Chapter 13
Bob drove aimlessly. Turned off his playlist. He was sick to death of it.
It had been on repeat for too long, the same way he had.
The radio was tuned to a heavy rock station and the singer was reeling off the usual brain-dead, aggressive clichés.
This time about a guy whose woman had left him.
He cruises the highway, horny as a dog, he’ll burn a house down if it gets in his way, got his woman by the throat, smashed up her face.
“That was Ted Nugent with ‘Stranglehold,’ ” the DJ said, with the obligatory heavy rocker’s crunch in his voice. “And rejoice, people—in just four days the NRA’s annual conference gets under way right here in our very own Minneapolis, and Nugent is gonna be there!”
“Along with eighty thousand others,” said his sidekick. “I think it’s very generous of the NRA to hold their conference here with the strict gun control legislation we have in this state. In other states you can at least buy yourself a machine gun!”
Laughter.
“I’m reading the program here and there’s going to be seminars, meetings, displays of marksmanship and exhibitions of handguns. What d’you think, Phil, think Kevin Patterson will be handling the display of marksmanship?”
“I hope not, Otis. But on Saturday our esteemed mayor Kevin Patterson himself will be opening the conference at the U.S. Bank Stadium. If you want to get tickets, may we recommend that you…”
Bob switched off the radio. Took a deep breath.
And had an idea: that if he put his foot down now and waited till the speedometer reached a hundred before closing his eyes then he wouldn’t have to face another day.
He pushed the thought away, but he was shaken.
It wasn’t the first time he had thought about taking his life, but it was the first time the thought hadn’t immediately frightened him instead of seeming almost tempting.
Well, okay, now he was scared by the fact that he hadn’t been scared.
He sat up straight in his car. He had to do something.
The bar lady had been right. He had to change tack.
Bob reached out and turned on the radio again.
Tried to focus his thoughts. Tomás Gomez.
The apartment. Why did he keep returning to the apartment?
Was there something he’d seen there, something his subconscious had noticed but that hadn’t managed to make it to the surface?
He went over the details one by one. The couch.
The cabinets. The syringe. The bathroom.
The cat. The neighbors. No, that wasn’t it.
Was it the smell? The decor? No, not that either.
It was something about…the whole thing. Or the emptiness.
It reminded him of something. What was it?
—
It was past one as Bob slowly cruised the nocturnal silence of the Phillips streets.
Passed the tiny single-story houses. Some shacks, some with boarded-up windows, but also well-maintained houses behind newly painted white fences and signs reading We Care.
Realtors trying to tempt buyers from out of town liked to stress how central Phillips was, how many parks it had, how it was one of the most ethnically diverse neighborhoods in the city, housing immigrants from all over the world.
They never wrote about how poor Phillips was, how many criminal gangs there were, and that after sunset the parks turned into no-go areas and that on Bloomington Avenue, with drug dealers standing in front of every second house, the inhabitants had to clear their lawns of hypodermic needles before they could mow them.
Bob cruised past a dealer’s team now, on Bloomington and 29th Street.
An ethnic trinity, like a Benetton ad, one black, one white and one brown, those realtors were as good as their word.
The three watched him as he cruised by. Two were just teenagers, but the third, a Latino with a porkpie hat, looked nearer thirty.
On the house wall above them was some graffiti, the symbol for X-11.
Bob pulled up to the curb and got out. Breathed in the good, sharp night air.
Passed through the gate to a two-story brick house that was squeezed in between all the other single-story buildings, let himself in to the two-room apartment he rented and tried to ignore the rancid smell that had been there since before he moved in.
He hung up his coat and jacket behind the door without turning on the light.
He hadn’t been living there long enough to be able to filter out the regular noises, and tonight they came from both the apartment above and the one next door.
Arguing from above, hip-hop with a juddering bass from the left.
In the bathroom he could hear his neighbors even more clearly, the pipes carrying the sounds.
He splashed his face with cold water and studied the bump on his forehead while brushing his teeth.
The bruise was already turning blue, and in the course of the night he hoped the color would become even more pronounced.
He opened the mirrored door to the medicine cabinet.
Took down a pink tray of pills. It was unopened and he noticed from the date that he hadn’t taken one since July.
He weighed it in his hand. Hesitated. Then put the tray back, went into the bedroom, lay down on the bed in the dark.
Took down a plastic ball the size of a baseball from the shelf behind the bed.
It was an electric toy, a Radica 20Q. You asked it something specific and then tapped in Yes or No answers to the twenty questions that appeared in the small display window.
Nine times out of ten it would know whether you were lying.
In Bob’s case ten times out of ten, because the answer was always “ex-girlfriend.” He made up his mind to think of something else and chose “suicide.” Radica 20Q gave up after twenty questions.
Bob suspected that the word had been omitted at the programming stage.
He listened to the sound of Phillips. Laughter out in the streets, an angry cry, glass breaking, a car engine revving.
Neighbors you never heard during the daytime.
Behind the arguing of the adults he heard a young girl crying.
The sound was faint, at the same time so distinct as to drown out all the others.
Yes, he wanted out, to get away from this life, from Bob Oz.
But would he give them that satisfaction?
No, not yet. He would change tack. Change channels.
Change focus, name, the date, himself, life.
But more than the future he wanted to change the past. Not all of it, just his.
Because the past is everything. Didn’t someone once say that?
He unbuttoned his shirt and as he was pulling off his pants felt something in the pocket and took it out. A business card. Mike Lunde—Taxidermist. He thought of that canary. What kind of people had their pets stuffed?
Bob Oz closed his eyes, took a deep breath and steeled himself for another sleepless night. And as he lay there it finally floated up to the surface. What it was that Tomás Gomez’s apartment reminded him of. It was this. His own apartment. The emptiness was the same.