Bob Fingerman - Pariah

Mona shut the door and Karl heard her engage the deadbolt. Those things outside didn’t have any effect on her, but he seemed to have. He felt powerful for a moment. I scared Mona . He grinned, then winced, then ran upstairs to his apartment and retrieved a belt from his dresser and began flagellating his back. After several savage strokes he realized he was wearing his shirt, paused to yank off the garment, then resumed. How dare I take pleasure in causing her discomfort? Forgive me, Jesus. Forgive me, God. I don’t even know who I’m asking for forgiveness from, so forgive me for that. Is it Buddha? Allah? Oh, Christ, what if all those terrorists had been right? Karl had read one of Alan’s Phil Dick books, one called VALIS . Was that the real truth? Alan had explained that in the seventies Dick had a vision and became convinced he was in contact with a cosmic consciousness, which he dubbed VALIS, for Vast Active Living Intelligence System.

Of course, Dick was a loopy speed freak, but maybe he was right. Had there ever been any stone-cold rational prophet? Did that trait even go with the territory? Rationality? Was faith rational? Ever? What about all that craziness John wrote? Revelation was still a hard pill to swallow, though Karl tried nightly. Pill. Maybe it was time for a pill. Karl dropped the belt and skittered to his kitchenette to poke one from the blister mat. A small pink caplet dropped into his palm and he washed it down with a bottle of Snapple tea. What am I doing? What am I taking? I need a Physician’s Desk Reference, that’s what I need. Maybe Mona can take me to the Barnes and Noble on Eighty-sixth. But how do I justify me wanting that book? Why would I need it? Unless I was taking unknown drugs. Has she noticed missing pills? Plus, if I went out with her would she take me everywhere she goes? Say her pharmacy jaunts are private? Maybe that’s why she’s reticent .

As a boy, Karl had chicken pox, his pale, pasty body festooned with constellations of red bumps that blistered and itched like mad. He felt that way now, although his skin appeared normal. Many a saint had suffered. Even non-saints. Look at Job. Was it to be his fate to suffer like that? God was always tormenting His faithful flock. Just look at the world. Was this not evidence of a malicious God? God made man in His image, and man was nothing to boast about, really. Flawed, mean, petty, violent, arrogant. This was a creature to be proud of? Maybe that’s why God wiped nearly everyone out. But surely those who remained aren’t the best and brightest. Karl knew he wasn’t. And Eddie? God help us if he’s one of God’s chosen few .

Karl laughed at the thought of Eddie being divinely spared. Karl laughed at the thought of God helping them. What a joke. What a blasphemous joke. The Bible! Drugs! Madness! Karl wanted to go outside so badly he bit his lip and drew blood. He sucked the metallic liquid deeply, savoring it. In his smallest voice he said, “Fuck you, God.”

Then, with renewed vigor, begging clemency, he beat his bare back with the belt until it was slick with blood and sweat. A malicious God was not a God to test. With each stroke of the belt, spatters of blood flecked the beige walls, evoking the chicken-pocked skin of his youth.

“What can I do?” Karl mewled. “What can I do?”

“Well don’t do that ,” Ellen sputtered. She stared at Karl in utter disbelief, as did Alan. “Have you flipped your wig? Okay, just assuming Eddie’s theory about the drugs is right-and for the record, I can’t even believe I’m lending credence to anything that ape’s ever said-but just to give the devil his due, you’ve been dosing yourself for what, maybe a couple days? What makes you think you’ve built up a resistance to the zombies? Because your mind is eroding, what, there must be a positive side to the effects of the drugs? Look at the back of your shirt.”

“I can’t,” Karl said. “It’s behind me.”

“It’s stuck to your skin, and that isn’t sweat. What the fuck have you been doing to yourself, as if we don’t hear?” Ellen made the whip-crack sound with her mouth, adding a wrist flick for punctuation. Karl plucked at the back of his shirt and sure enough it was a bit stuck to his spine. Ellen widened her eyes at him in challenge. “Pussy whipped for Jesus much?”

“Well, anyway,” Karl said, wiping his fingers on his pants, then burying the offending digits in his front pocket, “I’m going. Someone has to go. Someone has to put this to the test. To prove either that the drugs work for us, or we have an umbrella of protection from proximity to Mona. That her gift, whatever you want to call it, maybe it spills out and would protect a companion.”

“Great. Operation Big Umbrella.” Ellen scowled. The little idiot’s mind was made up. “Well. I’m not even giving you a shopping list. I told Mona what I want, but you, you I’ll say good-bye to. Not farewell or till we meet again, but good-bye .”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Karl pouted.

“I have none to give. You want me to lie? Fine, I’ll catch you on the flip-flop, my man. But seriously? It was nice knowing you.”

Karl accepted Ellen’s remarks and made for the door, accompanied by Alan.

“Have you told the others about your proposed expedition?” Alan asked.

“Yeah. Eddie said he wanted to go first, not a little pussy like me, but when I said I might get killed, my guinea-pig status met his approval. Anything you want from me? Art supplies or something?”

“Just come home safe.”

Karl stopped and looked up at Alan, emotion swelling in his chest, which felt corseted. Eddie had been his usual self; Dave gave him a pat on the back, but that was about all; Abe was in a Valium-induced state of apathy; Dabney, drunk as a lord, yelled at him, accusing him of hubris and overweening arrogance. He’d begun to cry and then kicked Karl out of his new apartment, locking the door after Karl had been so summarily dismissed. And now Ellen’s dressing down. Alan was the only one to wish him well. What was wrong with this world? That was the million-dollar question in a world where a million dollars meant nothing. Alan and he shook hands and then hugged, Alan clapping Karl’s back and then realizing as Karl winced that maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. Alan looked at his hand, seeing traces of blood on it, and began to apologize, but Karl appreciated the gesture.

“One thing,” Alan said, his tone cautionary. “I don’t know if those things have regular senses, but I know sharks are drawn to the scent of blood, so you should really do something about your back. I know it’s still hot, but maybe a jacket? Something?”

“I hadn’t even thought of that. Oh Jesus.”

“Yeah. Just a thought.”

Karl ran upstairs and pulled off the shirt, the material stuck to some scabbing spots, making them bleed afresh. He poured some water down his back. He needed something stronger. If the lash wounds were there to appease a cruel God, maybe something to exacerbate the pain would go over well. In lieu of rubbing alcohol, he fetched a bottle of cheap vodka from his cupboard and poured it over the wounds. The stinging pumped tears out of his eyes as if he were rerouting the liquid cascading down his spine through his tear ducts. He stung everywhere and the stench of the liquor overwhelmed the room. It burned his nostrils and singed his injured back. Patting his back dry with a towel, Karl then bound his torso in Saran Wrap to seal in any scent of blood. He popped a couple of pills, pulled on a fresh shirt and his windbreaker, then made his way to Mona’s, his body tingling. Hoping it would further mask his potentially delectable aroma, Karl threw a few items into a knapsack, then slung it over his back. Maybe it was the drugs, maybe it was the booze absorbed through the wounds, maybe it was adrenaline, but his back was numb. He felt no pain, physical or emotional.