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What is it about women that make them think that everything they have to say is so damn interesting? Any man will tell you how he would sit through hours of insignificant babble without a woman taking a pause for a goddamn breath. It starts out with a nice dinner and a couple of sips of wine.
Then the chatter starts.
Ex-boyfriends, fights with their bosses, gossip at the nail salon, the story behind their shoes... holy shit! What a price to pay before you get down to what you’re really there for! By the time the check comes you’re having trouble deciding whether you want to fuck her or shoot yourself in the head! Being that I’m already dead, the latter really wouldn’t help me much.
“I’m scared, Georgie.” I don’t think Veronica realizes that she hasn’t shut up since she got in my car. “Now he don’t stop calling me. And he says stuff like ‘If I can’t have you, nobody can have you.’ He’s talking crazy now like he wants to hurt me.”
Apparently Roberto, her trombone-playing amigo, is not taking kindly to being dumped by la bella Veronica. I assure her that nothing is going to happen. I’ll drive her home from work over the next few days and escort her all the way to her apartment. As long as time permits for me to hop right back in my car and get myself home before the sun comes out, my chivalrous gesture should keep her safe from her jealous salsero. But it also means that during our rides I am going to have to endure the saga of the Rojas family tree from Tijuana through San Diego to El Paso and of course, Newark.
Like it or not, our little chili con carne sessions have formed a bond between us and I have somehow fallen into the role of protector. She’s going to want me to come into her apartment, too, so I’ll need to have an excuse ready before she invites me in for a cup of Bustelo while the boys get ready for school.
Hey, if things were different maybe I would have enjoyed a morning toss with Veronica. But obviously my current existence doesn’t allow me to enjoy a morning anything—not even a little bit. I’ve seen shit in the movies or on TV where we’re able to walk around in daylight as long as we’re wearing a cool pair of shades. Damn, I wish. I’ve also seen where we can be out in the sun with a protective tarp over our heads to cover us. Yeah right. Or how about the fact that we can always be outside in the state of Washington because of its constant cloudiness? Where do they come up with this shit? And what’s with the fucking sparkling?
The real rules? If any of us even sees daylight it will burn our eyes right out of our fucking heads. Hell, it’ll burn our heads completely along with the rest of us. It can be the greyest day imaginable, with the sun being completely obscured by clouds. We can be indoors with the sunglasses and that tarp. The little light that gets through will still be enough to make us sizzle like burgers on a George Foreman grill. There’s no more direct way of saying it, us and any kind of daylight, not friends. As for the whole coffin thing? Yes, we lie in coffins. And yes, it was a real pain in the ass getting one up to my apartment.
I suppose I can leave my 2008 Honda Civic here in front of the Martin Luther King projects while I walk Veronica up to her apartment. I must make a mental note, too. It’s nice and dark out here. And quiet. Walls filled with graffiti, garbage lining the curb at the end of the sidewalk. On some other night this might make an appealing spot for a quick feed.
The smell of the urine coming from the hallways of Veronica’s building is spearing through my nostrils. She smiles appreciatively as I open the passenger side door and take her hand. Her eyes expose a prone vulnerability: She’s humbled by her surroundings. No one should have to live like this. The stench of the urine itself is enough to overwhelm almost anyone. Yet she doesn’t even flinch as we cross the entrance and approach the elevator.
The numbers on the buttons inside the elevator are all scratched or chiseled out. Veronica presses the button to her floor, avoiding my glance. Well at least she stopped talking. But now I feel bad. And dammit, I’m feeling protective.
The elevator stops and opens to let us out on the third floor. A big glass window opposite us gives a view of the dark street below. My car sits in front of the project, unbothered, barely lit by a dim street lamp outside the building. Up the block there’s another street lamp but it isn’t working. Yeah, definitely have to come back here when I’m hungry.
The hallway’s walls have holes scattered all over. And while the urine stench from the first floor has lessened somewhat, the air here still carries a stale foul odor. Maybe it’s the muscular, pencil-thin mustached six-footer standing outside Veronica’s apartment. He’s wearing a baseball-style jacket with letters across the front reading, Orquesta La Luna.
The scent of Veronica’s fear rises. I’m guessing this is Señor Roberto, the trombone player. It looks like I’m going to have to earn my chili con carne.
“Why you change the key?” His intent is to intimidate but outwardly Veronica only expresses contempt.
“What you doing here, Bobby? You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Who’s this? Is this who you fucking now?” He’s trying to draw a reaction out of me. He won’t get one. But I also won’t take my eyes off him in case there are any sudden actions. “What you looking at?” He still wants a reaction. Don’t push it, amigo.
Veronica nervously fumbles through her purse for her keys. “Leave him alone, Bobby. He’s my friend from work.”
“Oh, your friend from work. So what, now you take him home to fuck? That’s why you don’t talk to me on the phone?”
“Stop it, Bobby. You going to wake up the boys! I told you, I don’t want to see you no more. I could see who I want!”
A powerful hand takes Veronica’s wrist, making her drop her keys. “Now you listen—”
I said, don’t push it, amigo.
Roberto’s next intended words don’t make it past the vice grip around his throat. On TV they show us having all kinds of super powers or rising from the dead as experts in the martial arts. The truth is simpler than that. Our strength comes from having dead muscles with no limitations. Combine that with the adrenaline rushes that come from our steady diet of blood and it is understandable how I can take a six-foot trombone player with one hand and lift him ten inches off the floor.
“Pick up your keys, Veronica. Go inside the apartment.”
She reaches down but can’t take her eyes of her former trombone playing beau who’s trying to wrestle away from my one-handed choke hold. Am I crazy or is she a little turned on by this? Or maybe she’s just scared because Roberto’s face is turning blue. Fuck it, I’ll let him go. With the lack of oxygen going into his brain right now, he’s no threat to anyone. My release sends him to the floor like a pile of dirty laundry. “Veronica, I said go inside.” The door is open but she won’t go in. She probably wants to see what I’m going to do next.
With Roberto seemingly unable to find his legs, I reach out to help him up by the collar of his jacket. Hey, nice material, I gotta pick one of these up—without the band logo, of course.
“Listen amigo, she never wants to see you again,” I warn, as he desperately gasps for some air. “And you never want to see me again.” His eyes are blank. He may be shivering with terror. But I think he’s absorbing the message. “Now get the fuck outa here.”
My shove sends him staggering, reaching for a wall to maintain his balance. I grab him by the jacket again and throw him a few feet further down the hall.
“You! You’re a freak!” he yells. Tell me something I don’t know. “This ain’t over, man! You hear me? This ain’t over! Freak!”
No need for me to reply. My point is made. I’ll just watch as he turns the corridor and scampers towards the elevator.
Veronica’s visibly shaken. Tears form in her eyes. “Can you stay a little bit, Georgie? I’m scared.”
Uh, no, I’m pushing my luck as it is. Daylight is approaching and I am a couple of miles from the comforting darkness of my coffin. This is as far as my chivalry can go. “Lo siento, Veronica. No puedo.”
Her lips quiver. “Por favór, Georgie, tengo miedo.”
My cold thumb catches a tear before it runs down her face. “Don’t worry. I won’t let him bother you again.”
Shit!
Serves me right.
This is exactly the kind of thing I’m supposed to avoid. If I leave now, she will never forgive me and I’m going to look like the biggest asshole in Newark to her. No doubt everyone in the hospital will hear about it, too. But unless I want to turn into a pile of ashes here at the Martin Luther King projects, it’s time I high-tail—
My back!
Fuck, what time is it?
I’m burning!
I don’t believe this!
My head, it’s starting to spin.
The end of the hallway, around the corridor, I can see it coming. The dawn! It’s seeping in through the big window in front of the elevator.
Veronica can’t help but see my sudden expression of panic and my legs buckling from under me. “Georgie, what’s wrong?”
How could I have lost track of the time? Could it have been the company of a beautiful woman like Veronica (even with her babbling bullshit)? Was it the touch of her skin when I held her hand? Was it her eyes and the way she looked at me when I was protecting her? Or was it that all these things that brought feelings back from when I was alive, had gotten me so carried away that I forgot that I am dead? What am I going to do? If Veronica was terrified before, imagine her reaction when her heroic work buddy suddenly bursts into flames.
The sight of my face slamming onto her hardwood floor, as I collapse into her apartment, sends Veronica into a panic. “Georgie, que pasa, Georgie?”
Can’t tell you, querida. No way you’d understand.
A minute ago I was strong as a bull, lifting her ex off the ground with one hand. Now she sees that same bull writhing on the floor in the fetal position, inexplicably burning under his clothes.
The window behind her, in the kitchen, has the shade wide open with pending daylight piercing through. It’s already barbecuing her undead compañero. “Oh my God, Georgie! What do I do?”
Her startled sons burst out of their bedroom to find a grown man crawling into their living room, looking like he’s about to go up in flames (except there’s no fire...yet).
“Get me out of the light!” A good thing Roberto’s not around now or our confrontation might have had a different ending.
The sun is just minutes away from searing in through the living room window. Veronica is confused, frightened, desperate to help. But she has no idea what to do. How could she? “What do I do, Georgie? What do you want me to do?”
“Closet, get me in a closet.” She stares at me quizzically. I’m not even sure she even made out what I said. It was barely above a whisper. “Now!” That time it wasn’t a whisper.
Veronica snaps to attention.
“Ayudanme, muchachos!” She calls the boys to take me by the arms while she wraps her arms around my chest in an attempt to pick me up. It’s agonizing. Their touch against my burning, dead flesh is unbearable.
My pained shout startles the boys and they pull their arms away for fear of hurting me. The older one looks about twelve, the younger one nine. They shouldn’t have to see something like this but there’s no choice.
“No, don’t stop!” I’ll bear with the pain. Veronica’s bedroom is only a couple of steps away. If they can get me close enough, I can stagger through the doorway and make a dash for the closet.
The TV in their living room is off. On the darkened screen is the reflection of a mother and her young boys trying to aid a man about to burst into flames. That means my projection is gone (which is no surprise). In this type of agony, we are unable to control our capabilities. So far, in their panic, they either haven’t noticed or haven’t reacted to my death face. Frightened as they already are, that’s the last thing they need to see.
Veronica’s holds the closet door open in her bedroom. I’m close enough to make a quick run and throw my smoking torso into what must be a pile of a hundred fucking shoes.
“Close it! Close the door!” I don’t even feel the half dozen handbags that fall onto my head from Veronica’s overly determined slam. I’m more concerned with the light bleeding in from outside underneath the door, a problem solved by yanking one of her dresses from above and tucking it under.
Veronica leans against the door, breathing heavily. “Are you all right, Georgie?” Damn, that was close. I’m so weak I’m not even sure I can respond. “Georgie?”
“It’s okay. I’ll be all right, thank you. Just please don’t open the door.”
“Georgie, I don’t understand? What’s wrong?”
What a strange turn of events. Now she is the one who is protecting me. “I have a condition. I can’t be in the daylight. That’s why I work at night.” Wrap your mind around that one, babe.
“Daylight? What is it, like a skin condition?”
Please, Veronica, just go away. “Yeah, kind of...”
“But Georgie, we work in a hospital. Maybe they can do something.”
Dammit, woman don’t you have to get the kids ready for school? “No, it’s incurable.”
“How do you know, Georgie? Maybe there’s like a new treatment or something.” This woman isn’t going to let go, is she? “Let me look it up. What you got, what’s it called?”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll be all right. Don’t worry about it.”
“No, Georgie. I want to help. Let me look it up.” Holy shit she’s persistent.
“It’s nothing. I’ll be fine.”
“So then I can open the door?”
“No! No! Porphyria, it’s called porphyria.”
“Por-what?”
“Porphyria.”
“Por... por... what is that?”
“Please, please... I’ll explain later. Just let me rest for a little bit. Please.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.”
Silence.
Thank you.
She’s off to the kitchen. “Vamos, muchachos, limpiesen. Tienen que prepararse para escuela.”
Time for the boys to clean up and get dressed for school. Poor little bastards, I must’ve traumatized the shit out of them.
“Quien es ese hombre, Mami?” The older one’s a little more curious as to who this walking torch is that’s hiding inside her closet.
“That’s my friend, baby. His name is Georgie.”
#
An hour has passed. The boys have left for school and I’m
well enough to fall into my inanimate state. That is, assuming Veronica can manage to shut up and leave me alone.
“Georgie? Georgie, honey, you okay?”
“I’m fine, thanks. I just need to rest.”
“Can I get you anything?”
Dammit, woman! “No, no, I’m good. Just please don’t open the door.” It’s not my coffin but it’ll do, even with her four inch heels poking me in the ass.
“Okay honey, I’m going to go to sleep now but I’ll be right here if you need me.”
As a night shift worker her daily routine is similar to mine except that during the weekend she can spend some daytime hours with her boys. Hopefully she won’t wake up before dark and check inside the closet. If she does she’ll find her previously heroic friend bursting into flames above her shoe collection.
Being that we are not sleeping as we did during our living years, our inanimate state leaves us dangerously vulnerable. It’s not like we’re dreaming, snoring, counting sheep or any of that shit. We’re dead, dead as your great-great-grandmother. You can blast Uptown Funk and throw a party with a hundred guests in front of our open coffin. We won’t hear or feel a thing. That is why I lock my coffin from inside. Call me paranoid, but how else could I possibly rest in peace (pun intended) without any fear of being exposed to the daylight? What if some curious asshole finds the casket in the afternoon and tries to open it?
What’s that noise?
Holy fuck, is that Veronica snoring? Man she fell out fast. She sounds like a lawn mower. How can she fall asleep like that? I would think anyone would be completely wired and tense after a morning like she just had—not exactly the ideal way to end a work shift. The excess drama must have completely wiped her out.
But hey, at least she finally got me in her bedroom. Unfortunately for her it wasn’t quite the way she imagined it.