they say the owl was a baker's daughter: four existential noirs Read online

they say the owl was a baker’s daughter:

  four existential noirs

  Pablo D’Stair

  Copyright © 2011 by Pablo D’Stair

  (KUBOA)/SmashWords Edition

  www.kuboapress.wordpress.com

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  Kaspar Traulhaine, approximate

  Yesterday was such an easy game for you to play

  But let’s face it things are so much easier today

  -The Kinks

  On Friday, it was terribly cold, but I’d not felt like going home after work, was just sitting out, reading a magazine of allegedly true macabre stories, the first one I opened to beginning That morning, Lester Hauss was feeding the tail of a stray cat to the lizard he carried around in his leather briefcase.

  I wanted to buy a new sweater, my sweater having worn nearly threadbare. I wanted to buy a belt, my pants awkward because I’d been dropping weight the last several weeks.

  Everything was spooky, the nights coming on earlier and the magazine not helping.

  I was on a bench far enough away from the road that the few pedestrians out for strolls wouldn’t bother with me. I’d probably have slept on the bench awhile if not for finally noticing someone was watching me. A plump little man, not so little, a fat man still dressed as though from work, lingering up on a subway platform. He was staring at me, though it was obvious I’d caught sight of him. I read for fifteen minutes straight, hoping when I glanced up again, making it as casual as I possibly could, he would be gone, or at least facing the other direction.

  He was still looking at me, puffing from a sour little cigarette, holding a cup that was probably empty.

  Unsettled, I lit my own cigarette, suddenly wanting to be around other people. So I stood, started to walk in the direction of a fountain with a cobbled walk around it, a few monuments, streetlights lit mint white and orange, couples and families likely still lounging in the grass, talking, eating, having a moment of pointless calm.

  I gave a look back over my shoulder as I got ten paces or so away from the bench. The man was no longer there.

  ***

  I stopped at a street kiosk to buy coffee and a candy bar, double checking that I didn’t also need more cigarettes.

  A block later, there was a movie theatre, a small one I’d never known about before. It seemed out of place, just a slim entrance between a take-away restaurant and a laundromat.

  The entrance door led immediately to a rather steep staircase, the door at the bottom opening into the theatre lobby which was well lit and rather busy, throwing me off a bit. A young woman who worked there must have noticed my confused expression, because she approached politely, asked if there was something she could help me with. I smiled, shaking my head, sort of nodded Thank you and kept looking around while she strolled back to where she’d been standing.

  I bought a ticket for something that turned out to be a documentary about a family that tried and failed to run a franchise restaurant, the tone of the film bitter toward various commercial interests, though I felt that the flop was all the family’s own fault.

  I stayed in my seat until the credits were nearly done, then got up, a sudden burst of needing to urinate. As I moved down the theatre aisle, I was certain that the man walking in front of me, just pushing through the auditorium door five steps ahead of me, was the man from the platform.

  It was.

  He was out in the corridor. I walked right past him on the way to the toilet.

  He was still in the corridor as I followed the exit signs, coming to a much larger, more accessible entrance to the theatre than the stairwell I’d come down.

  Irritated, I walked at a brisk clip for two blocks then ducked in to a coffee shop, ordered an espresso and a cookie, took up a free newspaper and took a seat at one of the tables. Within two minutes, I saw the man loitering outside, leaning on a bike rack, scratching his nose then taking a tissue from one of his pant pockets to blow out what seemed a thick wet of mucus. He got a cigarette going and stared at the coffee shop window. He wasn’t looking right at me, because the window glass was tinted, probably only showed him his own reflection, the street behind him.

  But he was staring.

  It might as well have been at me.

  ***

  Thinking to call his bluff, to put a bit of a scare in him, I immediately walked up to him, asking just what he wanted. He gave me a sort of condescending smile, a gruff of air down his nose, took out his damp tissue and wiped at the skin above his lip. He got a cigarette out, asked me did I have a light, to which I told him to go fuck himself, so he took out a book of matches, got the cigarette lit and started to walk away.

  I was not about to walk in the opposite direction, because it was obvious enough how that would play out, he would just start following me, again, putting me right back in the same position.

  So I followed him, very quickly catching up, keeping pace a few steps behind him.

  It was absolutely childish, but there was something about the sogginess of his appearance, about the ugly shumble to his steps, the dandruff over his coat shoulders, the worn out knees of his pants, about the sole coming off of his left shoe in flops with each step, something about his whole way of carrying himself that made me tense, more terrified to walk away than to see what he did next.

  He went into a drugstore and I lingered outside.

  If I ran, it seemed I’d be able to get away. But, this made it the wrong thing to do. If he was willing to give me the opportunity, it was just because he was flaunting his power in the situation over me.

  I had to wait, I knew, because he knew where I lived.

  Obviously.

  I started to get sick to my stomach.

  Had I ever seen him before?

  Absolutely not. No. Absolutely not.

  He exited the drugstore, slapping his cigarette packet in his hands, giving me a little nod, a pleased kind of flat smoothed his lips out. He put a cigarette to his mouth and stood there, squaring himself as best as his plump, slung over body could manage.

  He waited what must have been a full five minutes before it dawned on me he wanted me to light his cigarette.

  I stepped up to him, spit on his chest, then stepped back as his eyes narrowed.

  -I’m going to turn you in, three days from now, he said, his voice smooth and still with a higher pitch like an adolescent.

  I felt empty. Nothing. Just stood there.

  I could have asked What do you mean? but it was pointless. Everything was pointless as soon as those words were out of his mouth.

  I got out one of my own cigarettes and he held across his matches, but I took my lighter from my pocket, tried to get it to flame, the flint just clacking sparks, scuffing, my thumb tip sweating and sore.

  He struck a match and shielding the flame with a cupped hand, he slowly moved it toward me. Disgusted, I slapped both his hands and shoved him hard, a few passersby giving us looks, slowing, waiting to see what would come of it.

  I struck and struck and struck at my lighter, finally getting it to flame, my lips trembling with the lighting cigarette in them giving its first crackle.

  ***

  I followed him up the street until he entered a bar, one I’d
had drinks at myself, from time to time. He no longer seemed to be paying me much mind, but that didn’t surprise me. There was no reason to be following him, any longer, but I was sick and couldn’t think of what else to do.

  In three days he’s going to turn me in. That was the claim.

  I looked at him, obese, exhausted from his day, hair two licks of glaze over his blotchy forehead.

  A few patrons moved by me, one of them nudging me, saying something sharp I didn’t quite catch.

  I glanced around until I found the toilet, took a seat on the bowl without pulling down my pants, sat there, tense elbows digging into my thighs while I massaged my temples.

  It was certainly conceivable that this man had witnessed me, but after four months I didn’t see what good it would do for him to go to the authorities.

  And with what evidence?

  I got on my knees, vomiting hot liquid. As I spit strands of putrid phlegm into the mess of the toilet water, I realized I’d started to cry.

  What evidence?

  I didn’t understand.

  And what possible connection could this man have with any of it? Did he know Claudia? Did he know Gavin?

  Neither of those options seemed the least bit likely, especially considering neither Gavin nor Claudia even knew me.

  I tried to get a picture in my head of the stairwell in Gavin’s building.

  Had there been windows? Someone lingering a few flights up the stairs, peeking over?

  Even if so, Gavin’s body hadn’t been found for twelve hours, not until the afternoon after I’d left him in the corner, covering him over with bags of trash, cardboard boxes.

  ***

  I got myself cleaned up, straightened my clothing out as best as I could, exited into the bar and looked around for the man. It took me a moment to find him, though he’d done nothing to hide himself.

  He was with a woman, now, some ugly woman who was laughing at whatever story he was telling, his hands flopping out, up, showing the sweat pushed through the fabric of his shirt under his arms, his coat slung over the back of his chair.

  I took a seat for myself at the end of the bar, ordered a bourbon and sipped at it carefully.

  The woman didn’t seem like his date, just an acquaintance. The impish appearance of the both of them made me think they might be related, if not brother and sister maybe just cousins, or maybe just ugly friends from a long time ago.

  He was obviously deranged. It went without saying. But there must have been a specific reason he’d come to this bar. It was clear enough that I would have followed him this far, though he’d done nothing to coax me along. The threat he’d made was enough to keep me tethered to him. He must have known that, plain as day. Just as he must have known that I would follow him wherever he went next.

  I downed my bourbon, ordering another, giving the whole thing some consideration.

  He wanted something from me. He must. It was not just some coincidence, he hadn’t just decided to screw around with a complete stranger and luck-of-the-draw made his threat to someone who just happened to have killed someone four months ago.

  He knew what he said he knew.

  Absolutely.

  I sipped at my new bourbon. Watched him. Now he was eating some cheese fries that had been brought. He and his woman friend both. Their round bulbs of fingers digging in, their mouths opening, the fries swallowed whole, both of them too greedy to even let the things cool down, their swallows clearly not the least bit pleasant.

  ***

  The woman left when her boyfriend or husband showed up, but my accuser stayed behind, not even giving up his table, just ordering a drink for himself, having a brief conversation with the girl who took the order.

  I ordered two more bourbons, taking one as a shot, paying, leaving a considerable tip, then took my last one with me over to where he was sitting.

  He eyed me, then scratched at the sour skin of his neck, smiled, asked me what I was going to do with my time.

  I felt crippled from the tone of the question. Without any heart, I asked him what it was that he wanted from me, his reply just a rubber shake of his face while he scratched the damp soup of sweat and scalp that layered the thin hair over the back of his head, flakes littering down over his shirt shoulders.

  I pressed on, though, knowing the futility of it, telling him I didn’t have much money. But I worked, he must know that, and I said I could easily get him more money regularly, as much as he liked. I admitted that he had me completely under his thumb.

  He just slurped up the scum of beer from the long empty base of his last glassful, not listening to me at all.

  I chuckled, at first faking, but then it became genuine. I would have started laughing, broken down into tears again if I hadn’t forced myself to cough then slap my bourbon down my throat, wincing to keep from choking it back up.

  -Three days, what time? I asked, letting out a long breath, leaning back in my chair.

  That made him smile, sweetly, like I’d finally gotten around to something he was interested in. It was a very unpleasant expression, it suggested an intimacy, like I’d just off hand mentioned I liked his favorite song.

  -Early afternoon, early afternoon, he said, and just like that the paste of disinterest came over him.

  The warm of the first drinks I had taken crept up my back. My eyes blinked down a long time, my head swaying as I took a steadying breath.

  -It is about Gavin, all of this, you can tell me that at least?

  He took out his wallet, took up the bill that had been left folded next to a water glass, condensation having soaked the receipt paper through. I was staring at him while he calculated how much tip he was going to leave.

  As he stood up, he looked at me. I turned down my head, not wanting to see his smugness. But I could tell he was looking at me, still and when I lifted my brow to meet his eyes he told me quite sadly that there was nothing I could do about it, so I really shouldn’t bother.

  ***

  I kept at least half a block distant as I continued to follow him, spent most of the time looking down at my feet, my cigarette smoldering, fizzling out, dropped from my fingers.

  Each time I looked up to make certain I’d not lost sight of him, I felt further removed from life, from the past week, from months and months, everything.

  I wondered if I should go in to work the next day and got upset, a hissing conversation about it jabbing the backs of my eyes. First, I’d think I should certainly not bother, but no sooner would this settle than it would seem a kind of admission of defeat. Worse, it seemed like I’d accepted my circumstances without even contemplating some escape, that I was so certain of being defeated I’d already stopped breathing.

  What would I do if I didn’t go to work and if I didn’t go out the next night and if I didn’t do whatever it was I’d had in mind to do two days from now, even if I’d had no concrete plans?

  Nothing I can do, he’d said. Shouldn’t even bother.

  He knew exactly what I’d get to thinking.

  Even if I wanted to do something to him, how could I? When?

  If he was this full of himself, this meekly assured, it was apparent enough that he was right, there was no point in bothering.

  I slowed, letting him get almost out of sight, but then a choke of panic kicked around in my gut, my bowels tightening and feeling hot. I hurried, trying not to break into a jog, was half a block behind him, again, five minutes later.

  It was pointless, these conversations with myself. I was trying to pretend there was anything left to do.

  He’d been taunting me when he’d said those things. The sadness on his face had been condescension.

  He was doing this to me, getting his kicks this way, loving every step I was taking. He probably was having to keep himself from laughing when we crossed the street into a quiet block of closed shop fronts, just the sound of his flopp
ing shoe sole burping in echo, my ears pricked to each suck of it.

  ***

  We entered an apartment building, the lobby smelling of stale mop water, the carpet moist, pulping when I stepped on the rubber mat just inside the entrance doors.

  While he collected some mail, I noticed two elevators off to the left. My chest tightened up.

  Did he want me that close to him? Closed in a box?

  I could kill him right there. Obviously. Taking only the slightest chance of being witnessed.

  No.

  Pointless thinking.

  Even if I thought I could overpower him, even if I’d been armed, even if I was certain he wasn’t armed, for that matter, there was no point in killing him. I just had to wait. At least until I knew what was actually going on.

  I was feeling drunk, a bit feverish. Before I realized it, he’d moved past the elevators, holding some correspondence in his teeth while he used both hands to open a larger manila envelope.

  He leaned in to the stairwell door then started to climb, his breath gravelly and raw with each step. I let him get up two floors before I began my pursuit. His funk was everywhere and the constant bubbling ooze of his breathing crept along the stairwell walls, moistened the banister, made my breathing short, harsh, anger rising, my cheeks clenching taut.

  I was ascending the second two flights, listening to him gurgle his way upward, when he let out a peel of flatulence, first high pitched, then chugging and obscene, the taunt of a child with food smeared over salivating lips, the sound of it pip-pip-pip-pip-pip-pip-pip.

  I punched the wall, collapsing from the pain of my strike, rolled onto my side, then righted myself, stood with my forehead against the painted cement. I mumbled that he was a bastard, hated him for his disregard, for making me walk through breaths of his waste.

  The alcohol in my system dulled the throb in my hand, but not entirely, so I knew I’d done some actual damage. Still able to hear his progress, I waited another minute before following, again.

  ***

  He climbed all the way to the tenth floor, was blowing his nose, smacking his lips as he made his way into the corridor. He was hobbling, doing the best he could to keep his thighs from rubbing against each other, not that he could do much, his pants ridden up between the cleft of his ass, his socks, the elastic in them long worn out, were piles on the tops of his shoes, the dry skin of his ankles showing a few inches, thick spots of red from where he likely scratched and scratched and scratched at them.