Ryan Jahn - Low Life

That didn’t make sense; he knew Kate was in the car.

He turned his head to look in the back seat and saw—

Someone banging on the door awoke him. He didn’t know where, when, or who he was. He looked around to reorient himself with his surroundings. He had fallen asleep in the chair at the writing desk. He’d decided to go pay John Wilhelm a visit, put his face into his hands and closed his eyes, just for a minute, just to think about how he’d handle the situation, and must have fallen asleep. His neck was killing him.

How long had he slept?

‘Open up, motherfucker!’

The banging continued.

He rubbed at his eyes with his knuckles, looked out of the window. His eyes itched. It was night. The clock said it was nine forty-five. He wondered if an entire day had passed. He didn’t think so. He thought it was still Tuesday. It had been Tuesday, right? He just couldn’t think at—

‘I’ll kick this fucking door down!’

‘Who is it?’

‘Open the fucking door I know she’s in there.’ The words slurred together.

‘There’s no she in here at all.’

‘Open the fucking door and prove it.’

Simon walked to the door and pulled it open as far as the chain would allow. He looked out and saw a praying-mantis-looking guy in a wife-beater and cargo shorts. He was bare-footed. The guy looked at him with confusion.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘The guy whose door you’ve been banging on.’

‘What room—’ He looked at the number on the door. ‘Man, this is the wrong fucking room.’ He said it in a tone that suggested Simon had made the mistake: he’d obviously put his room in the wrong spot. The guy walked away shaking his head.

Simon shut the door.

A moment later he heard banging on someone else’s.

‘Open up. I know she’s in there!’

Simon was glad the guy’d woken him up. He had to pay someone a visit.

Steering with his knee as he drove, he stuck a cigarette between his lips and lighted it (this time with motel matches; he couldn’t believe he’d lost his lighter on top of everything else). Then he pressed a button on the door and the window hummed and slid down a couple of inches. A breeze blew against his face. Traffic was light but the noise of humming tires was loud.

The lights of the city flickered to his left like grounded stars.

The house was small and dark – nearly all the lights inside turned off. Only one room’s window glowed with a dim yellow light, like a jack-o’-lantern. The yard was flat and bare, no flowers or trees or shrubbery of any kind, just a lawn littered with crabgrass and dandelions. The stucco looked dull and unpainted. It was just concrete gray. A light blue Ford Pinto station wagon sat in the driveway, the back window shattered, replaced by a black trash bag which was held in place by now-peeling duct tape, crisped by the sun. The tags on the license plate were eight months past expiration.

He pulled to a stop at the curb and stepped out into the night. He dropped his cigarette into the gutter. The flame was snuffed out by a slow trickle of water coming from someone’s sprinkling system several houses down. The sound of freeway traffic echoed through the cul-de-sac. A cool breeze tousled his hair. He swallowed.

Finally, after simply standing for several long moments, he walked across the lawn – feeling dead grass crunch beneath the soles of his feet despite the moisture of the soil in which it was rooted – and when he reached the front door he knocked.

There was silence from within – and then the sound of footsteps nearing the door, the rattle of the doorknob being turned, the pained moan of sore hinges.

And then a man in his forties was looking at Simon. He was barrel-chested and bare-chested, wearing only a pair of canvas shorts. His torso was covered in a thick layer of hair in which crumbs of food were nestled. His hair was brown except at the temples, which were gray, and his beard – which was long and tangled – matched his temples. The crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes cut deep lines into his flesh. He was holding a can of Budweiser. His eyes were dull as he opened the door but when he finally got around to looking at Simon they went sharp and bright and angry.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

‘I’m – what?’

‘Why are you here?’

‘I’m—’ Simon swallowed. ‘I’m here to see Kate. Is she here?’

‘What?’

‘I’m here to—’

‘You called me earlier tonight.’

‘What? No.’

Simon didn’t know why he lied. It was simply his first instinct. When someone asks you if you did something and he’s got an accusatory tone in his voice you say no.

‘I recognize your voice. I thought it sounded familiar.’

‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I called. I just want to see Kate. I don’t know what she told you, but I really—’

‘What she told me? Are you out of your mind? Kate is dead.’

‘That’s what you said on the phone, but I—’

‘But nothing. What did you come here for?’

The man – John – now had moisture in his eyes, and they were going red. He blinked several times quickly and looked away at something in the corner.

‘She can’t have died last April. I saw her yesterday.’

‘Just get out of here.’

‘Maybe I can come in and look aro—’

‘No. I told you at the inquest I never wanted to see your fucking face again and I meant it. In fact, if I recall, I told you I’d kill you if I ever saw you again, and you’re really tempting me. Get off my lawn. Get out of here. Never come back.’

‘But she can’t be—’

‘She is !’ John yelled. ‘And you fucking know it. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you and I don’t care. Now leave !’

As he said the last word he pulled back and threw his can of Budweiser. It was almost full and when it slammed against Simon’s chest from only three or four feet away it knocked the wind out of him. He stumbled backwards and then fell on his ass on the lawn.

The can dropped to the front porch and vomited foaming liquid from its metal mouth while rolling along the gentle grade toward the grass.

An image like a shard of glass cut through his mind: a yellow Chevy Nova smashing through a guardrail. There were trees thirty or forty feet below, growing on the edge of a cliff, and in a moment, once gravity kicked in, the car would be dropped into them.

As the Nova flew through the air its front end tilted downward, the headlights splashing across the tops of trees, and from where he sat in the passenger’s seat, Simon could see a flock of birds take flight from one of them, frightened by the sound of the car’s engine.

He glanced to his left, to the driver’s seat, and—

‘Was it a car accident?’

Simon looked up from the lawn toward John Wilhelm. The man looked back at him momentarily and then without a word slammed the door shut. That was followed by the sound of a lock clicking into place. Apparently he wasn’t going to answer that question.

Simon got to his feet and dusted himself off. His ass was wet from the grass, his chest wet with beer.

He walked to the car and got inside.

When he got back to his room he found the thermostat and turned on the heater – a small, rusty radiator that looked like an accordion. The night air had chilled him to the bone – that and the moisture from the grass, and the beer which poured down the front of his shirt – despite the overcoat and scarf he had on. With the heater on, he sat at the wood chair in front of the writing desk and picked up the telephone. He dialed 4–1–1.

‘City and state, please.’

‘Glendale, California.’

‘How can I help you?’