Richard Russo - Everybody's Fool

Guns?

“Or the drugs?”

Drugs?

“The snakes,” Boogie clarified. “I’m afraid of them.”

“They’re in cages.”

“They’re in my dreams. I can’t think about nothing else.”

“I’m sorry, but you quitting now is inconvenient.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I need you through Friday, at least.”

“I’m sorry,” Boogie repeated.

“How would you like it,” the man whispered, “if I dropped by your apartment some night with a guest?”

“A guest?”

“Have you ever noticed how your apartment door doesn’t fit flush with the floor?”

Boogie had in fact noticed this, and he broke into a flop sweat.

“As I said, I need you through the end of the week.”

“Okay,” Boogie said, not wanting William Smith to be visiting his apartment with any guest.

The next morning, Thursday, the phone rang shortly after he arrived in 107. “Is everything good?” the voice wanted to know.

“It’s hot,” Boogie told him. The thermostat in the front room had already registered ninety, and it wasn’t even nine o’clock.

“Turn the ceiling fan on high.”

“It is,” Boogie said, but the line had already gone dead. Clearly, the only reason William Smith had called was to make sure he’d reported for duty.

The next day, Friday, was even worse, the front room a sauna when he stepped inside. After two nights in a row without sleep, his exhaustion complete, his mind was blank except for ambient dread. He immediately stripped down to his skivvies and took a beer from the minifridge, not to drink but to roll over his forehead and the back of his neck. When he looked around the apartment, something felt different. Had William Smith been there during the night? He checked the fridge. Nope, the UPS box delivered yesterday was still there. And yet, though Boogie had never met the man, his presence was palpable. Could he possibly be in the bedroom with the snakes, spying on him? Ridiculous. Boogie was becoming unhinged.

Clearly, even this early in the morning, the only thing to do was to get drunk. If the alcohol failed to dispel his terror, it would still make these final eight hours pass more quickly. He reminded himself that he was just doing, one final time, what he’d done for the past two weeks without mishap. The reptiles were all safely in cages, a danger to no one. Soon the nightmare would be over. He guzzled a beer, vomited into the sink, drank another. When this one stayed down, he popped a third and turned on the television to a game show with the volume on mute.

By midmorning unwelcome thoughts uncoiled and slithered around in his head. What guarantee did he have that Smith wouldn’t telephone that afternoon and demand that he stay on for another week? Given how much Boogie knew about his varied “inventory,” could Smith afford to just let him quit and hope he wouldn’t rat him out to the cops? What if he was upstairs right now, slipping some serpent under his apartment door? Wouldn’t it make more sense to do unto William Smith before William Smith did unto him? If he called the cops, they could be here in a matter of minutes, and his employer would be a wanted man. So Boogie went over to the wall phone and picked up the receiver. At the dial tone, though, he hung up. Paralyzed by indecision, he got himself another beer. When it was empty, he went back to the phone. This time, at the tone he dialed 911, just to make sure it did connect to the police station. When the lady there answered, he hung up again and drank another beer, felt a sudden gastrointestinal emergency and bolted upstairs to his apartment, barely making it to the toilet before his bowels exploded. Back downstairs, he went to the phone once more, this time determined to complete the call.

It was then that Murphy’s law, which even a libertarian like Boogie was subject to, kicked into gear. Whatever could go wrong did. When he dialed 9, all the lights went out, the TV went silent, the ceiling fan ceased to squeak, the fridge quit humming. The clock on the wall stopped ticking — and along with it, very nearly, his own heart. With the curtains drawn, the room was almost completely dark. In Boogie’s addled mind, hitting that 9 and the lights going out were linked by cause and effect. Was his boss so clairvoyant that he knew not only that his employee was about to betray him but also the exact moment the betrayal would occur? Or had he installed a camera somewhere in the front room so he could keep tabs on him? Boogie quickly slammed the phone down and held up his hands in the classic posture of surrender, as if Smith were in the room with him and holding a loaded gun. He held that pose for several minutes, until he began to feel silly. When he heard a siren outside he went over to the front window and peered out from behind the curtain. The world outside looked bizarrely normal. The old black dude was seated in his folding chair like always, waving his little flag at passing cars. Get a grip, he said out loud, the sound of his own voice suddenly reassuring. The thing to do was call William Smith and press his claim as a loyal, competent employee, not somebody who’d fink on an employer who had, except for one vague little death threat, treated him very considerately.

Again, the answering machine picked up and the voice said: “I’m not here. Leave a message.”

“Mr. Smith? It’s Boogie. We just lost power.”

From behind the bedroom door, unless this was his own dementia, came a rattle. Could the room possibly be getting warm already?

“What am I supposed to do?” he whimpered. “If you’re there, could you please pick up?”

Setting the phone down on the counter, he went over to the bedroom door and put his ear to it. Nothing but silence. Don’t knock, he told himself, then knocked. In immediate response, not one rattle but several.

He grabbed the phone. “They’re waking up, Mr. Smith. I can hear them in there.”

Not just rattles now but, unless he was imagining it, hissing.

“So I called, just like you said,” he told the man who wasn’t there. “I done everything you asked.” Where was the guy? The last time, he’d returned Boogie’s call right away. Why couldn’t he just pick up now and say, Don’t worry, Boogie. I know you did. It’s my problem now. You go on over to Gert’s and have one from the tap.

Only when the answering machine’s tape cut off did he hang up and return to the bedroom door. The hissing had stopped, and he now heard the soft sounds of creatures waking up restless, of unlidded eyes opening, of triangular heads lifting up, of uncoiling. Of other smaller, terrified things scurrying in their cages and hiding under scraps of newspaper. Also of metal and wire mesh being strained, expanded, tentatively at first, then with greater purpose.

It occurred to Boogie, standing there in his skivvies, that should flight become necessary, he was ill prepared. He’d do well to at least put his trousers on. His shoes. Though, really, this was crazy thinking. As long as there was a locked door between him and these pissed-off reptiles, he was in no danger. That door fit snug to the carpet, and nothing could slither beneath it. Unfortunately, no sooner had he reassured himself of this than he perversely pictured a tiny triangular head pushing through the crease, going rigid when it spotted him, then burrowing forward with renewed purpose.

Grabbing his pants off the back of the kitchen chair, he was frantically trying to pull them on, one leg at a time, when he heard the cage topple over in the bedroom. The sound froze him in position, balanced on one leg, his full attention on the door itself, which he half expected to open despite being locked. But then a terrifying thought occurred to him: Was it locked? He’d been in such a state that morning that he hadn’t even checked! How could he have been so stupid? This question seemed to answer itself. Because he was an idiot. He’d been one all his life. His wife had told him this many times before cutting her losses and running. There was nothing left to do but prove it again, so instead of pulling up his trousers he hopped over to the bedroom door, one leg in, one leg out. He turned the doorknob to the right, as he’d done so many times in the past, to make sure it was locked. It wasn’t, of course, and why would it be, Boogie thought with stunning clarity as his weight swung the door inward. Now that he knew what was in there, William Smith had no further reason to lock it up. Boogie’s sheer terror would keep him out.