“Wake up,” said his wife. Esther. She’d been dead for a year and a half. “I need you out back.”
He was dreaming. In his dream, he sat up in bed. It was the same bed as when he was awake, only the sheets roiled like boiling snakes and there was a light in the backyard. That’s where Esther was. She was at the foot of the bed. But she was also in the backyard with the light streaming through the sliding glass door, through the linen drapes he never opened.
“What,” he said.
“I need you.”
“You’re dead.”
“I’m not dead. I’m out back.”
“No,” he said.
There was more. But he never remembered past “no.” He’d had the dream maybe six, seven times. Why don’t I ever say yes, he thought, watching shadows move on the ceiling. A car passed outside with a swoosh. Then it was quiet again. The covers weren’t boiling. The shadows were still.
When the sun came up, his eyes were open. The bed stank of old sweat. It was always like that. It was like that because he was like that. If your bed stinks all the time, you’ve got a problem. But fuck it. He hadn’t boxed up her clothes. Two closets full. Little squares of paper on her mahogany writing desk in the hall. To-do lists turning brown, curling at the edges. Yarn. Buy apples. What does Peter want? He went to the sink and rubbed his eyes. What I want, he thought, is to stop having these dreams.
Didn’t matter. Reality happened 8:30 AM to 4:00 PM, Monday through Friday, Central Time. He worked from home. His living room was his office. He kept the blinds closed. Power cords across the floor. A screen bigger than his desk. Headset. His supervisor, a man with a goatee and a shiny head named Baptiste somewhere in Pennsylvania. Pete had never met him in person. Never would.
Baptiste sent him emails: Sarah, 34, Lincoln, Nebraska, mother had stroke, father in hospice, fears divorce +/-. Lindsey, 66, likes crystals, nervous breakdown, crush on younger woman but too shy, +/+. Dan, hates father, suicide attempt at 14, works in restaurant, wants to join police, +. A plus meant keep them on as long as you can. Plus minus meant it could go either way. Two pluses meant slot machine.
How Baptiste got the info was anybody’s guess. Pete wasn’t interested. They called. He wore the purple kaftans. He held up The Moon, The Lovers, Death. He said, “Before we begin, I’d like you to pray with me.” Always pray. They ate it up. If a call started to go sideways, he’d tell them they had to pray harder. What were they going to do, insult religion? The power of prayer at $8 a minute. For Pete, 30 cents on the dollar.
He took a 15-minute break at 11:00 for vape and coffee. Around noon, lunch at the kitchen sink. Regular. Just like at the broom factory when he was a kid. Esther used to laugh, tell him no matter what he did, he’d always be making brooms. Pete never disagreed. Of all people, through all worlds, in all times, Esther was the only one who found him endearing, who ever would. Mostly, he despised himself. But through her eyes, maybe a little less. Now she came to him in dreams, said she wasn’t really dead. That’s what I get, he thought, since I killed her.
Not directly. But yeah, indirectly, for sure.
He tried Tinder but it didn’t take. He couldn’t stop lying. “What do I do?” He blinked. “I’m in sales.” What kind? “Precision machine parts for a company out of Pittsburgh. All Gears Limited.” That was a doozy. He’d worked on it, refined it over time. A thought stopper. A curiosity destroyer. The women sniffed it right out. One even said, “You’ve got a dead wife. I’ve seen that face.” “No,” he said. “Pittsburgh. Machine parts.” “Machine parts my ass.” And that was true.
Baptiste said, “Look, I like you, but nobody wants a depressed psychic. They’re depressed. You have to make them happy. Make them feel special, Peter, like it’s all okay. Okay? Or I don’t know what we should do.”
Okay.
He didn’t want Baptiste wondering what they should do. He didn’t want to have to get a straight job in an office. He wanted to stay home with the drapes closed. He wanted to eat sandwiches over the kitchen sink at noon. Every now and then, he wanted to sit in the closet and hold Esther’s bathrobe against his cheek.
There was one. Japanese. Japan Japanese, not Orange County Japanese. And feminine in that way, like Esther, even though Esther was blonde, blue-eyed, and grew up in Kansas City. This girl, though. Kumi. From Asahikawa. She had a smile, a small one, like they were sharing a secret. And they were. The secret was: Pete is a piece of shit, thought Pete. But, like with Esther, maybe it didn’t matter. Kumi didn’t know “that face.” She didn’t say, “Machine parts my ass.”
They went out three times. On the third date, they saw Romeo and Juliette in the park. There was an intermission and he explained what he really did for a living.
“That is fascinating. How did you begin doing it?”
“I’m a good liar,” he said.
She smiled.
The light. The covers boiling like serpents. “Wake up,” said Esther. “I need you out back.”
“You’re dead,” he said.
“I need you.”
“No,” he said and woke up saying no to the air. He touched his cheek. Wet. He tripped on the comforter, got up and staggered into the living room. His computer desk and monitor crouched there like a giant dark toad.
“Fuck you,” he said to the toad.
“Fuck you, too,” it answered in Baptiste’s voice.
He worked harder. He read Blue Nights while vaping Strawberry Macaroon Unicorn Passion at 3:00 AM. He didn’t complain. He spent more time alone. Deleted Tinder. Kept the ++ slot machines rolling. The Two of Swords is conjuncting with your inner imperative to transcend your perceived limitations. Do you understand? Very good. Let us now discuss The High Priestess in relation to your father’s energy. He’s still with you, correct?
Correct. Always bring up the father after you pray. You have to get dark before you go light. You have to do the sad before you do the happy. Baptiste told him this. Bring them down, then lift them up. Make them feel redeemed. Give them catharsis. Can you do it?
“Of course,” said Pete.
He called an escort service. They gave him a quote and he hung up. He got on locallove.net instead, made an account, said he was an airline pilot, hobbies: long walks on the beach, being real, finding the spirit within. No games. Posted a picture of himself 20 years younger.
That same night, Mora in the chat box: We can fuck, but I’ll be honest with you, Patrick. I just want to be held. Is that okay?
Absolutely, he wrote and meant it.
She came to his house. 375 lbs., maybe pushing 400, hair in little curls, bright red lipstick, big jeans, a kid’s cartoon backpack. She looked at his computer. “You do porn?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Pays the rent.”
“Cool.”
The sole purpose of the backpack was to transport Mora’s green, translucent bong. “You up for this?” She raised an eyebrow.
Sure he was.
She packed a bowl, looked at his desk. “Yeah, I vape. I read Joan Didion. The White Album, am I right?”
“That’s next.”
“Read it,” she said. “Don’t fuck around with that Year of Magical Thinking bullshit.”
Pete said he wouldn’t. Then they smoked some bowls and watched Lion King on his enormous computer screen from the sofa across the room.
“That’s a big-ass monitor,” she said as they fell asleep, holding each other.
That night, Pete didn’t dream. When he woke up on the couch, Mora was gone. She’d left him a pink Post-It, purple ink: Sorry we didn’t fuck, if that disappoints you. But you’re nice. Next time, show me the porn. She had big loopy handwriting. In the hall, he looked down at Esther’s to-do list, Yarn. Buy apples. What does Peter want? and crumpled the Post-it in his fist.
A month went by. He read The White Album, switched to Blueberry Cheesecake Fire Monkey, but it made his tongue numb. He messaged Mora, wrote You still want to see the porn? No answer. He sat in the closet and cried. Esther died from liver cancer. He hadn’t given her that. But, in a way, he had. Because everything he touched died or turned to shit. And she’d let him touch her so many times. Pete knew he’d killed her. He knew she was somewhere in the house, watching. He knew she’d been sitting on the end of the couch while Rafiki raised up baby Simba and Mora broke a bud on her palm.
He started drinking the cheap shit three times a week from a plastic bottle, VODKA in big red letters. It hurt going down. Nothing but what he deserved. His sheets stank of body odor. He sat in the closet and drank. He continued old conversations with Esther. Sometimes, he dreamed the light, the boiling covers, but I need you from the foot of the bed. I’m out back. He grew a beard. When he started missing calls, Baptiste decided what they should do. The next day, Pete googled: resume, best practices. He figured he had about $10k in the bank.
One night, drunk, he opened the sliding glass door and went into the backyard, lay down in the overgrown grass, and looked at the moon. He said, “I love you.” He said, “I miss you forever.”
And the moon said, “You finally came. Let me show you what’s next.”
The Writing Expedition 