The Dead Don’t Care
Part 3 — It wasn’t like a dream; it was realer than that
“Something is wrong with my friend. I think he’s hallucinating…? He’s seeing flies and… other things. I mean, he’s not usually like this. Will you help me get him to the hospital?”
The tall blonde boy raises an extravagant eyebrow at Dugan as the sandwich receives a vigorous finger wag. He places a reassuring hand on my presidential shoulder, saying, “I can, and will, help you.” I almost kiss him. Instead, I dig some cash from my purse and drop it on the table, as The Bard persuades Dugan of his awaiting carriage.
“Ah! Yes, of course!” Dugan knew exactly what to do next, too. He slid out of his chair, took a coin from his pocket, placed it into The Bard’s upturned palm, patted him on the head whom he thanked, adding ‘Good Sir’, and strode out of the sandwich shop, followed by his butler. The butler doesn’t even look back; he is in full character mode now.
For a second it is less noisy on the street. As if by chance, Master Dugan and his butler start out in the direction of the closest emergency room, a great relief to me, as I stay back a pace so as not to interfere since the two seem to be getting along so well. Every so often, Dugan jumps out of the way of something.
Once he becomes aware of my lagging presence, I see him lean in to mutter something to the butler, voicing his concern over my allegiance, I presume. The butler gives me a squinty-eyed glance over his shoulder. “If you don’t look at her, she can’t see you, Sir,” he says.
Suddenly, Dugan’s sanity returns for a moment. He turns to face the butler and asks, “Sorry, what’s your name?”
Without missing a beat, the butler throws his shoulders back, extends his arm for a handshake, and identifies himself as, “Brian Wilson. At your service!” Dugan stammers, while our chameleon friend explains, “The Beach Boys, Brah! You know, Hotel California — I mean, Girls, Girls, Girls. California Girls! I wish they all could be California — ” He drops an octave, “I wish they all could be California girrrrrrls…”
Brian tosses a wink in my direction. Oh my god. I really need to get back to work.
“Hey, what’s your name, man?”
“Dugan. I do security at the museum. Hey, ah, I didn’t want to say anything in front of the lady, but have you seen these pterodactyls flying around? They’re kinda freakin’ me out.”
Scratching his chin, as if in deep contemplation Brian says, “Yeah man, we need to get off the street. It’s just not safe out here.”
He’s not wrong. We’ve been standing in the middle of the sidewalk at lunchtime for a minute now; passersby have been politely suggesting we move the eff out of the way, while I apologetically frown at them. Meanwhile, Brah-ski over there doesn’t give a hoot.
“Dugan, my man, I need your help with something, but it’s… a little dangerous.”
My friend puffs out his chest. Brian wraps an arm around his shoulder, leaning in to supply the inconspicuous instructions and indicates the setting of this perilous task by pointing at the convenience store near us. Dugan marches into the shop.
What is the meaning of this? “What are you doing? I need to get him to the hospital — ”
“It’s cool! He’s fine! I just sent him in there to ask for something dirty in Hindi. Don’t worry, I know the guy at the counter. I do this kind of thing to him all the time, get unsuspecting people to — ”
“I really have to get back to work, Brian, I’m sorry…”
“Listen, if we take him to the hospital the cops will be called and he’ll be questioned and may lose his job. You don’t want him to lose his job, do you?”
“Well no, but — what do you suggest?”
“I’ll take care of him, don’t worry. I’ve got experience with this kind of thing, trust me.“
“But — ”
“Here, take my card. Call me when you get off work. I’m going to take him back to my apartment, fix him up some seitan and rice when he starts to come down. I’ll take good care of him.”
I look at his card in my hand. “Brian Wilson? Is that your real name?”
He grins. “Sure as shit. There’s my cell, now get going; I better get in there. Your friend thinks you’re an enemy spy anyway, so it’s probably best you go. Don’t worry!”
As I jog back to the museum I can’t stop myself from thinking I’ve made a terrible mistake. Poor Dugan. And how did this happen? I really want to believe The Bard, or the butler, or Brian Wilson, or whatever his real name is will diligently keep my friend safe. For some reason I’m under the impression that chaos has ensued back at the museum, and the irresponsible scientists are at fault for unleashing this mayhem now upon us. Damn them. And damn Dugan for insisting on visiting the mummy.
To my surprise, the museum is quiet. No flying monkeys, no paranormal slime oozing from the ceiling, no… Then I remember what Dugan said about that eerie woman standing in the dark and I vow to keep an eye out for her, see if she’s still skulking about, putting hexes on innocent visitors, the geriatric scoundrel.
Everything was as it should be, all the way back to my desk, where Eliza the office assistant is humming a happy tune and a stack of irrepressible documents to sign and shove away require my attention.
“Where have you been?” Eliza probed. My face must’ve blanched.
“Nowhere, lunch, why, did I miss something?”
“Are you okay?”
Do I not look okay? I say, “Yes, I’m fine. Just…slept badly last night.”
“That’s probably it,” she muttered, shuffling back to her desk. It wasn’t an outright lie. In fact I’d almost forgotten about the evening’s shadowy vision. I took the business card from my jacket, placed it on my desk beside the phone. Actor, Voice Coach, Entertainer of the Masses, it read. Funny man. The clock showed one thirty; an hour later or so it seemed, it showed quarter to two.
By the time five o’clock rolled around I was so frazzled my thoughts were swimming as if being vortexed into oblivion, my blouse was wet beneath the arms, and my empty tummy grumbled as a result of an abandoned sandwich from earlier. When finally my coworkers scampered out of the office and I was alone, I dialed the showman.
“Draw nigh my not so distant abode, gentlewoman! We sup presently on the flesh of swine and the root of thee fair daughter of soil.”
Each of my mundane questions are answered in this old English jargon until I have an address scrawled onto the back of Brian’s business card. “I’ll be there in ten,” I say, as I slip the card into my jacket and get going. I take a deep breath and long for a shower.
Brian buzzes me in. Through a hallway smelling like cabbage and darkened for burnt out bulbs I fly, to the third floor where the odor is a bit more pleasant. Brian meets me in the doorway and beckons me in where I’m greeted with the sweet aroma of what I assume is roasted root vegetables and braised, savory pork. Dugan is sitting on a sofa, staring intently at the television screen, gaming controller in hand. He manages a “Hey” at me without breaking concentration.
“We shan’t be rude to our guest,” Brian comments, pausing the game. Dugan sets down his controller a little reluctantly. “Man, I just found this sweet enchanted long sword!” I roll my eyes.
“You must be famished! I’ll fix you a plate!” Brian strides toward the kitchen, calling back, “Do you eat pork?” I, politely as I can, decline.
Dugan reclines in the sofa, patting the seat next to him as if I’m a furry friend, which I ignore.
“Well?”
“It must’ve been that woman, that witch. She poisoned me.”
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Fine now,” He looks around the room. “A little weird. I’m not seeing things anymore — that was kind of fun, actually. I’ll tell you more later.”
A dish of roasted vegetables is presented to me in a rather flamboyant manner with a towel folded across his arm and a fork wrapped in a cloth napkin. “Bon appétit!”
“Gracias,” I say. Whatever. You wouldn’t think a root vegetable dish could be so divine, but it was, and for the next several minutes the chatter in the room rolled past all of my propensities for comprehension.
It wasn’t that late once I had finished, but as I described briefly before, I was craving a hot shower, fresh pj’s, and a toothbrush.
“Can I interest you in a sauternes?”
For chrissakes, what is this? “No, thank you, Brian. The food was — ” I almost said ‘exquisite’ but caught myself. “It was delicious; you’re quite the chef.” Brian bowed, appearing truly humbled, the weirdo.
“Walk me home?” I request of Dugan, who is in a state of complete relaxation. Suddenly I regret my words, them sounding more like an insensitive demand and less of a courtesy. His smile is sleepy and kind.
Brian’s look of disappointment at our departure is genuine. I thank him, but not too profusely so as not to mortify Dugan into thinking that I considered him unfit to take care of himself, even though I didn’t, at least not in his earlier condition. We do not speak to each other until we are out on the street.
I like strolling in the evening, just after dinner when the foot traffic is at a minimum and the sun is low in the sky, casting golden light between the buildings. There is the slightest warm breeze and families sit chatting together happily, with full bellies, on their apartment building steps.
“So, what do you mean the old woman poisoned you?”
He chuckles. “It’s funny, really. She had this big bag that she kept rummaging through while we were in there, in the room with the mummy. Then she pulled out a box of homemade cookies and offered me one, and you know me, always starving, so I ate one.”
“What is wrong with you? Did you think she was your average Grandma?”
“Because Grandma’s don’t offer cookies to strangers in dark rooms with a corpse? Yeah, I didn’t think of that.” We exchanged sheepish grins.
“Have you ever seen this woman before?”
“No, definitely not. She only came for the mummy exhibit — that I’m sure of.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well… After we got back to Dude’s apartment, he suggested I take a moment to… enjoy the trip, so to speak. So I laid down on his couch and just kind of, I don’t know, dreamed. But it wasn’t like a dream; it was realer than that, and I wasn’t sleeping.”
“Yeah?” I urge him to go on.
Dugan looks at me side-eyed, hesitating, but without a trace of tension. His expression is… beguiled. There is a noticeable change in him — it occurred to me back at Brian Wilson’s apartment. If before the “trip” Dugan was a little hyper or jumpy, now he was anything but. Maybe it was the way his arms hung off his shoulders, or the smoothness of his face, or the languid style with which he was walking. He just seemed so damn relaxed.
“I was taken to the top of a mountain and by taken, I mean I floated there. It felt like I was being pulled along by an invisible rope, or something. I had no control over it, but I didn’t try to fight against it either. I felt… safe. It wasn’t scary, I mean. I found myself standing on the summit although I didn’t have legs — actually I don’t remember looking to see if I had legs, but I felt aware that they weren’t there, if that makes sense.” He grinned, continuing, “It probably doesn’t. That’s okay. Anyway, there was fog or clouds maybe and that damn homeless woman materialized out of them. She looked different somehow and I got the impression that she didn’t want me talking to her. She pointed off into the distance, so I looked there. I could see the ground below us perfectly well even though we were watching from thousands of feet up. I saw a huge canyon and a long, narrow bridge made of… llama hair — don’t ask me how I know this. I saw a group of people. They were walking a sacred trail to a distant city in the empire. It was midday and it had been gusty all day, making crossing the bridge treacherous. For this reason, some of the people hesitated to cross the bridge, but a fourth person, a big man, forced them saying they would be punished if they continued to cower. The first one to go across was an older woman, a priest, who wasn’t afraid. The next one to cross was a younger woman, but she was very afraid. She carried packages, things wrapped up in leather pouches and a covered clay jar in her hands. Along the way, the wind whipped up and she tripped while she was crossing and dropped the jar into the canyon.”
“Uh-oh,” I say, being enthralled by his tale so far. “Did the big man toss ‘er over the side?”
“No, he didn’t.” Dugan stops dead on the sidewalk. He looked at me with these subtly knit, sympathetic brows of his, saying, “You were the one who tripped though.”
Thank you for reading my story! Be on the lookout for Part 4 appearing in The Junction next week!
