The World Doesn't Require You Read online

  Why would I do that? she asked. I don’t want to see you unhappy. This made him smile faintly. It was a smile that masked a larger one.

  You shouldn’t, she said, do things that make you miserable.

  Whenever she left for the day he would reach into his pants and grip his thickening penis. He usually only had a half hour before he had to leave for the bar, so there on his couch he’d work quickly. And then rush carelessly through cleaning himself, or, if there was no time, skip the cleaning entirely.

  After work, early in the morning, he had more time but little energy. He’d often fall asleep in mid-stroke.

  The only thing that could move him—her, the whole world—forward was to seduce this woman and make love to her, he thought. Then his fist-sized living emptiness would wither to the dimensions of a pinprick.

  In the middle of the week, after giving his speech much thought and even practicing it, he said to her: You give me something music never could. You’re my music. He said it during the middle of a commercial for adult diapers. His comment lingered like the image that made up the last ten seconds of the commercial, the wrinkled but satisfied face of an old woman. They had joked on a previous day that the look implied the old woman was relieving herself into her absorbent undergarments that very moment. The show returned and what he had said was forgotten. No, not really forgotten, it became an unsaid thing ricocheting through his skull. Had she heard him? Understood him? Even cared? Perhaps she’d become uncomfortable. Or maybe she laughed at him inside her head.

  At the close of the episode, the television judge banged the gavel against the bench and screamed at the plaintiff. On the couch, Slim moved closer to the woman. Took her hand in his own. She didn’t pull away. She let it sit.

  They laughed at the television judge’s verdict. Then came another commercial break. Slim felt his heart speed. They sat in silence through the first commercial. The second. His heart refused to slow. During the third commercial he leaned forward quickly and pressed his lips to hers. She even kissed back, briefly. He crawled on top of her. She turned her head from him.

  What’s wrong? he asked.

  Slim, this is not a good time, she replied. I think I got to go.

  He leaned in and kissed her again, moving his hand along her bare right thigh. It’d be nothing, he thought, to shift his weight, to hold her there, make her address the feelings she denied.

  She scooted from beneath him and took long strides toward the door, repeating all the time, I really have to go.

  But wait, he said, rushing to catch the apartment door before it slammed. Let me walk you out.

  She trotted down the winding stairs.

  His phone calls that day and the next went unanswered. Slim ranted into her voice mail, but no amount of sweet talk, pathetic pleading, or even the angry calling of names—bitch, whore, slutmonkey—could get her to return his calls. He felt his emptiness widening. His piano playing became sloppier, angrier, his singing voice more off-kilter and aggressive. The owner shook his head. He hated firing people, so instead he chastised Slim, and the music became even darker.

  What a fool, Slim thought over and over. What a fool. How is it that I am so weak and so foolish? A forearm to the neck. That’s all it would have taken. What a coward I am. What a coward she was to run. He called her over and over, it seemed, dialing directly into her voice mail.

  Slim started walking the town, from the Southside to downtown to the edge of the Wildlands. He’d think about his life and then a T-shirt with the Kid’s face would float on by. He counted. One. Two. Three. Ten. Fourteen. Seventeen. Twenty-five. Thirty-two. The world had become such a backward place.

  The night he got the idea was a violent one, and then he knew that so many of his nights from here on out would also be violent. From the first note he played on the piano that evening, he understood that music was forever behind him. Even when he tried to be bland, his music sounded bent and tortured. He heard his boss loudly sucking his teeth. With the man’s silly mustache the sound took a ridiculous turn. But even that small amusement couldn’t change Slim’s knotted mood. The first Kid shirt of the night turned his mind into solid blackness. A woman wore it. A skinny bitch. She reminded him of the bitch from the bus stop.

  After a few minutes of playing he announced a break. Slim lit a cigarette and walked over to the table of a man wearing the Kid on his body. What a strange shirt, this one: a white button-down number with a collar. The Kid’s glitter-flecked face took over the man’s entire back.

  He grabbed the man’s lapel, dragged him to his feet, and head-butted him three times. A lake of blood flowed onto the front of the man’s shirt. People gasped, but no one rushed to his aid. The man wobbled, but the piano player held him up with a tight grip. He ripped the man’s shirt and slapped him to the floor with a heavy hand. Slim looked at the pitiful animal at his feet, holding his face and moaning. He balled his fist and punched the man’s mouth. The man’s teeth tore the skin at Slim’s knuckles. All around him were wide, floating, disembodied eyes watching him shake his bleeding, aching hand.

  Stop! the man’s date screamed. She wore a wristband with a silvery picture of the Kid’s face on it.

  You want some, bitch?

  Slim snatched at the woman’s wrist and twisted it.

  What the fuck, Slim? the owner shouted. Get the fuck outta here! Get the hell outta here!

  Slim let go of the woman. He looked at his boss—now former boss—and smiled.

  Get that dumb look off your face, the owner screamed. Get the fuck outta my bar before I get my gun! Someone shouted that they had called the police. I don’t need the fucking police, the owner shouted. I’m going in the back. I’m getting my fucking revolver for this piece of shit.

  Slim turned and walked slowly through the crowd of gawking patrons parting before him. He pushed open the door, enjoying the moment with little fear, as he had his boss’s revolver tucked away at his waist.

  4.

  That night Slim’s stroll took him into the Wildlands. He had thought about this many times. What if the Kid was really there? What if he was crouched on the forest floor, laughing at everyone he had hurt? What if he had befriended a demon and a ghost? Or what if he had domesticated humanity’s only natural predator and was harnessing an army of screechers to swoop down on Cross River? Or perhaps at night the Kid had learned guerrilla warfare techniques and was preparing with an army of Indians to raid the town. Slim walked into a clutch of trees, following a worn path.

  Eventually Slim made it to the other side, never once seeing a vampire or werewolf. He found himself at the ruin that was once the Temple, the only place he had ever felt at home. He sat before it for some time, remembering the day it burned, the music he had made, his friends and enemies.

  When he rose to leave he spied—stepping gingerly through the debris—a cat. Osiris! The brindled one-eyed cat that had accompanied the Kid to the Temple. How callous of the Kid to leave the animal behind. Or maybe it was a sign that the Kid was nearby. Slim touched his former boss’s revolver. The cat meowed softly and walked over.

  He was still chubby and he still had that milky right eye. That golden left one still stunned. Slim petted the animal. It crawled up onto his lap. Its brindled fur matted and debris-strewn. Osiris raised his head as if he heard something disturbing. He hopped down and dashed into the trees. The man followed after him, but soon lost the cat.

  While he walked, he pulled out a matchbook and lit a cigarette. He smoked half of it, tossing the smoking stump into a nest of forest debris. The world had been so hot and dry lately, as if the previous week’s storm had never happened. He hoped the smoldering cigarette would cause the foliage to burn. Every inch of the forest consumed in wavy, unrelenting flames. Slim lit another and tossed the still-fiery match into the brush. Small fires took root, and flickered softly before going out. If there were any God beyond the clouds, the hellfires would grow, Slim thought as he walked slowly away. One day there’d be no Wildlands. No Cro
ss River. Just a new world that at some point would also have to burn.

  5.

  Slim now woke each morning to the acrid scent of smoke from the burning Wildlands. It had been burning for more than a week now. News images of futile water falling from planes and exhausted firefighters wiping sweat from their faces filled him with a faint satisfaction, though he now realized that the living emptiness inside of him was a permanent affliction, a monster who fed and fed and fed and fed. It had never shrunk, that had simply been his imagination. It was the size of the universe. Huge and round, a devourer of worlds. Unsettling and comforting at the same time.

  Since the Wildlands had started to burn he took it upon himself to walk Cross River as far as he was physically able to go each day, calling and texting the woman who now ignored him. In some messages he was serene, in some flirtatious, and still in others, most of them, he cursed her family, her body, her mind, and her genitals each couple blocks he walked.

  The last time he did this walk, he passed Ol’ Cigar Park before turning back. Each day he made it a little farther down the road. He was the Destructist. He liked the sound of that. A mission rested on his shoulders now like angel wings. It was only a matter of time before he’d see the Kid. He knew this.

  This day he stopped at the mailbox before his constitutional. There was a letter, written firmly but politely, asking him to turn himself in to the police. There was a warrant for his arrest, the letter informed him. Something about an assault. Slim didn’t recognize the victim’s name. He shrugged and shoved the papers into his pocket right next to the revolver.

  It was an uneventful day until the commotion. So pointless, and at the same time the most important day the world had ever seen. He thought of his plans. First the Kid. Then the woman from the bus stop. Probably he’d have to visit her on campus. Finally, he’d return to True Love during the Friday early evening rush and he’d shoot the owner and then whoever now played piano and then he’d fire blindly, striking as many people as he could. In that order. The order was important. What a statement. What a lasting monument. Committing such evil would eventually prove that goodness existed, Slim thought. Out of the commotion, the human spirit, crushed to earth, would begin to rise. For all of that he’d need bigger weapons. More firepower. By late afternoon he had grown tired of thinking, tired of walking. His belly was as empty as all else within and around him. A gas station near the park sold soggy fish sandwiches. It was at the top of a hill. Slim cursed the walk. At one point he turned around, reasoning that it was better to eat elsewhere than to climb in his weakened state. But really, he had a taste for the soggy sandwiches. Slim turned and walked, ignoring the ache in his right big toe. Reaching the gas station felt like an accomplishment. The pain in his limbs made him grimace. When he stopped warily on the sidewalk in front of the station he looked up, a voice called his name, and then a light grin curled on his lips.

  Rolling in My Six-Fo’—Daa Daa Daa—with All My Niggas Saying: Swing Down Sweet Chariot Stop and Let Me Riiiide. Hell Yeah.

  Sitting shotgun in that old big boat of a car, that ’64 Chevrolet, sliding into the darkness out ahead. Rick couldn’t decide whether the driver was an eccentric or a lunatic. James-my-man leaned sideways and riffled through the glove box while the car drifted this way and that.

  Um, Rick said. You need some help?

  Naw, dog, he said with a strained voice, his arm disappearing deeper into the guts of the glove box. I’m fine. Quite under control, bruh. Got it!

  He pulled back an auburn plastic cylinder and held it aloft as an athlete holds a trophy; he gave it a good shake and the contents click-clack-clicked.

  James-my-man let go of the steering wheel and tugged at the container’s cap, cursing and jiggling the thing that wouldn’t budge.

  Here, Rick said. Let me do—

  No, no. I got— He jerked the drifting car back into its lane.

  It’s a childproo—

  Yes, yes, sure. That’s right.

  You have to push—

  My brother, I got—

  Forgive my caution, James, but I don’t think you do. Rick clenched his teeth and held tight to the seat belt with one hand, and with the other he gripped the armrest.

  What are you, a little old lady? And it’s James-my-man. Not James. James-my-man. Gotta say the my-man along with the James. And look at that, I got it.

  The car rumbled over the rough ridges at the edge of the highway. James-my-man tossed a handful of pills into his mouth and loudly crunched them between his teeth.

  Ack, he said, sticking out his tongue and swallowing hard.

  Rick flared his nostrils and widened his eyes.

  Relax, mon ami. They’re just vitamins.

  They don’t look like vitamins.

  Sure they are, good buddy. Powerful vitamins. Vitamins like you ain’t never tried before. Gotta keep my energy up, as much driving as I do.

  Rick eyed the speedometer’s needle as it danced between ninety and ninety-five. A big green sign reminded Rick that they were somewhere in Virginia, headed north. He could hear his old dead father now, Rick, stay your ass outta Virginia; you hear me? He became aware that he was again clutching the armrest in a steely vise grip. He didn’t loosen it; in fact, he tightened his hold on the seat belt too.

  James-my-man shook the bottle at Rick.

  No, thanks, Rick replied.

  You sure?

  Drowsiness sat thick at Rick’s eyelids and he turned to rest his head against the window. He needed, not an energy boost, but a good nap. As he tried to drift off to sleep he felt the car swerve and throw him from side to side.

  Relax, bruh, James-my-man said. Relax. Go back to sleep. I got it steady. Real steady, man. Steady. Real steady.

  Dog, Rick said, forever abandoning sleep, tell me the deal with your name again.

  Me? the driver replied. The name’s James-my-man.

  James. Okay. James.

  No. Are you trying hard to be wrong or something? Again, it’s James-my-man. Gotta put the my-man after the dang James. That’s what they call me out here on the Underground Railroad.

  The what?

  You ain’t never heard of the Underground Railroad? Harriet and shit? What the fuck niggas be learning in school nowadays, huh? I’m a reenactor. Do it this time every year. There’s literally hundreds of us taking these long trips from the South all the way up through the North. Yep. Re-creating the slave’s journey to freedom. That whole racial nightmare. I’m just one guy.

  Then he started singing: Swing low sweet chariot. Coming for to carry me hoooooome . . .

  Rick looked at the driver’s sturdy hands on the steering wheel. They were huge hands. Big like lion paws. Thick hands. Fighter’s hands. Rick imagined the hands crushing chunks of ice.

  James-my-man said other things, strange things. Rick threw in a word or two, but mostly he listened and wondered if the man was insane. Along the Underground Railroad line in Cross River there would be a party in an old cotton field somewhere in the Ruins, a string of abandoned plantations, and all the Underground Railroad reenactors would converge upon it, James-my-man said. A man he called the Lizard would be at the party. The Lizard of God. The way James-my-man described him, the Lizard sounded less like a creation of God, and everything like God himself. The Lizard could solve any problem. Talking to the Lizard could even give anyone a boost of confidence, though James-my-man said he didn’t need one, but if he did need one, which he didn’t, he’d go to the Lizard. Rick sat bewildered by his travel companion’s words, but everything the man said came with a hilarious aside that made Rick forget the initial ridiculousness.

  Like I said before, man, just get me to Cross River, Rick said. Get me home to Cross River and I’m good.

  Um-hmm, James-my-man replied. Yep. Six white horses prancing side by side. Coming for to carry you home.

  So you’re really following the Underground Railroad?

  Yeah, jack. I ain’t bullshittin’. Do the shit every year. Sometimes tw
ice, if I’m needed. Usually pick up a hitchhiker or three like I did with you, or I pick up a rider at a safe house. It humbles you to go through what our ancestors went through.

  Our ancestors ain’t have cars.

  Yeah, he replied. I guess they didn’t have cars.

  The pair listened to the soft, raspy groan of the engine and the gentle hum of the rubber moving along the road. James-my-man fiddled with the radio. Country music and static moved through the speakers.

  Looking for some gospel music and shit, James-my-man said. You’d think they’d have one good gospel station out here.

  You a gospel fan?

  Not really. Why do you ask?

  James-my-man switched off the radio and Rick rubbed his hand against his weary, red eyes and listened to the silence, waiting for it to refresh his fatigued mind.

  Yeah, man, James-my-man said. You lucky it was me who picked you up and not one of them Forgotten Tunnel people.

  Forgotten what?

  You ain’t never heard about the Forgotten Tunnel neither? Shango and shit? Where you learn history at? These people, way back in the slave days, thought they were doing what the Underground Railroad was doing. Haughty motherfuckers going off all half cocked. Thought they was better than Harriet and them, but they never rescued a soul. Some shit would always go wrong. People reenact that shit too every year. Their reenactors are just as stupid as the original Forgotten Tunnel folks. Nigga shot himself with a musket last year. Some of them dummies gon’ be at the party too. I just ignore them.

  The familiar drone of the open road passed between them. Rick was learning to love that sound. He tried again to lean his head on the window and go to sleep.

  So tell me, what you running from?

  I ain’t running from shit.

  Everybody on the Underground Railroad is running from something. But you don’t have to tell me. Whatever it is, I got your back, my nigga.

  Thanks.

  The Chevrolet left the highway and now passed through a residential neighborhood. It had narrow streets and identical white houses with brown front doors, big picture windows, and black shingles.