The Plug

by

Adam Wohnoutka

“You wanna hit?”

“No, thanks,” I automatically replied. Luke offered me cocaine nearly every day. I always declined. It had become a routine. Sometimes I forgot why I didn’t do it. Then I’d look into his bloodshot eyes, tinted a pale yellow, surrounded by dark circles. I remembered. Luke playfully slapped my shoulder and chuckled, exposing a row of crooked, grime-ridden teeth. He never did like the dentist.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Luke joked, poking his pink tongue through the grimy wall. He never actually wanted me to accept his offer. In fact, he’d bash my head in if I did. I was his only clean friend. He despised most of his friends. “Hey, hold the wheel.” I curled my bony fingers around the plastic-coated ring and split my attention between the road and Luke. Licking his lips, he produced a transparent plastic bag of white powder from his breast pocket. “Could you grab my backpack, Adam?” The front left wheel wandered over the white line and sprayed a cloud of dirt as I leaned back and blindly searched for the backpack. Simultaneously, I eased the vehicle back onto the pavement and flung the black bag onto Luke’s lap. Luke unzipped the backpack in one fluid motion and reached into its mouth. His hand felt around for a short time before it clamped down on a collection of pages. He set an undisturbed copy of The Catcher in the Rye on his right thigh. Shifting forward, he reached into his back pocket. A dark brown wallet composed of artificial leather appeared in his right hand. The stoplight, unconcerned with the lives of two flesh bodies, turned from yellow to red. Luke, suddenly aware, stomped on the brakes. Our heads flung forward and J.D. Salinger tumbled to the floor. “Fuck,” he groaned as he blindly pawed for the literature.

“Your left foot,” I pointed. He scooped it off the floor mat.

“God damn it.” The upper right corner had been tainted by a glob of mud. Although Luke never read the novels we were assigned, he always kept them in pristine condition so he could do blow off their glossy coats. He sprinkled a tiny snowstorm onto the white cover. A powdered library card then chopped at the fine grains. Luke’s nostrils took turns devouring the lines of crystals. His body drifted away from the earth, leaving behind a glowing green light. Since no vehicles had accumulated behind us, I decided not to disturb his transcendental state. His eyelids fluttering, he pinched his damp, pink nose and stared ahead. Noticing that the neon glowed green, he slammed the accelerator, leaving a black trail as the rubber melted into the pavement.

I am going to a party tonight. They say I should go. I need to stop worrying. I need to relax. Luke needs to relax. He is in the hospital. His skull is crushed. He will relax for a long time. I can’t relax. I had a bad dream. I dreamt about Luke and me. And a giant yellow monster.

The monster had swallowed many small children whole and was taking them to a building made of gray bricks. Luke said the building was evil. It made children feel stupid. It ruined their lives. Luke and I chased after the monster on a black horse with snowy hair. Luke was up front and kept digging his rusty spurs into the horse’s ribs to try to make it go faster. The horse cried and black blood shot out from its body. The horse sped up and covered my blue jeans in warm tar-blood. The monster grew larger. I wanted to tell Luke to stop. The children thought it was a game. They waved their little arms and shouted with their little voices. Their little eyes got bigger. The centaur’s flesh melded with the monster’s. Luke’s head popped off like a cork. His body slowly tipped forward and poured the champagne into the monster’s bloody jaws. My body went numb and the horse slunk to the gravel road. I looked down and found that the horse was now bleached white. It was missing its skin, muscles, organs, and tendons. It was very uncomfortable. I looked away.

I looked again. I was sitting on a cold, white stool. It was very uncomfortable. I was surrounded by four colorless walls. A bald man in a white coat was cradling my head with his massive hands. He reeked of tuna fish and rotten eggs. He gently released his grip and dug into his left hip pocket. A small, metallic cylinder appeared. He gripped it, pinky to index, and clicked the back button with his thumb. I had seen this instrument hundreds of times. I knew what was coming next. A ray of light was going to pour out of the tube and momentarily blind my feeble eyes. But it didn’t happen. Instead, a stream of black slowly escaped the device. The light was drained from the room. I saw nothing and I was satisfied. The doctor told me that there was no use fighting it. I suddenly felt the urge to cut the doctor’s throat. To pluck out his juicy eyeballs. To devour his silent heart. The doctor curled his lips upward and exposed his grimy teeth. He silently chuckled as saliva rolled down his hairless chin.

I don’t want to talk about dreams anymore. I have to relax. The party is about to start. I have to leave. I yell at no one in particular. “Can I use the car!?”

An ambiguous voice answers. “Be back by midnight!”

“Okay!” All of this yelling gives me a headache. I decide not to holler a good-bye. I snatch the keys from a dull hook and flee outside. The twilight is dark and cold. The Jeep Grand Cherokee is dark and cold. It is light and cold. It is light and warm.

Evelyn Johnson’s house. The enormous structure, composed primarily of gray bricks, guarded by a tall, black gate, sits perched atop a grassy hill. I never thought I’d be here. I never wanted to be here. But tonight was different. I was led here. Strange sensations grabbed hold of my insides and carried me here. They were scorching and soothing and they spread throughout my entire body. I had no choice. It wasn’t my decision. The scents of vomit and fresh blades of grass intertwine and waft through the heavy air. I inhale aggressively (too aggressively) and gag until saltwater blurs my vision. I carefully step over a motionless classmate. Only his eyelashes flutter. He is wading in grass clippings and stomach acid. I turn him onto his side and gently pat his back. He attempts to regurgitate but only expels his breath. He is empty. Hang in there, Andy. His name is Andy. I work my way through the human obstacle course, turning and patting along the way. Huffing (Larry Davidson provides quite the workout), I reach the doorway. A doorbell is absent from the entrance. Instead, a brass crow cradles a knocker in its beak. The muffled rock music shakes the thick door, causing the crow to bob its menacing head. The elderly hinges moan as the door caves in. A primitive drum beat is accompanied by a gentle guitar and bass. The man’s piercing but calm voice blares from the Sony speakers. He gives me the same advice he has given millions. He tells me that I shouldn’t fear the reaper. I exhale through my nose and enter the party.

“How the fuck is Luke doin’?” I can’t pinpoint where the voice is coming from. It surrounds me from all directions. “I heard he’s fuckin’ dead.” Matthew Heraldson’s pimply, inquisitive face floats from the crowd and approaches. He presses his polluted forehead into mine. “Is he?” He whispers. Not because he is worried about Luke but because he whispers when he is excited.

I don’t understand. I don’t understand how someone can speak with such nonchalance and lack of sympathy when a human being, a human fucking being, is struggling to remain in this world. My undeveloped muscles become rabid. They desperately try to burst through my unsuspecting skin. They have no plans after they escape. A tiny sun roars from my intestines and collides with my skull. The immense heat diffuses its energy throughout my head. I don’t attempt to speak. From the look of his face my face is scorching red. I want to bash his stupid, fucking puzzled face into a tree. No, that would be insulting to the tree. His breathing remains constant. He isn’t remorseful. He knows what he did; he just doesn’t care. You fucking son of a bitch. “You fucking son of a bitch.”

“Huh?” He looks genuinely surprised. Not angry, surprised.

“You fucking son of a bitch,” I scowl through my clenched teeth.

His greasy brows rocket up to his forehead. He gazes up toward the heavens as though in deep thought. Emotionless, he changes his vision’s path. He peers directly into my eyes, searching for the truth. A strange cough moves through his abdomen and spews out his beer hole. His deep, maniacal laughs pierce the air. “Son of a bitch! You fucking guy you! Aahack! Aahacka! You…fucking…son…fucking…son…bitch.” He is gasping for oxygen. Disgusted, I leave him rolling in the doorway, a trail of urine soaking through his pants as he guffaws like a drunken hyena.

A serpent hisses in my ear. “Hey Adam.”

I’m caught off guard. “Oh, hey Evelyn.” She stealthily closes in on her prey. I am engulfed in an invisible cloud of cheap whisky and expensive perfume. She slithers behind me and dangles a glass bottle over my head, at my eyes. A transparent liquid sloshes back and forth as I slip into a trance. Apple Vodka. I politely wave her off. Or on. Her forked tongue playfully caresses my lobe, enters the crevasse.

Her warm breath beckons, “Come with me.” My mind is frozen. My body is under her control. It succumbs to her request without my permission. She leads me through the darkness. We reach a shimmering gate that disappears into the black sky. We enter. The bottle finds my hand. She removes the cap and presses it to my lips. My throat is flooded with artificial apple. She tilts the container toward her own mouth. I watch her throat accept the burning liquid. She passes it back to me. I drink. Back to her. She drinks. Our mouths become one. We drink. She sheds her skin and begins to tear at mine. I emerge from my cocoon. Rebirth. Our flesh becomes one. The serpent and the boy. Darkness…

…light. Too much light. The merciless sun scorches my naked eyes. I command my forearm to shield me from the insistent rays of the cruel gas ball. My flesh eclipses the sun, ushering in the rightful king, darkness. He is cool, nurturing, loving, nonjudgmental. I hide in His shade. I extend my free arm and blindly search for the body of my night lover. My fingertips gently caress the empty air. She is gone. She has abandoned me. I feel sick. An unwelcome liquid gurgles in my weak stomach and creeps up into my throat. I desperately attempt to return it to its rightful location by swallowing the constant gags. A small fleet arrives at the base of my tongue. I have been defeated. The acidic juice charges forward and spews from my face. The stream momentarily ceases and I suck in the dizzy air. Another wave crashes through my body and taints the innocent earth. I gasp for oxygen but I am caught in a perpetual cycle of heaving. Salt pours from my red eyeballs and blurs my sight. Tremors control every muscle in my body. The sun is laughing at me. A bony hand rises from the dirt. Death appears in a black cloak and wildly swings his blood-stained scythe. I feel a slight sting as the blade nicks my nape. The skeleton cackles, exposing his yellow teeth, and points to the speck of red resting on the tip of his scythe. I slip into nothingness.

“Please leave, young man.” Though the voice is gentle and understanding, it is merely masking the disappointment and anger of its owner.

“Sorry, sir,” I choke. Tears begin to stream down my face. I’m nearly bawling. I refuse to look into His eyes.

“I’m afraid sorry isn’t good enough.” His voice is stern but sympathetic. He hands me a handkerchief.

“Thank you.” I dab my eyes with the cloth. I feel that I owe Him an explanation. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Please go.” I nod my head and reach for the empty bottle. “Leave it.” I offer Him the handkerchief. “Keep it.” I tuck it into my back pocket and head for the gate. He follows me. I feel as though He is within inches of my back but I cannot feel His warm breath on my neck nor can I hear His footsteps shuffling across the earth. I don’t want to look back but an unseen force slowly turns my head. He is not there. He has to be there. Bewildered, I straighten my neck and fix my gaze on the gate. The exit is open. With His back to me, He holds the door open with one arm and with the other He points me toward my destination via an open palm. I observe the black soil as I am banished from the garden. I take seven paces and turn around. I want a look at His face. The stubborn sun refuses to dim, exposing only a brilliant silhouette.

The key has slipped into the ignition when Adam notices a drunken carcass propped up against the house’s main doorway. Matthew Heraldson. That sack of shit.He’s been begging for this for a long time. The key is plucked from the vehicle as he bolts out the door. He finds himself in a dead sprint, howling for the blood of Matthew Heraldson. Adam White tears through the black night. His sneakers screech on the slick concrete of the driveway as he eyes down his wounded prey. He slides to a complete stop inches from Matt’s motionless body, which is wading in a pool of vomit. Matt grins ever so slightly and prepares to speak. A tiny, compact fist interrupts his words of wisdom, ejaculating a trail of saliva and blood from his gaping mouth. The joy of vengeance sends Adam into a violent frenzy. He cocks his fist and lunges forward with his entire body. The red confetti shoots from Matt’s mouth. Bones crackle in the night. Adam’s crimson claw becomes numb and he soon calls upon his elbows, knees and teeth to tear at the flesh. The two bloods become one as spontaneous appendages flail wildly. Adam beats Matt’s lifeless body until he collapses from exhaustion. The red river flows freely from all of Matt’s openings and collects in the black ocean beneath the pale body of land.

I’m not sure whether or not Matthew Heraldson is dead. He was breathing when I left him. Wasn’t he? Well, he had it coming one way or another. As for me, I’ve got a sick friend to visit. I’d better find a fresh pair of clothes. Come to think of it, the blood is still wet. Still fresh. It’ll do. Better than that, it will serve as a symbol. A symbol that says nobody, not a Goddamn soul, fucks with me or my close friends. I extend my index finger to complete erectness and trace a bloodstain. I bring my finger to my nose and inhale the inferior scent. My tongue instinctively protrudes from my lips and laps up the deep red. I force my vehicle into drive and barrel toward the hospital, toward my friend.

“Do you know what room Lucas Grimly is in?” I politely ask the obese woman at the desk. Her eyes examine my face, my shirt, my face.

She squints her saggy eyes and tilts her fat head, “Do you need help, sir?”

I ignore her, “Do you know what room Lucas Grimly is in, ma’am?” She presents a manila folder and simultaneously examines the chart and my twitching face.

“Are you family or—”

I interrupt her, “I’m his best friend.”

She sighs and quietly reveals, “Room 257.”

“Thank you.” As I stride past her, my peripheral vision informs me that she is making a telephone call. I almost ask her who she’s calling but I’m already at shouting distance and I don’t want to make a scene. I charge up the stairs and the first room I observes reads “257.” I grab the cold, steel knob. It turns. Tiptoeing into the artificial room, I carefully close the door. “Hey, Luke,” I cheerfully declare, expecting Luke to jolt to life and hurl a barrage of friendly obscenities. Silence. A long forgotten memory suddenly crystallizes in my mind.

Luke and I were five years old. Believing that we were mature, brawny men, we convinced our parents that we were old enough to attend our first haunted house before trick-or-treating. Although our parents were reluctant at first, they quickly agreed that their little “men” were now old enough to enter “Spookville,” the miserable excuse for a haunted house that volunteers constructed each year for the meek children. It was for babies. But it was still a haunted house. Luke and I groaned as we followed Ronald McDonald and his toddler through the entrance. The “Monster Mash” echoed throughout the structure, which was laced with cardboard cutouts of the Count from Sesame Street and mummies that were apparently walking like Egyptians. Suddenly, a fork appeared in the road. The clown and his daughter veered off to the right. Above the left door a sign read, “Enter at your own Risk.” Luke and I scoffed and meandered left. We entered a white, musty room with a pale, rigid man lying on a pale, rigid stretcher. Wires connected him to countless flashing contraptions. He wore a transparent plastic mask over his nose and mouth, which pushed out a trickle of saliva. A deep, fleshy gash adorned the man’s forehead, partially sealed by a crooked thread. Silence. Fat tears formed in the corners of our eyes. We attempted to fight off the salty harbingers of fear and sadness as an invisible feather stroked our throats. A simultaneous cough marked the end of the battle. Luke and I, a combined decade in age, released the liquid prisoners from our eyes. A thick stream tainted our white cheeks. We bolted out of the house and ran into our parents’ accepting arms. “I don’t want to go trick-or-treating,” Luke sniffled.

Luke wears a transparent plastic mask over his nose and mouth. It forces oxygen into his lungs. A colorless tube transports a colorless liquid to his veins. His forehead is wrapped like a mummy. I wish he could walk like an Egyptian. Approaching his sarcophagus, I clench my jaw, hoping to muffle the whimpers. Salty pools form in my eyes as I kneel by his side. I blink. The cold tears cling to my lower eyelids, refusing to fall. Gravity pulls at the reluctant drops, eventually sending them into a baby blue blanket. Their absorption creates a new shade of blue. It is darker. More teardrops come. Through my blurred vision, it appears as though Luke’s eyes are fluttering. I dab my eyes with my left sleeve, removing the distorting agents.

It is a miracle!

Luke’s smoky eyes stare into mine. He arches his brow and swallows dry saliva. Running his tongue along his chapped lips, he opens his mouth. “What’s the matter, Susie? Did you break up with your boyfriend?” His lips curl upward.

An involuntary breath of air escapes my lips. It sounds like a train whistle attempting to laugh or cry. “We’re on a break,” I whisper.

“You’ll work it out.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.” Our stomachs release laughter. Silence follows. Luke snatches my arm and presses his forehead into mine. His smile has disappeared. “Pull it.”

“What?”

“The plug.”

“Are you crazy?” He digs his nails into my flesh.

“Pull it,” his voice demands through clenched teeth.

“No,” I tell the hospital floor tiles.

“Pull it, you fucking pussy!” He swats my ear with his palm. A faint ringing enters my skull. My ear is numb.

“I can’t!”

“Do it!”

“No!” Luke buries his head in his chest. He gasps for air as tears stain his hospital gown.

“I never meant to go left,” he chokes. My jaw is wired shut. “At the haunted house. I never meant to go left. Why couldn’t I go right? I wanted to but I couldn’t. You can’t change who you are, you know. You can’t just wake up one day and say, ‘Hey, I’m going to stop being a fuck-up; I’m going to get off the white stuff and win myself a fucking Nobel Prize.’ This is what I am. This is what I’ve always been. You owe me.” His head tilts back and his eyes are veiled by fleshy shutters.

The metal teeth retreat from the outlet. The neon line is flat.