Jeremy Bushnell - The Weirdness

He plants a hand on the floor and anchors his stomach to the mattress, stretching his torso into space, sending his other hand way out, all the way out to the phone. Gets it, reels it back into the bed. When he checks the screen he sees that it’s not Denver who called him at all. It’s his dad.

He pulls the pillow back down over his face for a long minute. What could his dad want? Nearly every conversation they’ve had since Billy dropped out of school involves Dad urging Billy to read this or that esoteric book or article: something Maleficarium , something Lycanthropia , something Carcieri Infernus , whatever, whatever, whatever. Billy always says that he will do it, even though they both know by now that he won’t do it. Well-meaning, Billy supposes, and in his more charitable moments Billy is even a little touched by the continuity of his father’s faith in him, but that is not the kind of conversation he wants to have right now, or today, or maybe not this month at all, so Dad is going to have to wait. It is decided.

His head pounds. His stomach clenches.

Okay , he thinks. Okay. We can survive this .

He checks the time on the clock. It’s just past nine. He needs to be at work at eleven thirty. That maybe gives him a little time to look over some of his writing; he’s been invited to perform tomorrow night at a reading put together by this new lit mag, The Ingot , which is allegedly going to publish some of his stuff. But most of the stuff he’s been writing lately isn’t exactly what he would call well-adapted to the reading format , so he’d intended to spend the morning digging up something older, taking an hour or two to give it a little polish. He has an hour, maybe, but he can barely open his eyes against the oppressive daylight; looking at words on a computer screen might just finish him.

No , he thinks. You can do this . He sniffs the air. At least there’s coffee .

Wait. Why is there coffee?

He sits up. He looks over the railing, down into the living room. There’s a guy sitting on the couch, looking up at him. It’s not Jørgen. It’s not anybody Billy recognizes.

“Uhhh,” says Billy. He pinches the bridge of his nose, blinks hard. Maybe the guy will disappear. But no. There’s definitely a guy down there. He’s wearing a suit, a pretty nice-looking olive suit. He’s got a shaved head, looks a bit like he might have once been a bike messenger. “Hi?” Billy tries. He gets out of bed, feeling a bit exposed, just standing there in his boxers. He hurries to get his legs into a pair of jeans.

“Take your time,” says the man.

“Uhhh,” Billy says again. “You must be … a friend of Jørgen’s? He’s away.”

“No,” says the man, while Billy’s head is stuck inside a T-shirt.

“It is you, William Harrison Ridgeway, with whom I intend to speak.”

It is you with whom I intend to speak? Billy thinks. Who the fuck talks like that?

“Call me Billy,” Billy says reflexively, heading down the stairs, wondering, not entirely idly, whether he should be looking for something that might constitute a weapon. “So — okay? Hi? Are you — with the landlord?”

“I am not,” says the man. He hasn’t moved from the couch, and he continues to watch Billy with evident interest, which freaks Billy out a little bit, but on another level he feels surprisingly relaxed about the whole thing. The guy doesn’t match Billy’s image of a psychotic murderer. He’s clean. He’s got probably a day’s worth of stubble but it’s clearly part of the overall look. Billy doesn’t like the steady gaze, that’s freaky, but it’s also a calm gaze, the dude isn’t wild-eyed or anything. He’s not sitting there twitching. He’s just, like, hanging out. His suit has clearly been tailored, which suggests money. So the guy probably isn’t here to rob him either. It must just be a misunderstanding, something that can be resolved with ease.

“There’s coffee,” says the man.

“Thanks,” says Billy, heading into the kitchen, while still trying to maintain a kind of half-cautious watch over his shoulder. He’s prepared to be miffed that the guy broke into his coffee reserves without permission but he looks at the counter and sees that the guy actually brought his own beans. A bag of something called Fazenda Santa Terezinha, which smells pretty goddamn good. He fixes himself a cup.

“Okay,” Billy says, holding the cup in both hands, up close to his face. “So you said you wanted to talk to me?”

“Have a seat,” says the guy, gesturing at the armchair across from the couch.

“Um, yeah, no,” says Billy. “I’m doing fine over here.” You’re being ridiculous , he tells himself. But, fuck it, so what? There’s a steel counter between him and the guy and he’s got bunch of knives within arm’s reach. From that perspective he’s got the best space in the house.

“As you wish,” says the guy.

Billy sips the coffee. It’s really good.

“This is really good,” he says. It’s really fucking good.

“I am glad,” says the guy, “that you are enjoying it. But now. Let us get properly introduced.”

“You already know my name,” says Billy. “So why don’t you tell me yours?”

“I shall,” says the guy. He produces a business card, seemingly from nowhere, and places it carefully on the coffee table, among the messy piles of CDs, drug paraphernalia, and magazines. Billy makes no effort to approach to retrieve it, staying exactly where he is, in the kitchen, near the knives, drinking this really fucking good coffee.

“My name is Lucifer Morningstar,” says the guy.

Billy sighs with annoyance because it turns out this motherfucker is crazy after all. He’d really hoped he was going to make it through the day without having to stab a dude.

THE SAFETY MANAGER CULTURAL NORMS AND WHEN TO IGNORE THEM • IMAGINARY COPS • THE CONCEPT OF A LIGHT SWITCH • INTIMACY AND CONSENT • LUCIFER’S PREFERRED MEDIUM • NOVELS VS. SHORT STORIES • EARNING IT • A LEAK AND TWO ASPIRIN

But he doesn’t reach for the knives, not actually just quite yet thanks, even though his optimism about the situation has just sustained a major hit. There’s still got to be a route to resolution here. A plausible reason why this guy is in this room, saying these things.

“Lucifer Morningstar?” Billy asks. “What is that, your World of Warcraft name?”

“William,” Lucifer says, and then he gives up a small, patient smile, the kind of patient smile that primarily communicates just how tolerant its bearer is being.

“Just Billy,” Billy says. “Please.”

“Billy, then. No, Billy, Lucifer Morningstar is my true and given name.”

“That’s rough,” Billy says. “Hippie parents?”

“Not exactly.”

Billy picks up his cup of coffee and begins to step around the counter, heading closer to the guy. What are you doing? says the cautious part of his brain, the part Billy thinks of as the Safety Manager. Don’t get closer to this guy. He’s a nutjob .

Let’s just see , says some other part of him, the part that Billy sometimes, in retrospect, calls the Well-Meaning Idiot. It’s stupid , this part says, to maintain, like, a twenty-foot distance between you and someone you’re talking to .

That’s a cultural norm! says the Safety Manager. You get to ignore cultural norms when some stranger shows up in your apartment! They’re already violated!