Authors: Pat Connid
The last
thing I remember were the voices of several people who’d found front row seats
for that day’s building collapse, and who were now pulling me from the hotel’s
roof top pool.
I heard a
voice, deep drawl, say: “That was the craziest damn thing I’ve ever saw.”
Before I
passed out, I said: “Which part?”
Chapter
Twenty-six
About ten
months later, I was approaching a beach house in the dark.
Pavan had
quit the theater and joined me in my wobbly, start-up house and pet sitting
service. We even paid one of his cousins to come up with a cool logo.
I’d finished the job for the Dvoraks, despite my run in with the swan
song of a bank building. Word had gotten around their posh neighborhood
and, well, I guess that sort of job commitment impressed enough people to keep
us in the black for a little while.
During my
weeks in the hospital, I’d registered for a name change. Before I was
discharged, and two surgeries on my back and hips later, the change had become
official. Pavan had come to visit me at the hospital and when I showed
him the paperwork he laughed for a half-minute straight.
“You
changed your name to ‘Dexter Mister’?”
“Not
really, just for the chart. While I’m in here. Might baffle unwanted
visitors, right?”
“That’s
some funny shit.”
We were
best friends and best friends, as Pavan had reminded me, tell each other the
important stuff.
So, right
then, I told him the world's biggest secret.
Of course,
it meant nothing to him and, truthfully, barely meant much to me either.
After I’d
told him the exact sequence and its subset formulas-- it had taken nearly a full
minute to detail it exactly as Professor Jepson had told me years earlier-- my best
friend Pavan simply stared at me.
“What
the... what is all that mumbly-jumbly? You having another fit or
something? You don’t look like you’re having a fit.”
I said,
setting down in my hospital bed: “I just wanted to say the whole thing out loud,
one time. They didn’t get it, man. I wouldn’t give it to them. But,
we’re best friends, so one time, I told it to you. From beginning to end,
the complete working sequence.”
“Okay, Dexter,”
he said and smiled. Then he shot a glance at the door and pulled out a joint.
"Now, I paid beaucoup for this stuff, man, since I knew you'd be in here
and beat up to hell and shit."
It hurt a
bit to laugh. "You want me to get stoned with you?"
"Yes."
"In a
hospital, Pavan?"
Fishing for
his lighter, he slipped the joint between his lips and said, "Ah, see.
That makes it
medicinal
! Totally legit."
I stared at
my friend and saw a tiny, tiny twinkle on one side of his flop of hair.
I said,
"Well, if it's
medicinal
."
"Totally!"
Months had passed
since that conversation with my friend, but I still had unfinished business.
There was a
light in the kitchen, but I wasn’t very worried. Didn’t matter.
I’d lost
about fifteen pounds, another twenty to go I guess, because walking dogs means
you’re
walking
, which can peel the weight off. I probably would
have lost more if I’d cut back on the beer, but I’m not a masochist.
Most of the
cuts and scrapes healed or left very slight scars.
There was
nothing they could do to restore the hearing in one of my ears. A couple
plastic surgeries, though, and at least it looked like the other one. I knew
that because Pavan had finally stopped laughing at the sight of it.
At the
front steps of the beach house, I stopped for a moment and breathed in the
salty night air. I could hear the rolling waves and found it very
soothing. Sure, I was now half-deaf but for a man who remembers nearly
every word and sound, it seemed like things could be worse.
The door
came open with a twist, as expected, and I entered the foyer. It looked
the same as it had early that afternoon when I’d broken in except for the
windbreaker hanging on the hook by the door.
Earlier,
when I’d been inside putting the poison into meats, milk, olives, anything that
would hold it, I got a call from Doc on my flashy mobile phone.
It seems
Tiffany was, finally, in a “pink” mood. I asked Doc why he’d even broken
away to call me, and he said he was “recouping.”
When I
entered the kitchen, I saw him slumped on the floor next to the table.
The sliding
glass door was open and some of the sea spray was getting on the deck, so I
walked up and closed it.
Then, I
flipped The Mentor over and slapped on a recently purchased pair of drug store
handcuffs. They were good for the price. Good enough.
As I lifted
the man off the floor onto the couch he stirred a little from the drugs I’d
spiked his food with. When I tossed him down, his head hit a little hard
and that made me feel pretty good.
He pried
his eyes open, groggy. And laughed.
“Holy shit.
Dexter, my man,” he said through those perfect teeth. “How’d you
even find me?”
I punched
him on the mouth. That felt pretty good, too.
“No time
for questions,” I said. “You need to listen nice and close. At the higher
altitudes, your oxygen saturation will have fallen. You need to drop
because your judgment will be impaired. Too long that high up, you’ll
hallucinate. ”
“What the
fuck is this about?”
I hit him
again and his eyes rolled for a moment. I slapped him back.
“No, no.
Stay with me. And you want to get down below 17,000 feet. If
you don’t your body will continue to deteriorate—muscle atrophy, mental
instability—your body is literally eating itself for energy.” Sitting on
the coffee table behind me, I plucked a grape out of the bowl. I hadn’t
tainted those. “But, first you’ll have to get below the 25,000 feet mark.
Appropriately, that’s called the ‘Death Zone.’”
“I’ll kill
you. You’re out of your league,” he said looking at me as his eyes lolled
around slightly, but the veins in his neck popping. “You don’t—“
“Hey!”
“What?”
I stood and
pulled my arm back, made a fist. A half-second before I hit him square in
the face, his body going limp as a doll, I said: “Lesson begins.”
Then, I
added, making it my own: “Asshole.”