Mason (Untitled) Chapter 1
The boundary only can he see. There is an impossibility to it, the way it reaches so high. The lap of the water against the shore. The wall he sits on is cold, stone. He presses his calloused hands against the slate and pushes himself up to readjust.
The grayblue water oscillates with shallow waves. It reaches far, though not quite to the horizon. His sight can go further, and so it goes: the far shore, the autumn pastels of trees blotches of ink rubbed rough by steel wool. And then, like the cutting of the canvas, the wall rises black and immense where the trees ought to continue.
It encircles the city and he knows there is no exit without blood. The lapping of the water a sad song hummed low. The water, too, is trapped, and below its surface lie a great many things impalpable.
There is a setting sun somewhere blocked from view. A boat may pass by as some do, but there are none now. He straddles the stone wall with his journal out before him. He is writing her song before the barrier, the sad water, the trees beautiful before death.
A man approaches, languid, and speaks. You haven’t eaten, he says.
I don’t want to.
You’re going to pass out one day, says the standing man. He cranes his neck to examine the journal but the sitting man shuts it and tucks it away in the pocket of his overcoat. The pen as well.
Across the cracked and car-less street, the wrought door of the factory swings open by some great force. The lord of the factory sneers at the two men across the way, his eyebrows furrowed downward in a constant grimace. He shouts: you’ve two minutes left on your break. Time to pack it in.
The door shuts and the road is silent again. Perhaps there is a distant car coming, or a motorbike, but they will not be around long enough to see it. The standing man offers the sitting man a half of his sandwich. I haven’t finished it yet, he says. Eat some.
No thank you, says the sitting man. And then, after a moment: I’ve gone far longer without eating. I can handle these shifts.
The factory is metal-gray, nondescript from the outside and nameless within. On the line, the sitting man, Mason Villanova, and the standing man, Casey Page, are still in solemn silence. The conveyor belts move along and they pull bricks of forest-green nutrition bars into unsealed wrappers to be sent further down the line on metal sheets. Factories like these keep the city from starving, but the stench and labor mean its workers go hungry after being repulsed by the product. For a year now, they have worked the line together, the factory lord peering down, supervising from the catwalks.
They don’t say a word and their arms grow weary, making the same motions as machines.
Their shifts end some time near midnight. Hands stained dark green, they remove their stiff smocks. Mason throws his against the wall with directionless anger. From the locker he takes his overcoat and feels to make sure the journal is still within. Casey frowns, picks up the smock, and places both of them on the metal hanger.
Wait for me, he says, making sure the hanger can bear the weight of it.
I am.
Casey runs his hands under the sink and scrubs with a harsh sponge. The water falls from his hands green and translucent like algae. Mason lets the green linger, filthy on his mountainous hands, scars but fissures in the earth.
They walk beside one another down dark roads on which a car will occasionally travel. They are careful and know what to look out for, but one can never be too safe. At a juncture, Mason stops walking. Smells like Rats, he says to Casey. Casey nods.
I feel it, too.
After a while, one is not bothered by the violence, the blood, the sinew turned outward by a serrated blade or bullet. The man against the wall was robbed. That’s all. His crime was being on the sidewalk at that moment.
Rats, he says. Always the Rats that get you around here.
Mason looks at the man with an unaffected face. I’m sorry this happened.
What can we do to help? Let’s get him to the hospital.
Mason shakes his head and looks at the bloody man while he speaks: this man is dead, Casey. He sees it. Accept it like he does.
How can you say that? If we can help —
Mason ignores the question and steps toward the man who pushes himself up at the approach. He winces as Mason moves his sleeve upward.
I don’t have anything left for you to steal, says the man. This, too, Mason ignores. He lifts the limp arm to the light of the lamppost, revealing a small tattoo across the wrist.
You were on the front?
The man’s grimace settles into recognition. You too?
Mason nods at the man and then turns to Casey. He knows he’s dead, says Mason. This is what we fought for. The best we can do is let the poor man die in peace.
Casey is silent and the man says nothing. Casey is the first to step away. Mason is second. The two walk on home together and the man dies alone soon after in the moonlight and in the blood of his own heart.
Some time later, Mason approaches the door of his apartment and the keys rattle forward. He opens the door and sets it shut behind him. It is dark and empty here.
There are many in this home: a younger brother, a father, a mother, and the girl. He visits each of their rooms, checking that they are safe and sleeping. The girl he visits last and his eyes linger on her. Just for a moment. For a moment he is happy, it is bright outside, there is no boundary across the water, and he is as peaceful as death.
They are safe this night, safe and sleeping, and he is able to rest.
Before sunrise he awakens. Nearby is a market and he takes yesterday’s salary there and buys rice and eggs and anemic vegetables. He buys some dry coffee and pockets the rest and breathes deeply; there is enough for later.
On the way home, he only has to change his route once for fear of Rats or worse things.
The brother, the mother, the father, and the young girl all wake to the smell of eggs cooking, potatoes sautéing, coffee brewing.
Good morning, Mason, they say to him. He says nothing back.
