I have a friend we call Spice Rack. By ‘we’ I mean the boys. The only reason why we call him Spice Rack is because it’s funny. I usually hang out with him on Monday or Tuesday since we both have those days off; we work in the same flea market but as employees of different businesses in different sections. He works in a surplus store where sometimes he gets to put his employee discount to good use, netting himself an MP3 player and some army shirts for practically nothing. I make sure to take advantage of his discount when I can, and in exchange I toss him a free pepperoni pack every once in a while.
Together we play a Kamen Rider game in the entertainment room. It’s completely in Japanese so we have no idea what’s going on but we’re having fun anyway, especially when our Kamen Riders transform into their hyper forms and the whole game goes over-the-top, with slow motion special attacks and J-Rock theme songs. Spice Rack has more fun playing co-operative games like this than he does with fighting games like Street Fighter, mostly because I always win at those; he puts up a good fight but gets way too predictable after a while.
Right now his Kamen Rider is punching air in slow motion, nowhere near an enemy, and we’re laughing because we have no idea how we’re doing any of this; it reminds us of when we were kids and experiencing games for the very first time.
Spice Rack talks about the game’s cannon fodder enemies: ‘If I was one of those giant lizard alligator mutant things I’d probably just turn around and run when everyone else was told to go after the Kamen Riders; I’d take a cab or bus and head to the nearest airport and book a flight to someplace that isn’t Japan, like Paris or somewhere, and I’d eke out a living on my own, grow old and sit down in cafés sipping my espresso. I mean, the lizard alligator mutant things are only really there to soften up the Kamen Riders and the Kamen Riders kill them in one hit – seriously, the lizard alligators turn into puffs of smoke after one hit. They’re always dancing off to their deaths.’
‘I don’t think they’re self-aware, Spice Rack.’
But he seems obsessed with the idea: ‘We do the same thing, don’t we? We go off all bright-eyed into the world and then school and work hits us; turns us into puffs of smoke. Are we self-aware?’
‘Of course we are.’
‘But how can we all blindly go do the same things everyone else does if we’re self-aware?’
‘We’re self-aware. If we weren’t self-aware then we wouldn’t be talking about this right now.’
‘Yeah, but it’s still interesting.’
‘No, it’s not.’
It takes us about an hour to beat the game. We follow it up with Street Fighter so I can virtually knock some sense into him. While we’re playing I keep mentioning a girl from the flea market who I want to see hooked up with him, but Spice Rack keeps telling me how I should go after her instead. He’s far too shy when it comes to everything, not just girls, but I don’t mention that when I try to put in the good word for him; I just emphasise how adorable he is.
And he really is adorable: he’s short, witty and well-kept, of vaguely ethnic descent, and harbours a predilection for underground hip hop and intelligent dance music. A winning combination if I ever saw one. Spice Rack isn’t Asian but he sure likes them and this girl at the flea market is Asian indeed, having been recently imported from a city in China, the name of which no one can pronounce. Her job is to hand out balloons to the little kids wandering around the flea market to make it harder for them to get lost. We call her Balloon Girl since we don’t know her real name.
‘Shouldn’t you be focusing on getting a girlfriend for yourself?’ Spice Rack asks.
‘I’m not trying to find a girlfriend for you,’ I explain, ‘I’m looking for someone who will consent to having sex with you.’
‘Why does it matter so much?’
‘Because you’re so stiff.’
‘I think I’m just asexual, like Andy Warhol or David Bowie. I can play videogames instead.’
‘Can’t you picture yourself having sex with Balloon Girl?’
‘Do you want to picture that?’
‘No.’
‘Then why would I?’
I don’t understand what his problem is. I mean, there’s no way he can go on like this forever. Is he just waiting for someone to fall into his lap? I was like that too, before I realised it was never going to happen, that I have to go after the girls I like or they’ll disappear from my life.
I get a perfect victory in our current match and it’s not just because I’ve been distracting him; I’ll always be better at Street Fighter than Spice Rack because I have the patience, reflexes and memorisation skills required to win the game. In the wake of the perfect we’re both silent for a full minute, holding our controllers but not pressing any buttons. A full minute of silence is a very long time.
‘So what happened with the deaf girl?’ Spice Rack asks.
‘Half deaf.’
‘Does that mean she can only hear half of what you’re saying?’
I pause. ‘Yes.’
‘What’s her name? Half-Deaf Girl?’
‘Anna.’
I met her more than once; many times, actually. She was more popular than I thought and I saw her at parties I would never expect to see her at. Throughout these loosely-connected parties I learned more and more about her: she had been dropped on her head as a baby which is why she’s half deaf (and slightly stupid); her family had reluctantly moved here from Toronto because it was too expensive for them to live there; her favourite colour is actually a shade of grey that I had never heard of before and don’t remember now; and she likes all of the same horror movies I like.
After a party I invited her back to my apartment and we lounged in the living room until the Sun rose from its slumber; it was when the Sun rose that I did something that will probably change my life, but I won’t know the true extent of the repercussions of what I did until another day or so – however long it takes for it to catch up with me.
This document was written so you have a better idea of who I am and where I come from. We never met, and most likely never will, but if we do then I will probably kill you. Although other people are free to read this as well, this is for you, my father, who I will always hate for everything you did to my mother and myself.
Anna is sitting across from me in my living room, the Sun barely breaking through the blinds, just enough to stripe her yellow. We talk; or rather, I talk and she barely hears me, and she talks and I barely understand her. I think it could be the start of a fantastic relationship. She’s tugging at the hem of her skirt because she thinks that is what guys are attracted to. In my case she’s right. The shy fidgeting draws the eye to her polka dot skirt, which covers her legs like a doily covers a table. I wonder if she’s a virgin.
I give up on actually sounding things out and just mouth my words to her. She understands me just as much as before: I know this because I can see her blushing. Alcohol is still lingering in our systems and I wonder if it’s enough to get her into bed with me, for both of us to be able to go through with it. Her eyes are bright when she looks at me. How does her body feel? Probably like mine, only softer and warmer.
We’re both laughing at a joke no one made, and she seems to be getting hotter because she’s touching her shirt collar and I can see her neckline widening. I lift my arm, pointing my index finger at her as though it were the barrel of a gun; closing one eye, I put her in my sights. She’s giggling, begging me not to shoot her with my handgun, but it’s hard to make out all the words because of her accent. I pull the trigger and there’s a loud bang and a poppy is forming on her chest even though it isn’t Remembrance Day. Her eyes widen and it looks like she’s having trouble breathing because she’s touching her throat.
The realisation kicks in that Anna may be dying right now. I’ll have to rush her to the hospital, which means gathering my courage and my black leather jacket and driving my car a long way away without insurance. I had insurance when it was sixty dollars a month but then they sent me a letter saying they were increasing the cost to one hundred dollars a month, so I called them up and told them I had to cancel it.
I don’t want to call an ambulance and I don’t know why, but I freeze up at the very thought of it. My hands are shaking. As I head back into the living room I accidentally hit my knee against a side table.
‘Ow! My driving leg!’ I cry out. I see tears in her eyes and I know that if I have to do something for somebody then I have to do this now for her; that I have to make sure she sees tomorrow because it’s my fault she’s like this, I was careless with what I did with my body and now she’s hurting and bleeding. If she dies then I die as well.
I help her off the couch and lead her down the stairs and out the door. When she gets into the passenger side of the car it’s like watching a one thousand year-old woman with the most brittle bones in the world preparing her body for the simple act of sitting down in a chair; I have to be patient with her and let her go at her own pace because this is her world now and anything I do to harm it will end up harming me as well. If she dies then I die as well.
It becomes a mantra for me, the only thing keeping away an anxiety attack, the one thing that should be giving me an anxiety attack if nothing else does: if she dies then I die as well.
We’re in the car; the engine hasn’t even been turned on yet and yet my whole body is already vibrating. I command myself to cool it. I turn the keys and the engine rumbles.
I hear the sound of someone crying but when I look at Anna she’s not crying. Who is crying? I’m not the one who’s dying and yet I can see my entire life flashing before my eyes.
I black out, and when I come to we’re on the road and I’m speeding like a madman. Sirens sound behind us. This is like a movie, some bad movie I’ve seen a thousand times before.
‘Have you seen this movie?’ I ask Anna. She shakes her head. ‘Good, then this’ll all be new to you.’
I pull over to the side of the road; easing the car onto a large soccer field, I park behind some trees. There are just enough trees to obscure my vehicle from any passing motorists. The police car follows us into the field and its siren cuts out.
It takes a full minute of eternal silence – tearful, painful silence, because Anna is being quiet and I don’t want to look at her to see if she’s dead – for the officer to get out of his car, but at least he’s a lot faster than any other officer I’ve come across. He struts towards us with that cop strut, as if he’s a rooster or something, so I ready my hand, pressing three fingers into my palm, extending my index finger and curling my thumb.
If I try to drive away then he’ll call for backup, I know. So instead I roll down my window and when he comes to speak to me I pull the trigger and watch as half of his face becomes jagged strips of red ribbon. Then I get out of the car, take his gun and slip it into my jacket pocket before pulling out of the field and continuing on my speedy way. The gun is heavy as it presses against my stomach; I feel bile rising up.
I need to make up for the time we lost because of that corpse back there – if we take too long then there’s going to be a corpse sitting beside me. I don’t think I could handle the smell. The smell of women has always bothered me and I can only imagine what it’d be like when they’re dead.
After numerous scrapes and close call collisions we finally come to a halt in front of the hospital; I don’t know what the name of it is but it’s probably Saint Something. I get out and race around the hood to the passenger side, where I open the door and Anna comes flooding out, spilling out of the car and onto my feet. I lock her shoulders into my arms and pull her the rest of the way, laying her gently on the cement handicap ramp. My hands are covered in her blood. She looks at me and I can see that she’s still alive so I smile at her and she smiles back.
I mouth the words ‘I love you’ but I have no time for a response: I’m lunging into the car through the passenger side entrance as soon as a group of men and women wearing white bolt out of the hospital doors. My car makes every loud obnoxious noise that a car can as I flee the premises.
I stick my finger into my mouth because I’m extremely nervous and it tastes like pennies. I know what pennies taste like because I once put them inside of my mouth when I was a child. So I look at my finger and see red turning pink as it mixes with my saliva.
When I look back up I see a girl walking ahead on the sidewalk to my right, and she’s wearing a skirt and because she’s wearing a skirt I can see how white her legs are. My car comes screeching to a halt and I quickly get out and run up to the girl and throw her skirt up into the air; if you’re going to wear a skirt then just go all the way, you teases and you flirts. That is what I think as I grin merrily on my way back to the car, the girl too flabbergasted to do anything but be a girl.
The gun in my jacket pocket digs further into my stomach as I sit down. I drive off.
I wonder what I’m going to do when all of this catches up with me. The best thing I can do, I suppose, is head back to my apartment; that is where I can control anything I want to, and ‘anything I want to’ amounts to ‘everything’. But I’ve already told you this.