Ryan Jahn - Low Life

Even on the dumpster, standing on tiptoe and reaching up, his fingers were nearly a foot shy of the window sill. He jumped up and punched through the screen and pulled it out. It fell on top of him, a corner of the aluminum frame crashing into the top of his head before it clattered to the asphalt below. Fortunately the screen was light. Still, he slipped and fell onto his side on the dumpster’s lid.

But the window was clear. There was no sound of alarm. He’d been worried there would be some kind of motion sensor attached to the window, but apparently not – unless it was a silent alarm. He’d find out soon enough.

He got back onto his feet, jumped up, and found himself hanging from the window sill. The metal frame cut into the palms of his hands. His right hand started bleeding again and throbbing with pain. He grunted and struggled to pull himself up. It was much more difficult than it looked. He hadn’t done any kind of exercise in years and his arms felt weak and thin. But he pulled with his arms and kicked with his feet, scuffing the toes of his shoes. After a few minutes, his upper body was over the ledge, and he just lay there, breathing hard, window frame cutting into his gut.

Once he’d got his breath back he climbed the rest of the way into Zurasky’s office.

He examined the window and decided there was no alarm attached to it, and then he pulled the shade closed and turned on the office light, illuminating the desk and the blue walls and carpet and the vinyl chair and couch. He looked around for a file cabinet but didn’t see one. He thought it was probably in the front office, but his chest hurt from the physical exertion, so he decided to sit down for a minute first. He looked through Zurasky’s desk. He found a bottle of vodka in the bottom right drawer. Vodka wasn’t usually his drink of choice, but it would do in a pinch. Hell, mouthwash would do in a pinch – a little spearmint wine to pass the time. He unscrewed the cap, wiped the top of the bottle off with his overcoat’s sleeve, and took a swallow. He closed his eyes.

Eventually his breathing went back down to normal and his chest stopped hurting.

After another swallow of vodka he got to his feet and went out to the front office. It was strange to be in here alone. It felt unnatural. There was no file cabinet out here either. All the files must be digital. He walked to Ashley’s desk and sat down and moved the mouse around. The previously silent computer began to hum as its interior fan whirled, and the dark screen came aglow.

After some clicking around he found what he thought were probably the patient files, but the folder was password-protected. He tried seven or eight passwords, guessing what Zurasky’s thought processes might be for each, and each time he was wrong. He looked through Ashley’s drawer, hoping she had the password written down somewhere. He knew people often wrote their passwords down so they were handy in case they forgot them themselves. He did the same thing at work, not that it would have taken a genius to guess 1910 – ‘s’ being the nineteenth letter in the alphabet and ‘j’ being the tenth. Simon Johnson. He found a yellow notepad with the single word

written on it in red ink, and thought that might be the password, but when he tried it it got him nowhere. He was sure it was the password for something, but not what he wanted.

Half an hour later – after more failed guesses and another swig (or three) of vodka – he climbed back out of the window. The only thing he had gotten out of it was Zurasky’s home address.

He pulled his car to the curb in front of Dr Zurasky’s house. The windows were dark and only silence seeped through the walls.

He pushed open the car door and stepped out into the night.

Zurasky lived in a single-storey blue-stucco tract house that looked like it’d been built in the seventies. It was shaped like a cracker box on its side, and had thin windows with vertical blinds, asphalt shingles on the sloped roof, and a flat yellow lawn with a small flowerbed butted up against the outer wall. The flowers in it were pink and purple and healthy despite the yellow lawn. The sound of traffic hummed in the distance.

He walked to the front door, raised his hand to knock, dropped it, and raised it again.

He told himself this wasn’t like earlier. He would be asking the questions. This wasn’t a session – this was an interrogation, and he was in control. Not Zurasky.

He knocked on the door, and then listened, ear tilted toward the house. He thought he could hear an inner door squeaking open, then the sound of footsteps padding toward him.

‘Who – wha?’

‘It’s Jeremy Shackleford.’

‘Jeremy – oh.’ He was asleep still. ‘Do you know what time it is?’

‘No.’

‘Well, it’s—’

‘We need to talk.’

‘Don’t you think this can wait till—’

‘No. It can’t wait.’

‘How did you get my home add—’

‘Open the door.’

A sigh. The sound of various locks being unlatched. The door was pulled open and light splashed out onto the porch. Zurasky was on the other side. He wore blue pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. His hair was even wilder than it normally was. There were pillow creases embedded into the flesh of his right cheek. His eyes were red. He scratched at the end of his smoothly rounded-off stump, and stepped aside, leaving the doorway empty for Simon.

‘Come on in, Jeremy. Let’s talk.’

The living room was long and narrow. A white couch sat in the middle of it atop a white carpet surrounded by white walls on which abstract paintings hung. The coffee table was glass and had issues of psychiatry and science magazines sitting on it. Various wood sculptures sat in the corners – giraffes and elephants and something that might have been a monkey climbing a tree.

‘How did you get my home address?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘I’d like to know.’

‘I broke into your office.’

Zurasky nodded slowly, acting as if that surprised him not at all.

‘And your hand?’

‘Garbage disposal accident.’

Another slow nod.

‘Do you want coffee?’

‘Do you have whiskey?’

‘I have whiskey. I’m not giving you any. Would you like a coffee?’

Simon nodded.

‘Have a seat.’ Zurasky gestured toward the white couch. ‘I’ll be back.’

Simon walked to the couch and sat down. The cushions were firm and uncomfortable.

From the kitchen, the sound of the microwave running, and then a ding. A minute later Zurasky came walking out of his kitchen with two cups of coffee. He was holding them both by their handles with his good hand and balancing them on the stump of his bad arm. It was the instant kind. There was a swirling scrim of half-melted crystals and milk foam on the surface of the liquid. Steam rose from the cups. Simon’s cup was blue and Zurasky’s was red. There was a chip on the top of Simon’s, the white porcelain stained brown by coffee.

‘Thank you.’

Zurasky nodded. Then he walked to a white chair and sat down. He sipped his coffee.

‘What is this about, Jeremy?’

Simon looked down at the coffee mug, decided that he didn’t trust it, and set it down on the glass coffee table without so much as a sip. That surface scrim didn’t look right. He picked up a pen from the table and thumbed at the button, making the tip go in and out of the plastic casing. The pen advertised an anti-depressant whose name Simon doubted he could pronounce.

‘Jeremy?’

Simon looked up.

‘I know you’re involved in this,’ he said finally.

‘In what?’ Zurasky said. ‘It’s late. I’m not in the mood for mysteries.’