.
Then the guy at the end of the bar looks up at me and says, “I need someone to find the cure. You want a job?”
What the hell. Life has always been a series of calculated risks.
I’m just sitting on a stool staring at my drink, wondering why I’m even here. I don’t mean the bar. The planet. The shapely but grotesque stripper on stage keeps gyrating to songs by The Cramps. The bar is dark and ancient, lined with leather booths and velvet paintings of naked Tahitian girls. There’s a tiki statue inside a glowing fountain in one corner. It’s leering at me, like Death. I give it a nod. It just keeps grinning.
There’s hardly anyone else around. The few here are in booths, hidden in shadows. I’m almost alone at the bar. One guy sits at the other end, his deformed face mostly hidden from me as he contemplates his own drink without sipping, as if wondering whether to dive into a pool of acid or just hope things get better.
Like me, he’s probably thinking of everything that might’ve been, pre-pandemic. But it wasn’t the virus that killed off our dreams. It was Life itself.
I sip my tropical bourbon cocktail, recalling my mother dying in an insane asylum, my dirty cop father getting shot down in an alley, my older brother jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge. My many long lost loves. My self-aborted career as a journalist, my long, fruitless so-called career as a private eye. My days as a dog walker.
All gone now.
Then the guy at the end of the bar looks up at me and says, “I need someone to find the cure. You want a job?”
Last Call
The guy with the fucked-up face sidles over next to me. He’s wearing an overcoat and he smells bad. I social distance another seat down, but he doesn’t follow me. He gets it.
He motions to the bartender to refill both of our tiki mugs. The bartender also has a corpse-like countenance, doesn’t talk much. When I ordered my cocktail I just pointed to the menu and he nodded. I miss my old pal Doc Schlock, proprietor of The Drive-Inn down in San Francisco, above which was my studio apartment/office, long ago and far away, like the song. Doc was my best friend, next to my missing wife.
Doc is dead, though I still see him sometimes.
My wife may still be alive, but I never see her. Not lately.
“What’s the name of this joint, anyway?” I ask the zombie bartender.
“Last Call.”
“No, I meant, what’s this place called.”
He just stares at me like I took a crap on the floor.
Fuck-face laughs. “I hear you’re a dick.”
“Used to be. How did you know?”
“Grapevine.”
“Only sour grapes left here, pal.”
“You still for hire?”
“Retired.”
“This is a global emergency, if you haven’t noticed.”
“I’m not a scientist, pal. Can’t save the world. Sorry.”
“Don’t need to be an epidemiologist. Just smart.”
“Then you’re shit out of luck. I’m as dumb as they come.”
I look over at the stripper, who is inside the fountain, humping the tiki as an old-style saxophone riffs out of nowhere.
Fuck-face doesn’t seem to notice her. He taps my shoulder and says, “Listen. This job pays well. You can move out of that dump.”
“I don’t even know how I got there.”
“You mean you have amnesia?”
“Only recently. I woke up into this nightmare. Life is just a dream, anyway. I just fell asleep on the remote.”
“This is real life. And it’s getting more real by the minute. Wake up and smell the death.”
“Smell it often. I never inhale.”
He punches me in the kisser, and I go down.
He motions to the bartender to refill both of our tiki mugs. The bartender also has a corpse-like countenance, doesn’t talk much. When I ordered my cocktail I just pointed to the menu and he nodded. I miss my old pal Doc Schlock, proprietor of The Drive-Inn down in San Francisco, above which was my studio apartment/office, long ago and far away, like the song. Doc was my best friend, next to my missing wife.
Doc is dead, though I still see him sometimes.
My wife may still be alive, but I never see her. Not lately.
“What’s the name of this joint, anyway?” I ask the zombie bartender.
“Last Call.”
“No, I meant, what’s this place called.”
He just stares at me like I took a crap on the floor.
Fuck-face laughs. “I hear you’re a dick.”
“Used to be. How did you know?”
“Grapevine.”
“Only sour grapes left here, pal.”
“You still for hire?”
“Retired.”
“This is a global emergency, if you haven’t noticed.”
“I’m not a scientist, pal. Can’t save the world. Sorry.”
“Don’t need to be an epidemiologist. Just smart.”
“Then you’re shit out of luck. I’m as dumb as they come.”
I look over at the stripper, who is inside the fountain, humping the tiki as an old-style saxophone riffs out of nowhere.
Fuck-face doesn’t seem to notice her. He taps my shoulder and says, “Listen. This job pays well. You can move out of that dump.”
“I don’t even know how I got there.”
“You mean you have amnesia?”
“Only recently. I woke up into this nightmare. Life is just a dream, anyway. I just fell asleep on the remote.”
“This is real life. And it’s getting more real by the minute. Wake up and smell the death.”
“Smell it often. I never inhale.”
He punches me in the kisser, and I go down.
Voodoo Virus
The crazy, ugly guy who knocked me off my stool and wants to hire me to solve the Case of the End of the World is named Doctor Floyd Something. Or Doctor Something Floyd. There are three parts but I only caught two when he introduced himself after hitting me. I’m already drunk. I decide to order a sandwich with my next drink, but because I’m vegan, all I can eat is bread with pickles and tomatoes; side of chips, so that’s almost a meal. Still, the bourbon went to my head, but that was the intended destination anyway.
“Sorry for that,” he says sincerely. “I’m on edge. And desperate. I don’t understand your attitude.”
“I don’t need you to understand. Just don’t wanna be a detective anymore. No future in it.”
“No future in anything, for any us.”
“There you go. Why bother. I can’t even enjoy my own misery in peace these days. Too much company.”
“What else you need to do with whatever time you have left?”
“Remember.”
“What?”
“Everything.”
“Why?”
“I want to remember my life while I’m still alive to remember it.”
“Is it worth remembering?”
“It’s a long joke on me with no punchline. But it’s the only story I got.”
“You still have time to change the ending.”
“Hey pal, I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, or how you know my personal and professional business. I also don’t care. Nothing surprises me anymore and I stopped wasting questions due to an answer shortage. Despite what you might’ve heard, I possess no secret exorcism spell against viral virility, my volatile new friend.”
“Your wife sent me.”
The stripper had worked her way across the room and instead of undulating against the tiki in the fountain, she’s rubbing up against me in time with a Les Baxter tune. Little Elvis sits up straight in my pants, leaking through my rumpled sharkskin suit. I loosen my skinny tie and kiss her, despite her freakish facial features.
“I ain’t got a wife anymore,” I tell Dr. Floyd.
“Sorry for that,” he says sincerely. “I’m on edge. And desperate. I don’t understand your attitude.”
“I don’t need you to understand. Just don’t wanna be a detective anymore. No future in it.”
“No future in anything, for any us.”
“There you go. Why bother. I can’t even enjoy my own misery in peace these days. Too much company.”
“What else you need to do with whatever time you have left?”
“Remember.”
“What?”
“Everything.”
“Why?”
“I want to remember my life while I’m still alive to remember it.”
“Is it worth remembering?”
“It’s a long joke on me with no punchline. But it’s the only story I got.”
“You still have time to change the ending.”
“Hey pal, I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, or how you know my personal and professional business. I also don’t care. Nothing surprises me anymore and I stopped wasting questions due to an answer shortage. Despite what you might’ve heard, I possess no secret exorcism spell against viral virility, my volatile new friend.”
“Your wife sent me.”
The stripper had worked her way across the room and instead of undulating against the tiki in the fountain, she’s rubbing up against me in time with a Les Baxter tune. Little Elvis sits up straight in my pants, leaking through my rumpled sharkskin suit. I loosen my skinny tie and kiss her, despite her freakish facial features.
“I ain’t got a wife anymore,” I tell Dr. Floyd.
Essential Services
I had a dream once I was feeling my wife’s forehead for fever. I woke up, she was asleep next to me, and I felt it again. She was fine. I went back to sleep. When I woke up, she was gone, and I was alone in that hotel in the middle of a global pandemic. How long had I been out? It was the Twenties already. Again.
“She didn’t run out on you,” Dr. Floyd says, reading my mind, which is an open book anyway.
“She’s done it before,” I say with a shrug. “Disappear without notice.”
“There’s a plan. She still loves you.”
“Good to know,” I say, sipping the cocktail he bought me after socking me in the face. It took me off guard, but it wasn’t very hard. I’ve been hit hard. This was like getting swatted with a sock full of gumdrops. It stung, but it was the shock that made me fall, not the force. The guy is old and weak, plus crazy and ugly. But I never turn down a free drink, especially during an apocalypse.
“You know she’s paying your tab at the hotel,” the mind-reader says. None of this may actually be happening anyway, so it makes sense he can see my thoughts. I might as well be dreaming. Maybe that’s why I barely felt his punch, though I can feel the punch I’m drinking well enough.
“Yeah, she does that sometimes too,” I say. “But a lot has happened since I saw her last, when there were only rumors of a fatal flu going around. I hope she’s healthy. She can live without me. I can’t live without her.”
“We need your skills of detection if any of us are to live.”
“Why? You’re a doctor, right? Nobody needs a shriveled-up dick.”
“I tried. I failed. This is not a case for conventional corrective science.”
“Your face sure is. The bartender and stripper, too.”
He cackles. “Have you seen your own reflection lately?”
My blood runs colder than the ice in my glass as I look into the mirror behind the bar.
“She didn’t run out on you,” Dr. Floyd says, reading my mind, which is an open book anyway.
“She’s done it before,” I say with a shrug. “Disappear without notice.”
“There’s a plan. She still loves you.”
“Good to know,” I say, sipping the cocktail he bought me after socking me in the face. It took me off guard, but it wasn’t very hard. I’ve been hit hard. This was like getting swatted with a sock full of gumdrops. It stung, but it was the shock that made me fall, not the force. The guy is old and weak, plus crazy and ugly. But I never turn down a free drink, especially during an apocalypse.
“You know she’s paying your tab at the hotel,” the mind-reader says. None of this may actually be happening anyway, so it makes sense he can see my thoughts. I might as well be dreaming. Maybe that’s why I barely felt his punch, though I can feel the punch I’m drinking well enough.
“Yeah, she does that sometimes too,” I say. “But a lot has happened since I saw her last, when there were only rumors of a fatal flu going around. I hope she’s healthy. She can live without me. I can’t live without her.”
“We need your skills of detection if any of us are to live.”
“Why? You’re a doctor, right? Nobody needs a shriveled-up dick.”
“I tried. I failed. This is not a case for conventional corrective science.”
“Your face sure is. The bartender and stripper, too.”
He cackles. “Have you seen your own reflection lately?”
My blood runs colder than the ice in my glass as I look into the mirror behind the bar.
The Beach is Black
I look into the mirror behind the bar, expecting to see my face transformed into that of a mutant monster, like everyone around me in this desolate little urban oasis of infected freaks. Instead I see nothing but my visage isolated in a seeming abyss. I look around and realize I am no longer inside the Last Call, or inside anywhere. I’m outside nowhere, standing alone and naked on a windswept beach at night. I am being buffeted by the strong sea breeze, pelted by large raindrops, staring out into the stormy void, barely able to see the line between the horizon and the ocean, since both are pitch black.
I begin to shiver, not so much from cold, but from fear. This must be Death. That crazy witch doctor spiked my tropical cocktail or something. Or maybe the voodoo virus finally finished me off. In any case, I was still sentient, but not quite existing, at least not in the conventional sense.
Several times during alcoholic blackouts, and later my so-called fugue states, I experienced something similar, where it seemed I was adrift somewhere in the outer limits of a twilight zone, but those trips gave me a sense of emancipation. Now I feel only dread.
Worst of all, wherever I am, I am all alone. I’d give anything to be back inside that tiki bar of the damned. At least I’d have company. I wouldn’t mind if my features had been disfigured by the disease like the rest of my fellow viral victims.
I just don’t want to die alone.
I want my wife.
I want my life.
There’s only one way to end this.
With stoic resignation I begin marching into the waves. They crash over me and I’m pulled under into the depths. I feel the water filling my lungs like pneumonia. It’s a horrible way to go, but if I am indeed infected, this is my fate anyway.
Maybe down below, or somewhere beyond, my wife awaits, like a merciful mermaid.
I begin to shiver, not so much from cold, but from fear. This must be Death. That crazy witch doctor spiked my tropical cocktail or something. Or maybe the voodoo virus finally finished me off. In any case, I was still sentient, but not quite existing, at least not in the conventional sense.
Several times during alcoholic blackouts, and later my so-called fugue states, I experienced something similar, where it seemed I was adrift somewhere in the outer limits of a twilight zone, but those trips gave me a sense of emancipation. Now I feel only dread.
Worst of all, wherever I am, I am all alone. I’d give anything to be back inside that tiki bar of the damned. At least I’d have company. I wouldn’t mind if my features had been disfigured by the disease like the rest of my fellow viral victims.
I just don’t want to die alone.
I want my wife.
I want my life.
There’s only one way to end this.
With stoic resignation I begin marching into the waves. They crash over me and I’m pulled under into the depths. I feel the water filling my lungs like pneumonia. It’s a horrible way to go, but if I am indeed infected, this is my fate anyway.
Maybe down below, or somewhere beyond, my wife awaits, like a merciful mermaid.
Sleepwalking in Seattle
For a long time it feels like I’m either falling through space or drifting inside a storm cloud. Lighting flashes around me, as thunder echoes in my skull. But I’m not afraid. The feeling of emancipation from all temporal concerns becomes intoxicating. Except for the loneliness. That’s what pulls me back down to relative reality. I miss my wife, because I love her. I miss my life, because it feels unfinished.
Next thing I know, I’m back in my sharkskin suit and skinny tie, wrinkled but not wet, wandering the empty night streets of Seattle. The Space Needle gleams in the dark distance like a beacon to nowhere. I think I’m in the Belltown district, not far from the Last Call, the bar designated for “the infected.” I can’t find it. The city appears deserted, as if I’m the Last Man on Earth. I can only hope I find the Last Woman on Earth, and that she’s my missing wife. We won’t procreate, though. The human experiment has ended in failure. We’ll just fuck and drink and wait our turn to disappear from an indifferent galaxy, leaving the Earth and its less neurotic sentient denizens in peace.
Every now and then I think I see a zombie, but I leave them alone. I touch my own face, feeling my features, fearful of deformity due to the disease. But I don’t even feel sick anymore. The seawater has washed away my symptoms, or so it seems.
I try to make it back to my hotel, but that seems to have vanished too. I just keep walking, searching for a sign of Life other than my own.
In an alley I see a shapely shadow. It's feminine in form. I decide to follow her. Even if she’s not my wife, maybe she can provide me with a clue, an answer, a direction, or just some companionship. I’ll take what I can get.
The shapely shadow leads me down the alley into what seems to be a maze of alleyways.
Then she suddenly stops, turns and faces me, completely nude.
I recognize her.
Next thing I know, I’m back in my sharkskin suit and skinny tie, wrinkled but not wet, wandering the empty night streets of Seattle. The Space Needle gleams in the dark distance like a beacon to nowhere. I think I’m in the Belltown district, not far from the Last Call, the bar designated for “the infected.” I can’t find it. The city appears deserted, as if I’m the Last Man on Earth. I can only hope I find the Last Woman on Earth, and that she’s my missing wife. We won’t procreate, though. The human experiment has ended in failure. We’ll just fuck and drink and wait our turn to disappear from an indifferent galaxy, leaving the Earth and its less neurotic sentient denizens in peace.
Every now and then I think I see a zombie, but I leave them alone. I touch my own face, feeling my features, fearful of deformity due to the disease. But I don’t even feel sick anymore. The seawater has washed away my symptoms, or so it seems.
I try to make it back to my hotel, but that seems to have vanished too. I just keep walking, searching for a sign of Life other than my own.
In an alley I see a shapely shadow. It's feminine in form. I decide to follow her. Even if she’s not my wife, maybe she can provide me with a clue, an answer, a direction, or just some companionship. I’ll take what I can get.
The shapely shadow leads me down the alley into what seems to be a maze of alleyways.
Then she suddenly stops, turns and faces me, completely nude.
I recognize her.
Dream Shadow
The naked shapely female stranger takes my hand and leads me through more dark, interconnecting alleyways. It’s like a maze inside my mind. Finally she walks us through a wooden doorway in a brick wall, like one of those secret speakeasy joints popular in L.A. years ago. We are not back in the Last Call, Seattle’s hidden tiki bar of the damned. Instead, we are inside my old office/apartment above The Drive-Inn, San Francisco’s combo bar/video store, now long gone.
She’s not my wife. Not exactly. Rather, she appears to be an amalgamation of many women from my past, like Rose and Dolly, along with vintage screen sirens that regularly swim through my wet dreams.
Apparently, she is not real. Which makes me wonder if I am, especially now that I’m right where I was, a quarter century ago.
“Is this some Frank Capra Christmas Carol crap?” I ask her.
She shakes her head in the negative with disturbing solemnity. She doesn’t talk, which means she definitely isn’t one of my ex-girlfriends, or my missing wife.
Everything looks the same. The framed Mara Corday photo on my desk. The Film Noir poster from the Roxie. The stack of Bettie Page videotapes on top of the TV. The lonely bed.
I look outside the window. It’s the foggy Richmond District of San Francisco circa the 1990s, all right. There’s even people. Nobody is masked, social distancing or any of that jazz.
If I’ve really been transported back in time, does that mean my old pal Doc Schlock (Curtis Jackson) is downstairs right now, alive and well? As a black man from Oakland, he’ll be unhappy to hear about all the social unrest following his untimely death. Not surprised, though.
I look at my Dream Girl without saying anything. She nods and points toward the door. I walk past her and then run down the stairs.
The Drive-Inn is open for business, and there’s Doc behind the bar, serving drinks. On the TV he’s playing a movie as usual:
Out of the Past (1947)
She’s not my wife. Not exactly. Rather, she appears to be an amalgamation of many women from my past, like Rose and Dolly, along with vintage screen sirens that regularly swim through my wet dreams.
Apparently, she is not real. Which makes me wonder if I am, especially now that I’m right where I was, a quarter century ago.
“Is this some Frank Capra Christmas Carol crap?” I ask her.
She shakes her head in the negative with disturbing solemnity. She doesn’t talk, which means she definitely isn’t one of my ex-girlfriends, or my missing wife.
Everything looks the same. The framed Mara Corday photo on my desk. The Film Noir poster from the Roxie. The stack of Bettie Page videotapes on top of the TV. The lonely bed.
I look outside the window. It’s the foggy Richmond District of San Francisco circa the 1990s, all right. There’s even people. Nobody is masked, social distancing or any of that jazz.
If I’ve really been transported back in time, does that mean my old pal Doc Schlock (Curtis Jackson) is downstairs right now, alive and well? As a black man from Oakland, he’ll be unhappy to hear about all the social unrest following his untimely death. Not surprised, though.
I look at my Dream Girl without saying anything. She nods and points toward the door. I walk past her and then run down the stairs.
The Drive-Inn is open for business, and there’s Doc behind the bar, serving drinks. On the TV he’s playing a movie as usual:
Out of the Past (1947)
The Future That Never Was
Walking slowly into The Drive-Inn as if sinking into a barrel of bourbon, I take my customary seat at the bar and nod at Doc, who nods back, as if none of this is strange, at least to him. I also wink at my old gal-pal Monica Ivy, doing a tame striptease in one corner of the bar, one of Doc’s attempts to boost business after video rentals started slipping, which confirms my current location as San Francisco circa the mid-1990s.
It all looks like a mirror world of the Last Call, back in Seattle circa the early 2020s. Except no one is deformed or sick. It’s all beautifully normal, just as I frequently remember it. And I fully sense everything around me, as if it’s truly tangible, not just a mirage of a halcyon past. My phantom escort is nowhere in sight.
Then I can’t help myself. I get up just as Doc puts a beer and a shot in front of me, go around the bar, and hug him. He hugs me back. He feels like flesh and bone, unlike the ethereal visage I’ve grown accustomed to since his death in the 2000s, about a decade hence. A few tears escape.
“Vic, you okay? Tell me, my man.”
So after sitting back down I tell him everything, including about my wife, which he’s happy to hear, even if he doesn’t believe me. I also tell him about Dr. Floyd and his attempts to recruit me to save the world from the pandemic, as if I were humanity’s only hope.
“Freud?” Doc says.
“Floyd. You know, like Brad Pitt’s character in ‘True Romance.'”
“Vic, if some mutant quack thinks you’re mankind’s salvation, bouncing back and forth in time like the goddamn Terminator, obviously there’s something wrong with him, way beyond the shit you’re telling me.”
“But it was all real, Doc. It is real. Or it will be. That’s the scary thing. This, all this here and now, is just… a dream of a memory.”
Doc shakes his head. “No, Vic. What you just told me, that’s the dream. This is reality. Welcome back.”
It all looks like a mirror world of the Last Call, back in Seattle circa the early 2020s. Except no one is deformed or sick. It’s all beautifully normal, just as I frequently remember it. And I fully sense everything around me, as if it’s truly tangible, not just a mirage of a halcyon past. My phantom escort is nowhere in sight.
Then I can’t help myself. I get up just as Doc puts a beer and a shot in front of me, go around the bar, and hug him. He hugs me back. He feels like flesh and bone, unlike the ethereal visage I’ve grown accustomed to since his death in the 2000s, about a decade hence. A few tears escape.
“Vic, you okay? Tell me, my man.”
So after sitting back down I tell him everything, including about my wife, which he’s happy to hear, even if he doesn’t believe me. I also tell him about Dr. Floyd and his attempts to recruit me to save the world from the pandemic, as if I were humanity’s only hope.
“Freud?” Doc says.
“Floyd. You know, like Brad Pitt’s character in ‘True Romance.'”
“Vic, if some mutant quack thinks you’re mankind’s salvation, bouncing back and forth in time like the goddamn Terminator, obviously there’s something wrong with him, way beyond the shit you’re telling me.”
“But it was all real, Doc. It is real. Or it will be. That’s the scary thing. This, all this here and now, is just… a dream of a memory.”
Doc shakes his head. “No, Vic. What you just told me, that’s the dream. This is reality. Welcome back.”
Memory of a Revery
I try to wrap my head around the bombshell Doc just laid on me.
"So you’re saying this right now is not a dream of a memory, but what I told you is a memory of a dream?”
“That’s it, my man. I mean, if you ain’t real, neither am I. And I’m definitely real, motherfucker.”
I feel both relieved and traumatized, because if this is true, I fell asleep and dreamed about ten years of my life that never happened. At least. In fact, more like twenty-five years, if everything after this very moment was part of that extended dream, too.
“So no pandemic? No Black Lives Matter movement? No wife?”
“All in your head, man. Black Lives Matter? Since when? Not on my watch. I god damn wish. More like Black Lives Splatter. And Donald Fucking Trump becomes our damn President? Bitch, please.”
I’m still depressed and disoriented, but then that’s always been my usual state, so in a way, Doc’s radical explanation is already beginning to make sense.
“That was one long, lucid dream then,” I say, mostly to myself. I gaze at Monica, still dancing for a crowd of three perverts. She waves at me, and I get a boner. Yeah, this all seems pretty real, all right. But then so did the other, future third of my life. And my missing wife, who apparently was a figment of my imagination all along. Although her backstory begins here and now, so I could always look for her in present day San Francisco…
A white-haired older man in an overcoat and floppy hat sits a couple stools down from me. He removes his hat and locks his cold blues eyes with mine, sending a chill of recognition through my skull.
“Hey Doc, you got a customer,” I tell my friend behind the bar, who is busy wiping down the further end.
“Doc?” says the stranger in an eerily familiar voice. “That’s funny.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m a doctor, too. I don’t provide his kind of medicine, though, which is what I need at the moment.”
“What’s your specialty?”
“Disease. I’m an epidemiologist. Floyd’s the name. Harold Floyd."
"So you’re saying this right now is not a dream of a memory, but what I told you is a memory of a dream?”
“That’s it, my man. I mean, if you ain’t real, neither am I. And I’m definitely real, motherfucker.”
I feel both relieved and traumatized, because if this is true, I fell asleep and dreamed about ten years of my life that never happened. At least. In fact, more like twenty-five years, if everything after this very moment was part of that extended dream, too.
“So no pandemic? No Black Lives Matter movement? No wife?”
“All in your head, man. Black Lives Matter? Since when? Not on my watch. I god damn wish. More like Black Lives Splatter. And Donald Fucking Trump becomes our damn President? Bitch, please.”
I’m still depressed and disoriented, but then that’s always been my usual state, so in a way, Doc’s radical explanation is already beginning to make sense.
“That was one long, lucid dream then,” I say, mostly to myself. I gaze at Monica, still dancing for a crowd of three perverts. She waves at me, and I get a boner. Yeah, this all seems pretty real, all right. But then so did the other, future third of my life. And my missing wife, who apparently was a figment of my imagination all along. Although her backstory begins here and now, so I could always look for her in present day San Francisco…
A white-haired older man in an overcoat and floppy hat sits a couple stools down from me. He removes his hat and locks his cold blues eyes with mine, sending a chill of recognition through my skull.
“Hey Doc, you got a customer,” I tell my friend behind the bar, who is busy wiping down the further end.
“Doc?” says the stranger in an eerily familiar voice. “That’s funny.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m a doctor, too. I don’t provide his kind of medicine, though, which is what I need at the moment.”
“What’s your specialty?”
“Disease. I’m an epidemiologist. Floyd’s the name. Harold Floyd."
Beyond the Black Hole
Like I said, the guy is older, but he’s not that old. Maybe in his 50s. But then so am I. Wait. No. It’s the mid-90s so I’m only in my 30s. I do a face check in the mirror behind Doc Schlock’s bar. I’m young again. My middle age was only a nightmare that still awaits.
But this can’t be the same Dr. Floyd from my fabricated future, could it? Maybe it was all just a premonition.
I need to find my wife. I mean now, before I ever met and married her sometime after the turn of the century. She must have all the answers. She always does.
Meantime, I am sitting here in a time and place I thought was long gone, except in my murky memories and dead dreams. I decide to relish it, even if I am uneasy in my conviction it actually exists outside my increasingly haphazard consciousness.
This guy sitting next to me offers a clue to which reality is real, too. I decide to just ask him.
“Are you the same guy that sat next to me in that tiki bar for the infected up in Seattle around the year 2020?”
The guy who calls himself Harold Floyd looks at me with a puzzled expression, as if he is suddenly confronted with a crazy person in an intimate space. Or just another drunk. He decides to be nice about it, in any case.
“My friend, I’ll be past eighty by then, and probably dead.”
“Not quite. You’ll just look it. We all will, because of the pandemic.”
“Pandemic? You must’ve read my book. I am flattered.”
“Your book?”
“Yes, just published. I predict the end of the world due to a pandemic combined with economic collapse, racial strife, and poor leadership.”
“Not much of a dice roll. I kinda figured it would be something like that.”
“So you share my vision, young man?”
Young man. Been a while since anyone called me that. “You got me, Doc. I mean, the other Doc from the other dimension.”
“I actually believe you.”
Fuck.
But this can’t be the same Dr. Floyd from my fabricated future, could it? Maybe it was all just a premonition.
I need to find my wife. I mean now, before I ever met and married her sometime after the turn of the century. She must have all the answers. She always does.
Meantime, I am sitting here in a time and place I thought was long gone, except in my murky memories and dead dreams. I decide to relish it, even if I am uneasy in my conviction it actually exists outside my increasingly haphazard consciousness.
This guy sitting next to me offers a clue to which reality is real, too. I decide to just ask him.
“Are you the same guy that sat next to me in that tiki bar for the infected up in Seattle around the year 2020?”
The guy who calls himself Harold Floyd looks at me with a puzzled expression, as if he is suddenly confronted with a crazy person in an intimate space. Or just another drunk. He decides to be nice about it, in any case.
“My friend, I’ll be past eighty by then, and probably dead.”
“Not quite. You’ll just look it. We all will, because of the pandemic.”
“Pandemic? You must’ve read my book. I am flattered.”
“Your book?”
“Yes, just published. I predict the end of the world due to a pandemic combined with economic collapse, racial strife, and poor leadership.”
“Not much of a dice roll. I kinda figured it would be something like that.”
“So you share my vision, young man?”
Young man. Been a while since anyone called me that. “You got me, Doc. I mean, the other Doc from the other dimension.”
“I actually believe you.”
Fuck.
Intangible Evidence
My mother died in a mental institution. I always thought I would too. Maybe that’s where I am now, hallucinating all this madness. Only one way to prove I’m not lost in some delirious daydream or neurotic nightmare.
I suddenly deck Harold Floyd right off his stool, to prove to myself he’s corporeal. My fist feels it, and so does his face.
Doc comes around the bar and helps him back up, apologizing, offering a free drink as compensation.
“Vic, you gotta go, man,” Doc says, shaking his head. “You can’t be beating up my customers. They’re getting harder to come by.”
“Wait till all the bars close,” I say.
Floyd looks at me, rubbing his jaw, and says with a wink, “I’ll pay you back for that some day.” Oddly, he doesn’t seem that upset. And he’s alluding to something that already happened twenty-five years from now, up in Seattle at the Last Call, the only bar still open, where we will meet again.
“Yeah, I know. In about a quarter century.”
He points his finger at me as a perplexed Doc nods for me to beat it.
“See you later,” Floyd says, sending a chill through my soul.
I go back up to my office to calm down and think, lying on my dirty bed like old times, or maybe still new times. I can’t tell anymore. It’s all a dream within a nightmare or vice versa. I’m afraid to go to sleep, since I may wake up back in the future. I want to stay here forever. But Time never stands still, in any dimension. Maybe my dream was a vision of an inevitable fate. Or I’ve been given a reprieve by some benevolent entity.
Bullshit.
I decide to jerk off when my old pal the Naked Dream Tour Guide from Hell suddenly reappears. She climbs into the bed and finishes the job for me. I don’t even care if she’s real, or I am.
She lies in my arms and kisses me until I either drift back to dreamland or return to reality.
I suddenly deck Harold Floyd right off his stool, to prove to myself he’s corporeal. My fist feels it, and so does his face.
Doc comes around the bar and helps him back up, apologizing, offering a free drink as compensation.
“Vic, you gotta go, man,” Doc says, shaking his head. “You can’t be beating up my customers. They’re getting harder to come by.”
“Wait till all the bars close,” I say.
Floyd looks at me, rubbing his jaw, and says with a wink, “I’ll pay you back for that some day.” Oddly, he doesn’t seem that upset. And he’s alluding to something that already happened twenty-five years from now, up in Seattle at the Last Call, the only bar still open, where we will meet again.
“Yeah, I know. In about a quarter century.”
He points his finger at me as a perplexed Doc nods for me to beat it.
“See you later,” Floyd says, sending a chill through my soul.
I go back up to my office to calm down and think, lying on my dirty bed like old times, or maybe still new times. I can’t tell anymore. It’s all a dream within a nightmare or vice versa. I’m afraid to go to sleep, since I may wake up back in the future. I want to stay here forever. But Time never stands still, in any dimension. Maybe my dream was a vision of an inevitable fate. Or I’ve been given a reprieve by some benevolent entity.
Bullshit.
I decide to jerk off when my old pal the Naked Dream Tour Guide from Hell suddenly reappears. She climbs into the bed and finishes the job for me. I don’t even care if she’s real, or I am.
She lies in my arms and kisses me until I either drift back to dreamland or return to reality.
Maze of Malaise
I make love again with my Mystery Date, because what the hell, I have nothing better to do. Nothing makes sense anymore, and if it ever did, someone was lying. Probably me to myself. My sexy angel might just be another delusion, but like all the others around here, she is sensorily correct. I can feel, touch, taste and smell every inch of her. She doesn’t speak, even when prompted, but she communicates with her mesmerizing eyes. Our spirits are linked. Maybe that’s all we are. Lost souls. And this replica of my old apartment in 1990s San Francisco is nothing more than a movie set, a projection of the past on a celestial screen. I’m both spectator and participant.
Back in the real world, the one you think is everlasting and invincible, I remember watching a snail crawling across the sidewalk with acute fascination. All it wanted to do was survive long enough to make it to the other side. And then what? What’s the point? Why struggle so hard to stay alive in a world like this?
Simple. Because it’s all we sentient beings know.
Now I’m in this alternate world, and unlike the other one, I’m not alone, even if I actually am. It’s the feeling that counts, even in an illusion. Especially in an illusion. Because it’s all just one interconnected mass hallucination.
This is my current conclusion as we climax together again and she passes out panting and perspiring beside me. The scent of our seemingly corporeal fluids permeates my quasi-consciousness.
But as usual, even in this dimension of dementia, nothing lasts long. All moments fade into the next, and as usual the transition is fucking annoying.
The phone on my office desk rings. I let it. Then my answering machine picks up. I forgot I had one, because it’s been so long since I was this young age in this idyllic era and location.
It’s The Phone Phantom again, leaving a musical message. But this time, with 2020 hindsight, I know exactly who it is, and where to find her.
Back in the real world, the one you think is everlasting and invincible, I remember watching a snail crawling across the sidewalk with acute fascination. All it wanted to do was survive long enough to make it to the other side. And then what? What’s the point? Why struggle so hard to stay alive in a world like this?
Simple. Because it’s all we sentient beings know.
Now I’m in this alternate world, and unlike the other one, I’m not alone, even if I actually am. It’s the feeling that counts, even in an illusion. Especially in an illusion. Because it’s all just one interconnected mass hallucination.
This is my current conclusion as we climax together again and she passes out panting and perspiring beside me. The scent of our seemingly corporeal fluids permeates my quasi-consciousness.
But as usual, even in this dimension of dementia, nothing lasts long. All moments fade into the next, and as usual the transition is fucking annoying.
The phone on my office desk rings. I let it. Then my answering machine picks up. I forgot I had one, because it’s been so long since I was this young age in this idyllic era and location.
It’s The Phone Phantom again, leaving a musical message. But this time, with 2020 hindsight, I know exactly who it is, and where to find her.
Anti-Social Distancing
The strange thing about this situation—or rather, the strangest thing at this particular juncture in a series of strange situations—is that I can remember where my wife was, or rather is, in 1990s San Francisco. I only found this out after we finally hooked up for real many years later, South of the Border on a particularly strange case (strangeness has never been a stranger to me). That’s when she belatedly revealed herself as The Phone Phantom, having stalked me from afar for years following our first encounter. I had found a flyer about her missing cat. Shortly thereafter I’d decided rather arbitrarily to become a “private eye,” and I hired myself to find it.
Naturally when I returned her pussy I hit on her. She blew me off by saying she’d never date me until and unless Donald Trump became the President of the United States. At the time that prospect was so far-fetched I interpreted her conditional response as a resounding “fuck off forever.” I guess she knew something I didn’t. I’ve discovered most people do.
Her name was Esmeralda Ava Margarita Valentina Valdez, and still is, or eventually will be, but with “Valentine” tacked on the end. I always called her Val. Ironically, when I met my first true love, Rose, her name was Valerie, and I called her Val. It all means something. Exactly what, I have no idea. I’m not that good of a detective.
Anyway, since I am inexplicably back in the 1990s with futuristic memories dating up to the 2020s, I know exactly where The Phone Phantom lives, provided it’s the same address as before.
The song she leaves on the machine is less cryptic than usual, now that I know her M.O. Of course, if my references are the remnants of a subconscious sojourn, my conclusions are crap.
I throw on my sharkskin suit and go to kiss my Spiritual Guide goodbye, but she’s already vanished again like an erotic mirage. So I head out, Roy Orbison’s “In Dreams” reverberating in my head.
Naturally when I returned her pussy I hit on her. She blew me off by saying she’d never date me until and unless Donald Trump became the President of the United States. At the time that prospect was so far-fetched I interpreted her conditional response as a resounding “fuck off forever.” I guess she knew something I didn’t. I’ve discovered most people do.
Her name was Esmeralda Ava Margarita Valentina Valdez, and still is, or eventually will be, but with “Valentine” tacked on the end. I always called her Val. Ironically, when I met my first true love, Rose, her name was Valerie, and I called her Val. It all means something. Exactly what, I have no idea. I’m not that good of a detective.
Anyway, since I am inexplicably back in the 1990s with futuristic memories dating up to the 2020s, I know exactly where The Phone Phantom lives, provided it’s the same address as before.
The song she leaves on the machine is less cryptic than usual, now that I know her M.O. Of course, if my references are the remnants of a subconscious sojourn, my conclusions are crap.
I throw on my sharkskin suit and go to kiss my Spiritual Guide goodbye, but she’s already vanished again like an erotic mirage. So I head out, Roy Orbison’s “In Dreams” reverberating in my head.
The Extenuating Angle
Wait. Where am I going?
Down the stairs from my office above The Drive-Inn, onto the street. To Val’s old apartment. But I can’t remember where it was, and is.
Am I already forgetting the future?
No. Our initial meeting happened before whenever Now is. I keep going, hoping it comes back to me.
Once outside, it’s no longer 1990s San Francisco, but Times Square, way in the past. The cars and fashions are familiar from my distant youth.
“In Dreams” has stopped playing inside my head, replaced by “Only the Lonely” blasting from the open door of a record store I once frequented with my dead brother, before he jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge. But it isn’t the Roy Orbison song. It’s the totally different song with the same title, by The Motels.
I keep walking in a daze past punkers, pimps, whores, junkies and bums. Following primal instincts I turn a corner and I’m on 42nd Street, greeted by that dazzling row of neon marquees.
One says The New York Ripper and Satan’s Baby Doll. Both are Italian. The first is a Fulci classic, a particularly violent and nihilistic giallo. The latter is a remake of Malabimba – The Malicious Whore (1979), sacrilegious supernatural sexploitation, right up my alley.
All of this means I’m back in 1982, and only in my early twenties.
A voluptuous woman is suddenly standing in front of me wearing knee-high boots, a shiny black leather coat unbuttoned to her cleavage, and shades, which she removes to reveal herself as my Spiritual Tour Guide.
She’s not Val, but I’m happy to see her. At least I’m not alone.
Wait. Who is Val again?
She has two tickets for us. She leads me inside the malodorous movie palace and we sit down amid the usual riffraff. A trailer is playing for an upcoming flick. It looks and feels like vintage Luis Buñuel.
But despite the grindhouse quality, it’s futuristic footage featuring myself, alone in my Seattle hotel room, sweating and drinking and masturbating. The entire audience is laughing. Except for me.
Down the stairs from my office above The Drive-Inn, onto the street. To Val’s old apartment. But I can’t remember where it was, and is.
Am I already forgetting the future?
No. Our initial meeting happened before whenever Now is. I keep going, hoping it comes back to me.
Once outside, it’s no longer 1990s San Francisco, but Times Square, way in the past. The cars and fashions are familiar from my distant youth.
“In Dreams” has stopped playing inside my head, replaced by “Only the Lonely” blasting from the open door of a record store I once frequented with my dead brother, before he jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge. But it isn’t the Roy Orbison song. It’s the totally different song with the same title, by The Motels.
I keep walking in a daze past punkers, pimps, whores, junkies and bums. Following primal instincts I turn a corner and I’m on 42nd Street, greeted by that dazzling row of neon marquees.
One says The New York Ripper and Satan’s Baby Doll. Both are Italian. The first is a Fulci classic, a particularly violent and nihilistic giallo. The latter is a remake of Malabimba – The Malicious Whore (1979), sacrilegious supernatural sexploitation, right up my alley.
All of this means I’m back in 1982, and only in my early twenties.
A voluptuous woman is suddenly standing in front of me wearing knee-high boots, a shiny black leather coat unbuttoned to her cleavage, and shades, which she removes to reveal herself as my Spiritual Tour Guide.
She’s not Val, but I’m happy to see her. At least I’m not alone.
Wait. Who is Val again?
She has two tickets for us. She leads me inside the malodorous movie palace and we sit down amid the usual riffraff. A trailer is playing for an upcoming flick. It looks and feels like vintage Luis Buñuel.
But despite the grindhouse quality, it’s futuristic footage featuring myself, alone in my Seattle hotel room, sweating and drinking and masturbating. The entire audience is laughing. Except for me.