Bob Fingerman - Pariah

“ Thanks, Mean Joe ,” Karl spat, a vicious parrot tormenting himself. “ Thanks, Mean Joe. Thanks, Mean Joe . Oh yeah, Dabney’s really going to welcome me up there again. Beyond thinking that I’m the biggest douche in the world, now he probably thinks I’m a racist. Thanks, Mean Joe . What else is he going to think? Stupid dumb stupid-head! Of course some hick from the hinterlands is going to be a cracker redneck racist. I’m just fulfilling my genetic-slash-socioeconomic obligation.”

Karl continued to glare at the graceless meat puppets stumbling around beneath his window, more vegetable than animal. Meat. Vegetables. Karl’s stomach growled. He wished he had more of Dabney’s vermin jerky. Rat. Pigeon. Squirrel. Whatever it was, it was good. The way they meandered down there, individual forms swallowed by the massiveness of the crowd, Karl could cross his eyes slightly and blur the overlapping double image. Meat. Vegetables. The surface pulsated like stew burbling in a boundless Crock-Pot. Meat. Vegetables. His life had been reduced to a sad homage to those cartoons where starving castaways on a desert island pictured each other as anthropomorphized hot dogs and steaks and hamburgers. Karl’s stomach lurched and he cursed himself for having purged Dabney’s vittles.

The shadows were beginning to deepen as the sun started setting. Soon the oppressive darkness would spread, drowning everything in pitch black, and another seemingly endless night would begin. Another reason Karl had been seduced by the city was that like heights, the dark was not one of his favorite things. When Karl had first moved here, he loved the fact that the streetlights kept the city bright all night long. Now it was country dark.

Back in Rushsylvania, Ohio-a tiny blip in the already bliplike Logan County-it got so dark at night you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face after a certain hour. There had been streetlamps outside, but they didn’t saturate everything with that pervasive sodium-vapor lambency that city lights did. For most of his childhood Karl slept with a night-light, much to his father’s chagrin. A night-light was a crutch, and Manfred Stempler wasn’t raising any cripples, emotional or otherwise. Manfred got the bright idea to go camping in Hocking Hills State Park. Nine-year-old Karl had been dead set against it, preferring to stay home and watch late movies under his blanket on his eleven-inch black-and-white TV.

“Manfred Stempler is not raising a sissy,” had been his dear papa’s response.

So off they went. Could his father spring for one of the cottages in the park? No way. That wouldn’t be “roughing it.” A tent was pitched, a campfire was made, and with as much detachment as a spooked nine-year-old could muster, Karl observed his older brother, Gunter, and their father enjoy themselves in the great outdoors. “Is this so bad?” his father kept asking, and though Karl’s shaking head said, “No, no, no,” his eyes held a different answer. When the last traces of daylight ebbed away, swallowed by the earth and foliage, the campfire’s light seemed pitiful and inadequate. The woods made noises. Karl wasn’t a superstitious kid, so he didn’t believe in monsters-which in light of the current state of affairs was kind of funny-but there were things creeping about, rustling the leaves, crunching the soil, which unsettled Karl.

Small oases of light had dotted the periphery from nearby RVs, accompanied by the purr of generators and the occasional drunken whoop, but it felt like the surface of Mars to Karl. Just because someone is born in the country doesn’t mean he’s not a city boy by nature. At home he’d secreted away a prized single from destructive Gunter and evangelical “all contemporary music is the devil” Manfred: David Lee Roth’s “Yankee Rose.” Roth was Manfred’s worst nightmare: a sex-charged metropolitan hedonistic Jew in showbiz, put on this Earth to lead impressionable youths-like his sonny boy-down the primrose path to Hell. Karl would listen in secret to Diamond Dave rhapsodize, “ Show me your bright lights, and your city lights, all right! ”

That had been 1986.

And Karl started planning his run from Logan from then on.

New York City was to be his Yankee Rose, resplendent in bright lights, city lights.

Even with its Lugosily ghoulish name, Rushsylvania-population just shy of six hundred-boasted a nearly 100 percent white populace, all good Christian folk. Everyone was pink and fair-haired. His father-Big Manfred-was very active at Rushsylvania Church of Christ on East Mill, epicenter of nowhere. Every Sunday Manfred escorted Karl, Gunter, and their mom, Josephine, into the bland house of worship. White faces upraised praising their lily-white version of Jesus, all soft, mousy brown hair and blue eyes, very European, very not Middle Eastern-very, extremely, super not Semitic.

If Christ had been portrayed in art as he actually looked in life, Christianity never would have caught on. All those generations of European artists westernized the Christ to conform to standards suited to their parishioners’ predilections-early market research. A Yasir Arafat-looking spokesmodel wouldn’t have put asses on the pews. Pushing the Christ was all about marketing and demographics. But tell that to Big Manny.

And then count on the beating of your life.

For all the times his father whipped out the Bible-and occasionally whipped him with it-Karl couldn’t remember a single time Big Manfred cracked it open. He wasn’t even sure his father could read. But it had made a compelling prop, thick of girth and bound in chipped oxblood leather.

Karl remembered the Lord’s Supper service on Sunday mornings-an odd time for supper, but why quibble over details when illogic reigns supreme? The bread, representing Christ’s body, cups of juice, representing Christ’s blood, passed out to all. Those who believed in Christ as their personal savior were invited to eat the bread and drink the juice that was dispensed. What a ghoulish practice. Though Karl didn’t miss that old-time religion, he could go for some of that body and blood right about now. A big heaping helping of Nabisco Body of Christ . Yum. Blessedly bland bites in every box . He looked at the zombies on York. Mindless, conformist, primed to eat bodies and drink blood.

The sun was almost gone for the day. Five stories below, the seething stew turned a deep burnt umber. Accompanied by a chorus of growls from his abdomen, Karl stalked over to his bed and willed himself to sleep, intoning a sacred hymn.

“She’s a vision from coast to coast, sea to shining sea…”

The deeper Ellen slept the harder she pressed herself into Alan’s hollows, her spine folded against his sunken abdomen, the top of her head resting on the manubrium of his sternum. They were “His” and “Hers” anatomical dolls, spooned for easy storage. Or burial. Both were so skeletal they could easily fit together in a standard coffin, with room to spare. And yet her presence was comforting. Alan hadn’t expected that. Now back in her apartment, he found the sound of her breathing, though a touch raspy, soothing. At night, beyond the depth of the darkness, the city was chillingly quiet. Even the buzz of the flies abated at nightfall. It was the kind of thought Alan only entertained at night, but he wondered if flies slept.

Somewhere out there, almost imperceptibly, a wind chime occasionally tinkled, a New Age death knell. It meant that somewhere there was a breeze, but that somewhere wasn’t here. After a few moments the tinkling abated. To suffer insomnia, as Alan often did, was like a wakeful coma, sensory deprivation with no restorative benefits. At least summer nights were relatively short. If anyone were still alive once winter arrived-a very unlikely prospect-the nights would be unendurable.