Seth Ervin
Seth Ervin
Seth Ervin is an amalgamation of the lessons that he refuses to learn. He loves music and art, and believes that the creation of beauty is a defining characteristic of human existence. Ervin enjoys writing as an art form and an advocacy, as it is this nuance that permits one to breathe life into the echoing passages of humanities.
Editor’s Note: Page contains the works “High's and Lows” fiction story and “Smothering America’s Soul” essay.
Dreams of the Behemoth | Fiction
Highs and Lows
I’ve always loved the rain. It washes away sin and filth, leaving only a sense of what was and may yet be. This was no different. As I watched the rain slowly rinse away the pool of blood from beneath me, I could feel my life slowly ebbing away with each droplet’s fall. The only illumination was the flickering streetlight at the end of the alley, but it ended just before my feet, cementing that I was unlikely to be found before morning. Unable to move, the events that led me to this fate were peeled away with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel, leaving me with only the calm reassurance that, given the opportunity, I would do it all again in a heartbeat. This city is hellbent on its own destruction, but for a brief and peaceful moment, its inhabitants could sleep peacefully. As consciousness faded, I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out her picture. Staring down at it, using these final moments to burn her image into my mind; I felt a sense of peace for maybe the first time since setting foot in this damned city. Then, only oblivion. ______________________________________________________________________________
As I looked out the window at the street below, I began to wonder if ants were happy. After all, they live constantly enthralled by the pheromone signals of their queen. Similarly, the citizens below met their day-to-day lives as chemical zealots. Everywhere I looked, the telltale signs of usage were visible. From the strained yellow tooth smiles of the caffeine or nicotine enjoyers came a constant stream of unending complacencies; to the putrid and pockmarked skin of the needle junkies, each and every one of them needed some vice, large or small, to make the incessant toil and dredge of life in the city bearable. It controlled them like the ant queen, their lives and deaths spent feeding her endless growth.
As I continued to examine passersby, the door to my meager second-floor office slowly opened, revealing what I hoped were my newest customers. As they sat, I examined them. It was an elderly couple. A gentleman, who held the door for his lady and pulled out her chair as every man should, was accompanied by an elderly woman who I assumed was his wife. The woman was unnervingly placid, seemingly led by the gentle hand of her companion into the room with little visible awareness.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the elderly man began, “We are looking for a Private Investigator. We saw your ad in the help section of the paper and are hoping you can help us.”
“I think you have come to the right place. What can I do for you,” I asked.
“Seven weeks ago, our daughter Arlene was found dead.” His voice cracked. This was a man who had endured a horrific loss, but his manhood rested upon his ability to remain composed.
He seemed more occupied with discovering the truth than his companion, who I now understood had succumbed to insurmountable grief experienced with the death of a child.
“Ah. I am very sorry to hear that. What did the police have to say?”
“Her death was ruled as an overdose. The coroner’s office reported that she had died from a mixture of alcohol and opioids.” He balled his fists and squeezed, as if the idea caused him immense physical discomfort.
“And you are certain that your daughter had no interest in substances. If I may, mister…?”
“Garfield” Of course it had to be Monday. “If I may, Mr. Garfield, it is not uncommon for individuals to hide things like this from their…”
“NO!” He slammed his fist onto the table, which would have assuredly knocked its contents to the floor had there been any. “You may not. I do not care what you or the damned coroner’s office says. My little girl would never. Unless you get that through your skull, we are done here.”
I needed the money. “I am sorry, sir. I should have let you finish before I made any presumptions. Please continue.”
He eyed me for a moment, but eventually, he needed the truth more than he cared to resent me.
“We know there is something they are not telling us,” he began. “Our little girl would never touch any drug. She was extremely against them. She worked at the local rehab center to try and help those who wanted to get help. She was out with her friends for her birthday, which was the only reason she would be drinking in the first place. They went out to a club to celebrate, and when the rest of her friends noticed that she was missing, they phoned the police. The police found her the next morning, slumped over, cold in an alleyway six blocks from the club.” I felt it a little odd that someone in their later middle age had gone clubbing with friends, but I suppose that stranger things have been known to happen.
“I mean, just look at her,” Mr. Garfield seemed to lose his composure momentarily, fumbling with the flap on his wallet to produce a picture. He then set the picture face-up on my desk.
She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Her chestnut locks framed a porcelain face. Her two chocolate brown almond-shaped eyes seemed to laugh as if she was sharing a joke that only she and the camera were in on. Her smile held a warmth that can only be described by the loftiest of laureates. She was young, seemingly too young to truly be the daughter of the individuals sitting in front of me, and far too young to be dead.
“Do you happen to have a more current photo?”
“This was taken the day she died. It was her 21st birthday.”
It was a herculean effort to keep my shock from showing, but somehow I managed. “I see. Is it possible for me to speak with any of her friends?”
“Most of them have either left town or are still in their mourning processes and are not to be disturbed,” he said, ”however, one of her friends there that night works at the clinic. Her name is Liz. She was already questioned by the police, but after we give her a call, I am sure she will tell you everything she knows.”
“Thank you. That will be a start to finding out what truly happened that night,” I said. As we negotiated my fee, he provided me with the clinic’s address and his own, should I have any questions and for me to convey my findings. He then stood to leave, helping his wife to her feet and taking her hand to lead her to the door.
She seemed to fully realize where she was for the first time as she stood. She then zeroed in on my face as if reality had been entirely reduced to just her and me.
“My daughter had a kind heart. Whoever did this to her is a monster.”
And with that, they turned and walked through the door.
__________________________________________________________________________
The next morning, I decided to stop by the clinic to begin my investigation. As I went through my morning routine of the three S’s, shit-shower-shave, I examined my small abode. My office and residence were a pair of conjoined offices that I rented for a discounted rate from a man named Big Red. When I first arrived in the city, one of my earliest jobs was finding Big Red’s teenage daughter, who had gotten mixed up with some shady characters. He was convinced she was kidnapped and sold, but after some investigation, it was merely another case of teenage rebellion. She and her dealer boyfriend were held up in a motel a couple of miles outside the edge of the city, and after some “convincing,” they decided it was in their best interest to return home.
As I descended the stairs to the ground floor, I passed Big Red in the stairwell working on some electrical panel. The man refused to hire any contractor, instead affirming that it was a “man’s duty” to take care of his house. He was a giant of a man; easily surpassing my above-average six-foot stature with another five inches minimum and with the muscle mass of a bull oxen to back it up. His hands seemed more akin to a bear’s paws than my own, which made his subtle manipulations of the building’s wiring all the more impressive. As I came into his peripheral, Red turned to greet me.
“Good morning,” his deep baritone rumbled from his barrel-like chest. The thick Russian accent was only surpassed by his even thicker bright red beard that was his namesake. No one in the building knew his real name. With tenants coming and going for years, passing on the tradition of exclusively introducing him by his descriptive moniker until his real name had been long forgotten. Red didn’t seem to mind. Men running from something rarely objected to a new identity.
“Morning, Red,” I replied. After finding his daughter for him, the man seemed resolute to treat me with a degree of respect rarely employed towards men like me. I appreciated it immensely, even though I never told him.
“From all the commotion last week, I assume it's a safe bet to guess there's a new tenant?”
“Da. Карлик moved in two doors down” he replied.
“Is that his name?”
Red got a good laugh out of what I assumed to be a pretty standard question. After realizing I expected an answer, he replied, “So to speak,” and, with a final chuckle, he turned back to his task.
As I descended the final steps into the foyer, I turned to see Red’s teenage daughter: Anya, in her usual place behind the reception desk. She worked to balance the books for her father, but after her brief brush with life on the run, I am sure he just likes to keep her where he can see her.
“Morning Anya,” I said.
She replied with a scowl and some Russian muttered under her breath with what I was sure was a less-than-flattering description of me, my mother, and perhaps the family cow.
“And I hope your day is just as fantastic,” I replied with a wry smile.
I then went over to the mail wall to check to see if I had any deliveries. After a glance, I determined my box was empty yet again. I stepped out the main entrance onto the street. Immediately my nose was assaulted by the rank smell of the city. A putrid mixture of oil, smog, feces, sweat, and God only knows what else. As I waited for a taxi, I surveyed the street around me. Individuals lost in their own lives briskly walked the streets as the endless march of traffic wound on beside them. Curiously, I noticed a new swathe of graffiti along the side of my building. Usually Red had it washed off by noon. He had a very strict policy on “free advertising,” as he called it, but I suppose the issue he was working on when I passed required his full attention. Underneath the tag was a motorcycle. It looked fast, sporting an enormous engine mounted to a tiny frame. Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait long before a cab stopped for my hail. As I climbed into a backseat that smelled of a concerning amount of vinegar, I gave the driver the address to the clinic.
As he drove, I reviewed all the facts I had so far. Arlene had gone out on her 21st birthday to a club with her friends. At some point during the night, likely after the members of the friend group had consumed alcohol, if not other substances, Arlene became separated from the group. Between the point of separation and dawn, Arlene had taken an unknown amount of drugs, despite her parents firmly believing that this was against her character, and overdosed. This made little sense, as the amount of drugs required to kill someone in this manner would not leave them in a state to walk the six blocks to the place she was found. Nothing added up. I hoped my interview with her friend Liz would shed some light on what was most certainly a shadowy business.
______________________________________________________________________________
As the cab pulled up to the clinic’s entrance, the driver turned to me and stretched his hand out.
“Normally I don’t feel guilty getting paid,” he said in an accent that sounded a little bit from everywhere, “but I have never taken money from an addict before.” He smiled in a manner that made me doubt this man could comprehend the meaning of guilt when there was money to be made. I handed him his fee and swiftly exited the cab.
As I walked up the steps to the entrance, I began to feel the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. A cursory glance at my immediate surroundings showed no indication of immediate danger. I noticed that a third-floor window was open, but thinking nothing of it, I made my way into the building.
Once inside, I was greeted with the distinct and clinical smell that could be found in most medical facilities. The waiting lobby was small but comfortable, with an assortment of plush-looking chairs for people to wait in, taking up the entire left wall. There was an assortment of magazines on a table in the center of the room, and then the receptionist’s desk took up the right wall. At the center of the far wall was a set of double doors that led deeper into the clinic. It had an expensive-looking lock system installed. A similar one was at every door I could see, which is not an uncommon sight when your main clientele had a propensity for stealing anything they could to get another fix. Next to the doors was an elevator, and next to that was a door labeled “Stairs.” In the corner to my left, there was a small fish tank, with its brightly colored occupants swimming lazily around. The walls were decorated with pictures of individuals smiling and laughing, seemingly enjoying the pleasures of a substance-free life. As if such a thing was possible in this city. Seated behind the desk was a quaint elderly woman with an impeccably maintained hairdo that had been out of style for a few decades or more. Her name badge read “Mavis” and had a little smiley sticker next to it.
Mavis greeted me with a warm “Good morning” that dripped with the false veneer of a well-practiced customer service voice.
“Good morning,” I began, “I am looking for someone named Liz, as I have some questions I would like to ask her.”
Instantly, Mavis’ entire demeanor switched. She sat up straight, and her eyes became hard. She asked, “And what would someone like you have to ask someone like her?”
I realized the circumstances and how they appeared. I began backtracking to try and salvage the interaction.
“I am not checking in, you see,” I began, “I am a friend of hers who is just passing through town, and I wanted to visit while I am here. She informed me that a friend of hers had just passed, and I felt it right to give my condolences in person.”
Her face fell. “Poor Arlene. A real tragedy, what happened to her. She worked here; did you know that?” I pretended I didn’t. “She was one of the kindest people I had ever met,” she went on, “not a mean bone in that girl’s body. She could’ve been an actress or maybe a model, but instead, she decided to spend her time here. She logged more hours here than everyone but maybe the doctor, and he’s required to be here. She said that her purpose in life was to help others. Shame that she’s gone now.”
I waited for a moment, as it seemed the most polite course of action, and then got back to work.
“So, is it possible for me to speak to Liz?” I asked.
She seemed to remember where she was. The customer service mask was reapplied. She typed something rapid fire into the computer, read the results, and turned back to me.
“Of course. According to today’s schedule, her lunch break is in fifteen minutes. I will let her know you are here. Feel free to take a seat.”
“Thank you for your help. And might I add, I absolutely love what you have done with your hair,” I said with my most charming smile.
She laughed. “Well thank you, dear. Just in case you were wondering, my lunch break starts in two hours,” she said with a wink.
I moved towards the other side of the room. Glancing at the occupants seated there, I became increasingly disturbed. There were three individuals seated at a socially acceptable distance apart from each other. The first two were your stereotypical teens facing their court-mandated rehabilitation. The third individual is who concerned me. It was a man in his late twenties, with a shaved head and a demeanor that indicated this was an individual who enjoyed violence. He was covered in profane tattoos of every sort, including his face and scalp, but one piece of ink caught my attention. It was a symbol situated directly underneath his face. It was an inverted triangle, with a line through the bottom point. The image seemed familiar, though at the moment I could not seem to recall where I had seen it before.
As I examined the man, he looked up from his “Better Homes and Gardens” magazine, and our eyes met. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked as if he had not slept or bathed in days. He wore ragged black pants and a white tank top. I could see his toes through a hole in his left shoe.
“You gotta fuckin problem?” He asked.
Never one to back down from a barb, I replied; “Not particularly. I was just wondering where you got your tattoos. From the looks of it, I’d say the playground. Someone should teach your artist how to stay inside the lines.”
He did not like that one bit. He stood from his seat, and in an instant, there was a switchblade in his hand. “Let’s see what that smart mouth of yours has to say after I cut your fucking tongue out, you son of a bitch.”
As I slowly began inching my hand towards my waist, I heard the door next to the receptionist’s desk creak open. Instantly, the hair on my neck stood on end in what I recognized as the same feeling from earlier.
“Hans,” a voice said, at a level just above a whisper. The effect on Hans was instantaneous. He put the knife back into his pocket and walked past me without another word.
As I turned to watch him go, the owner of the voice I heard became evident. Standing in the doorway was a thin man in his mid-forties wearing a lab coat. Staring at the man then, the feeling from earlier became nearly unbearable. Every fiber of my being screamed DANGER when presented with a man a whole head shorter than me. It didn’t make sense. As I looked on, paralyzed, Hans shuffled through the door after the man swiped a key card through the reader beside it. The man then met my eyes for the first time. He smiled at me and then turned to follow Hans, letting the door swing close behind him.
_____________________________________________________________________________
As I sat on the steps of the clinic, lost in thought over the nature of my encounter, I failed to notice the young woman approaching until she stopped next to me.
“I am sorry, do I know you?” she asked.
“I’d hope not. The only people who know me are the ones with problems they can’t seem to solve on their own. I’m a private investigator hired by the Garfields to investigate the circumstances surrounding their daughter’s death. You must be Liz,” I replied. I extended my hand.
She shook it. “Ah. Yes, they called me yesterday. You have some questions for me?”
“I do, but nothing as rigorous as the police interviewer,” I felt the chill again. Glancing up, I saw that same third-story window ajar. “This is your lunch break, right? I am starving. What’s there to eat around here?”
She smiled. “There’s a shawarma truck two blocks away. It’s my go-to.”
We walked for a while in amicable silence, and as we crossed through choked intersections and sidewalks littered with filth, I began to examine my newfound lunch companion. She was of average height, with bright blonde hair pulled back tight in a high ponytail. She wore a dark burgundy set of clean, wrinkle-free scrubs under a dark blue overcoat to keep her warm. I could see her name badge in her coat pocket.
“So,” she began as we dug into our fresh and delicious food, “what do you want to know? I told the police everything I could, but they still haven't come to any sort of resolution. What makes you so different?”
“Let's not talk about this while eating, eh?”
“Fair enough.”
“Tell me a little bit about the clinic. You both worked there together, yes?”
She smiled a small smile of remembrance. “We started together. We went through the entire nursing program together. It feels strange not to see her there anymore.” I regretted asking.
“What’s your job there?” I asked, to try and refocus her on the facts of the case and snap her out of the fog of memory.
“We worked as nurse assistants to Doctor Reese. We administered fluids and did other tasks to try and ease the process of those experiencing extreme withdrawal,” she replied.
“Do you get a lot of patients?”
“Oh yeah. Hundreds a year. Some stay for days and some for months. Doctor Reese is a miracle worker. He does wonders for them, and asks for nothing in return,” she said.
“Tell me a bit more about the good doctor,” I said.
She looked a little skeptical but went on. “He is an extremely talented physician. Early in his career, he uncovered groundbreaking discoveries in his research on organ transplants. His techniques increased the survival rate tenfold.”
“Sounds like someone far too talented to end up running a rehab clinic.”
“I was getting to that. After his wife died in the birth of their daughter due to sudden heart failure, he began to research the heart exclusively. His breakthroughs were quintessential to the field and pushed the science forward by years,” she sighed, “but it wasn't enough to save his daughter. The same genetic predisposition took her too. After her death, he gave up on research and opened the clinic with the money he earned for his work. He’s been here ever since.”
We finished our lunch. Afterward, we walked for a while until we found ourselves in a rare bubble of peace in the rancorous roar of the bustle of the city. A simple park bench, uncommon in its vacancy and cleanliness, made as comfortable a location as any other to discuss the death of a friend.
“So,” I began, “tell me about the events that took place on the night of her death.” She recounted her tale of the events, with momentary breaks when her grief overcame her. She explained how they had met up at the Garfield residence, and carpooled to the club. Once there, they spent some time at the bar celebrating Arlene’s birthday. She mentioned that Arlene had only two drinks and seemed no more tipsy than the rest of her retinue. Then, as the girls hit the dance floor, they lost sight of Arlene in the crowd. After checking all the bathrooms and asking around, they called the police.
“Did you tell anyone where you were going?”
“We had a birthday party for her at the clinic that day. We told anyone who asked, but they all loved Arlene there. I can’t think of a single person who would harm her,” she replied.
“I understand,” I said. “Thank you for your cooperation.” I handed her coat to her.
“I hope it helps,” Liz said. "Whoever did this was a monster.”
The words of Mrs. Garfield echoed from the day prior. As another person who was close to Arlene vocalized their certainty of the monstrous nature of the killer, I realized I had in some small facet begun to believe it myself.
______________________________________________________________________________
As I walked her back to the clinic, a plan to get into the doctor’s office began to formulate in my mind. I had learned from Liz that, unlike the first and second floors, the entire third floor was a designated filing space, utilized for the clinic’s extensive records on their patients. The only office on the floor was the doctor’s. As we arrived, I held the door open for Liz as she entered the clinic.
“Thank you again,” I said.
She smiled. “Of course. It is the least I could do for Arlene,” she said. Then she walked into the clinic.
As I walked down the street, I felt momentarily guilty for what I had done. Liz had been more than helpful in establishing a detailed timeline for the events of the night Arlene died, and as a way of thanking her, I had stolen her name badge. It was certainly not my proudest moment, but something I could not explain compelled me to get into that doctor’s office. I knew as his assistant that her badge likely could get into his office. After walking around the block twice, I deemed it a sufficient amount of time for Mavis the receptionist to have headed for lunch. If my plan was going to succeed, I could not be recognized.
As I walked back into the clinic, I sized up the new receptionist. Sitting down and grabbing a magazine, I feigned reading while examining the young man. He appeared as a bored man in his early twenties, apathetic towards his job as he scrolled through something on the computer that I guessed to be social media. His name badge read “Nermal.” Other individuals were sitting in the lobby as well, with one person’s name called every five minutes or so. Individuals continually came and went. After letting a solid half hour pass, I stood up and walked into the bathroom to commence my plan. In my first survey of the room, I noted a single unisex bathroom in the corner of the room. Once inside, I removed the entire roll of toilet paper and threw it into the trash. Afterward, I walked out into the lobby and up to the receptionist’s desk.
“Excuse me,” I said, “but I have to use the restroom, and there appears to be no toilet paper. Is there something you can do?”
He sighed, “Again?” He closed the computer and stood up. “I’ll be right back. Don’t let anyone go in there until I get back. Last time someone used hand towels and clogged the damn toilet.”
“I won’t move from this spot,” I said crossing my fingers.
He then stood up, swiped his badge, and walked through the double doors. The moment I heard the bolt of the lock click into place, I pressed the button for the elevator. I waited for a moment before the doors slid open, and I stepped inside. I pressed the button for the third floor and waited as the elevator began to rise, praying all the while that no one would press the button on another floor before I arrived. Thankfully, my luck held out and after a moment the doors slid open, revealing the third floor. There were rows upon rows of filing cabinets, each labeled with some code to differentiate the countless categories housed within. Down the center of the rows was a path that led directly to a single door located at the end of the room. I walked quickly, swiveling in left and right as I hurried through the rows toward the doctor’s office. Finally, I arrived at the door and swiped Liz’s stolen name badge. The light on the reader beeped once turning green, and I turned the handle and stepped into the office.
Once inside the office, I quickly surveyed my surroundings while moving behind the desk located at the other end of the room. Located on the left was a large set of shelves filled with awards of all shapes and sizes, likely the result of his prestigious career. On the right, was a large set of windows. The same windows that were ajar when I had arrived. Their closing meant that the doctor could be back at any moment. I had to hurry.
As I walked around to the rear of the desk, I examined the contents of it. There were several pictures. In one, depicted as a young man stood the doctor next to a very attractive woman who I guessed was his late wife. In another, a slightly older image of the doctor was smiling down at a young girl giggling in his lap. His daughter. I wondered what the magnitude of loss he had experienced had done to his mind. For someone with such vast intellect to be able to do nothing but sit and watch as his family was ripped away from him could not have left him unscathed.
Searching the desk proved fruitless. Inside were budgeting proposals and patient reports, standard medical paperwork that was by no means the incriminating evidence I had hoped for. I was running out of time. If I walked back through the lobby and was recognized, there were sure to be questions. As my search became more and more frantic, in my haste I leaned up too fast and knocked my arm against an ajar bottom drawer. I stifled a curse and then realized that the corresponding “THUD” from the drawer by no means matched the contents. A false bottom. I quickly emptied the contents and knocked on the drawer. Sure enough, the resounding noise
confirmed my suspicions that there was space underneath the bottom. After a moment of careful examination, I found the pinhole on the underside of the drawer. Taking a pen off of the desk, I removed the slim inkwell inside and used it to prop up the false bottom of the desk. Inside, there was a small ornate box and a small metal medallion. Without any time to investigate either item, I stuffed them both into my coat pockets and replaced the drawer’s false bottom. I refilled its contents before hurrying towards the door. As I ran for the elevator, I felt a moment of relief that my search had been fruitful.
Then, just as I reached its steel doors, the elevator dinged to signal its arrival and began to open.
______________________________________________________________________________
I found myself face-to-face with the doctor. Though in all fairness, out of the two of us, I was certainly the more shocked. He gave me a once over, his face an impassive mask as he took my intrusion into his private upper level with seemingly little surprise.
“Can I help you?”
I gathered myself for half a second. “Ah I am sorry, I appear to be in your way,” I offered instead of an answer. The wheels of my mind chugging at breakneck speed to produce a plausible explanation. “I had an uncle who had a real problem with heroin. Last I had heard of him, he was here in the city. I noticed there was no lock on the elevator and figured there wouldn’t be any harm if I came up to check your records.”
His eyes narrowed a fraction. “These are not matters of public record,” he said coolly. He began to walk past me. He moved in a peculiar way, with a very smooth gait that made it seem like he floated as he walked. “However, since you are a friend of Liz, I don’t mind opening a file for you.” He walked to the nearest filing cabinet.
I slowly reached back and pressed the button for the elevator. “That’s quite alright sir. I appreciate the generosity, but I have taken far too much of your precious time already. If you’ll excuse me, I will be on my way.” I scraped together the self-control I had to attempt my most placating smile, but I was certain it was more along the lines of a grimace.
The elevator dinged behind me, and I stepped back through the doors before they slid entirely open. I pressed the button for the lobby and waited.
“Well, I must say I find that such a shame,” the doctor said. “I had always assumed Private Investigators such as yourself were addicted to finding the truth.”
My blood froze. I recognized the warning alarms blaring in my mind. I was certain I had never seen this man before, and yet he knew who I was and the true reason I was here.
“Have we met?”
“No, but I have heard lots about you.” The doors began to close, cutting off my interrogation. As they slid shut, I heard the faint voice of the doctor, ripe with unmasked malice.
“Be seeing you, John.”
______________________________________________________________________________
As I stumbled into my room, I found myself so on edge that I could cut through paper. The setting sun illuminated the room through the blinds. I had spent the entire day searching for clues, and all I had to show for my efforts was more confusion.
My experience had left me shaken to my core, left me with more questions than answers. I paced for hours, questioning any possibilities as to how the doctor knew my name. My ad in the paper made no mention of it, and I was certain I had never met the man. I had few friends, and no one that lived within a hundred miles of here. He might have gotten it from a client, but that did little to narrow down the scope. I hadn't told Liz my name, as she had never asked, and the Garfields had little reason to interact with their daughter’s ex-employer.
To finally get some answers to the questions blazing through my mind, I began to examine the two items I had discovered in the doctor’s office.
The first was a box. It was a small sandalwood box with a hinged lid. There was no lock, and the lid was easily opened, revealing the contents inside. The box was full of pictures. On top of the stack was a familiar face. Arlene. It was the same picture that her parents had shown me. How he had gotten a hold of it, I had no idea. The rest of the pictures were unfamiliar individuals, all women in their early twenties. Unlike Arlene however, these women looked sickly and frail. Some had open sores on their faces, while others exhibited missing teeth. Out of all the pictures, Arlene was the only healthy-looking individual. This did not bode well.
The other item was equally concerning, for entirely different reasons. It was a small metal pendant with a thin leather cord tied through it. I realized I had seen the symbol depicted twice today. It was the same inverted triangle with a line through it that I saw on the man the doctor called “Hans” at the clinic. It was also the same symbol I had seen spray-painted on the building that morning.
What could this mean? None of it made sense. Why did he have this picture? Who were these other women, and what was their connection to Arlene and the doctor? And, most importantly, what was this mysterious symbol that tied them all together? There was a knock at the door.
As I stood and stepped towards the door, I pulled my .38 special from its holster. I was reluctant to use the piece, as bullets aren't cheap these days, but you know what they say; waste not, want not.
I tightened my grip as I peered through the peephole, I had asked Big Red to custom install as part of my payment. I appreciated his craftsmanship. The mirrored lens let me see to each end of the hall.
Empty. It had to have been someone exceptionally fast for them to make it down the hall back to the stairs. Even on her worst day, Anya wouldn’t hesitate to cuss out someone running through the lobby. I figured my best bet was to ask if she had seen anything.
I opened the door. Immediately, something slammed into my stomach, knocking me flat onto my back.
As I struggled to pull air back into my lungs, I heard a guttural laugh and the sound of someone shuffling towards me. I felt hands begin pawing at my coat, pulling at its hem, trying to find a grip. As I tried to lift my arms, a boot smashed my fingers twice in quick succession, and my gun fell from my grip. I heard it slide across the floor.
I gasped and immediately kicked out high towards where I assumed my attacker’s chest to be. My foot connected with nothing, and for my attempt, I received a swift kick to the ribs. I curled around the blow, latching onto the steel-toed boots to spare myself the brunt of another blow that would assuredly break my ribs. I reached up to punch my attacker in the groin, a surefire way to even the playing field in any fight.
My fist glanced off, and pain shot down my arm in response. It felt like punching a wall. I used my foot to push myself off the attacker, and in the moment of pause that allowed me to take in my surroundings, I could not help but gape in awe. Standing in front of me, eye level despite me being on one knee, was a dwarf wearing a motorcycle helmet. In his hand, he held a baseball bat. He wielded it with brutal efficiency in a two-handed grip, quickly stepping towards me to finish the
job with a swing to the skull. As he swung, I used my last ounce of strength, knocking us both towards the door and out into the hallway.
As I lay there, struggling to move my head enough to even see what my assailant would do next, I felt my consciousness begin to fade. I threw my neck to the side to see the dwarf reaching into a bag at his feet. From the bag, he pulled a nasty-looking hypodermic needle with a syringe filled with milky white liquid. He advanced, and I felt at that moment a sense of helplessness that I had never experienced before.
Then, two massive hands appeared on the sides of the helmet. As silent and stoic as the mountain he was, Big Red had arrived. With little effort, Big Red lifted the dwarf man, turned, and slammed the visor of the helmet into the banister. There was a sharp crack. Big Red did not seem satisfied, as he slammed the helmet down again. And again. He slammed it over and over, ignoring the muffled screams until there was a sickening crunch, and then silence. ___________________________________________________________________________
After an hour had passed, the three of us: Me, Big Red, and Anya, gathered in my office to examine my attacker. I was lucky to escape with only serious bruising, both to my body and my pride. I could not thank Red enough, for his intervention had saved my life.
As we removed the man’s jacket, my stomach dropped harder than when he had struck me earlier. Displayed proudly upon the center of his neck was the same inverted triangle with a line through it that had haunted me since this morning. This confirmed that this was no random burglary gone wrong; this man was here for me.
Anya interrupted my revelation. “Ugh,” she said.
“What?”
“He’s a Righteous.”
“You recognize that symbol?”
“Yeah. Back when Squeak and I ran off together, he told me about the time he went to one of their events. They are a part of this hardcore party scene: experimental drugs, body modifications, you name it. Word is they even perform some dark rituals behind closed doors.”
She told me that they hosted most of their gigs underground, but sometimes they would send representatives to more casual clubs to try and recruit more followers. They offer free samples of their product for the masses, promising more at their next event. They followed some spiritual guide, who promised to elevate them to a higher state of being.
I thanked her. Her information was the link that connected all the pieces. I gathered my things, grabbed my gun, and slid the doctor’s medallion into my pocket. After a moment’s hesitation, I grabbed Arlene’s picture, though as for what motivated this decision remained unclear. Perhaps it was simply a tool to solve the case, or a sentimental memento of one of the most eventful experiences of my life. Regardless of the motive, I slipped the photo into my coat pocket.
I then left. It was night now, and I stared upward at the sky as I waited for my ride to the club Arlene had gone to on the night of her birthday. The moon was full and hung low in the night sky. Its luminance was surpassed only by the neon of the city, full of energy as I wondered then how she had felt, fresh into the freedom of self that comes with adulthood, only to lose it in an instant. I hoped that no matter the outcome of tonight's events, light was shed on what truly happened to her on the night of her tragic end.
______________________________________________________________________________
I arrived at the club. After paying my fee, I stepped out of the cab and surveyed the entrance. There was a line down the street, with large groups of partygoers dressed to impress. I knew my well-worn coat was not doing me any favors, and so I opted to find an alternative entrance. Most clubs this size had multiple entrances, both for staff and for patrons who desired a more quiet exit. After I quickly walked around the building, I found a lone door on the far side. The door was lit by a singular fluorescent bulb above it, making the guard in front visible. As I approached the door, I began to try and slip into a convincing performance. I hunched my shoulders and began to walk with a stride that favored my left leg just enough to draw attention. I reached down, scooped up what I prayed was mud, and smeared it tactfully to give the appearance of months of wear and tear.
As I reached the door, the guard gave me a quick once over. “There something I can help you with?” He spoke with a tone that suggested his version of “help” was planting me face-first into the concrete.
I raised my voice an octave, speaking through my nose to give it a nasally quality I hoped would add to the validity of my disguise. “Here to distribute samples,” I said while flashing the pendant. I had no other choice, as I was out of options and ideas.
Thankfully, he seemed unsurprised. “They said one of you weirdos would be coming. Normally you guys go through the front since you get to skip the line, so what gives?”
I scrambled for a plausible answer. “Seen a guy who owes me money. Didn’t want to spook him,” I replied.
He nodded sagely. “I hear that. Well, just hand over the entrance fee, and you can head right in.”
Shit. “I am out of cash. But I’ll make you a deal,” I offered. “You let me through, and I’ll come back with any samples I have left and turn ‘em all over to you.” I spread my hands to look equal parts desperate and honest. “How ‘bout it?”
He grinned, and in the light, I could see the whiteness of his teeth. “Sure thing pal. Right this way.”
He turned and opened the door, beckoning me to follow him inside.
As we walked across the club floor, I felt a burning sense of unease slowly begin to fill me with dread. I was deep in enemy territory, with little hope for rescue should things go sideways. I was armed, of course, with my .38 tucked into my coat pocket. I had also opted to bring a pocket knife, tucked snugly in my right shoe.
I followed him through the main club area and into a stairwell at the far side. I noted this as strange. From the exterior, the building did not appear to have a second floor. My confusion transformed into a grim resolution as I realized the stairs only led downwards. Determined to see this through, I followed the guard down the stairs.
He led me down two flights, the air cooling around us. I began to hear a persistent hum, and after a moment I realized that it was the drone of machinery. What was I walking into? We reached the bottom of the stairwell. He turned, beckoning me to follow him down the hallway that lay before us, periodically lit as it stretched onwards, ending in a large metal door.
We walked to the door. He reached for something around his neck, which was revealed to be a key on a chain. He slid it into the lock, opening the door. He stepped to the side and motioned for me to walk through the door. I cautiously stepped into the room. Then, a voice drifted through the darkness that surrounded me.
“Thank you, Arbuckle.”
I instantly reached for my gun, only for an explosion of pain in the back of my skull to drive me to my knees. I felt my consciousness slipping away as I struggled to rise. “That will be all now. Leave us.”
I heard the door close behind me.
_____________________________________________________________________________
I awoke slowly, trying to gain a sense of my surroundings without revealing my consciousness. The air was cool, and I could hear the hum of machinery, only much louder now. The fluorescent lights shone through my eyelids, and I could hear someone moving. My hands were zip-tied to a warm metal pipe. After a careful examination, I found it wiggled slightly.
“Care for a drink, John?”
I opened my eyes. Sitting in front of me was Doctor Reese. He looked the same as he had when I had last seen him, in the same impeccably clean lab coat. He sat on a leather chair, with a glass in one hand and my unopened knife in the other. On a small table next to him sat an ornate stopped bottle partially full of liquor and a bucket of ice. My .38 special sat on the table. There was no other glass.
“I’ll pass,” I replied.
He grinned. “I can imagine you have some questions for me.”
“Just one. Why Arlene?”
He seemed puzzled. “What?
“I got the symbol. You are part of “righteous” as they call themselves, they push your drugs. They believe you are some spiritual leader who will be their salvation. In return, they bring you young women whom no one will look for you to kill in your sick rituals. That’s all I get, but what I do not understand is: why Arlene? You knew her, she had loving parents who would ask questions. It doesn’t make any sense.”
He stared at me for a moment. Then he began to laugh.
He laughed for a moment, long enough for my efforts to wiggle the pipe I was tied around a bit further. Then he fell quiet and began to walk towards the wall. On it was a large array of switches. He flipped the largest one on, and the rest of the room revealed itself.
What I saw before me I could hardly fathom. There was the body of a young woman, with more tubes and machinery attached to her than I thought possible. The most horrific aspect was the center of her body. Connected via tubes in her chest was a heart suspended in a sickly yellow fluid contained in a glass container. To my untrained eye, the heart appeared to be beating, albeit sporadically.
“You were so close. But, you see, I am not their salvation. She is.”
As I stared at the poor woman's face, I realized I had seen her features earlier in the day, only much younger.
“Oh my God. That is your daughter!”
“Correct,” he said. “She inherited the same degenerative heart defect as her mother when she reached adulthood. It moves unlike anything I have ever seen, destroying the heart’s tissues at an unprecedented rate.”
He walked over to the table his daughter lay on, adjusting the levels on some of the machinery that kept her alive.
The doctor went on. “The research boards cut my funding. They did not believe in the science, that such a degenerative tissue disease could be combated.” He turned to me, and there was a manic light in his eyes. “They were wrong.”
The pieces began to fall into place. “So you used junkies as lab rats?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. However, the women whose pictures you found served a much greater purpose.” He tapped the container holding the beating heart. Under careful inspection, I noticed its shriveled and sickly appearance.
“The disease causes heart failure in about six months. The only way to stop the disease's progression is a full-scale transplant.”
Bile rose in my throat. He was taking their hearts. “How has no one noticed a serial killer like you with such an obvious calling card?” I asked.
“I am no fool. It is a simple matter for one such as myself to replace the organs I use with the ones my baby has used up. They are junkies anyway. Organ damage is by no means uncommon.”
I had to keep him talking. The pipe had begun to come loose.
“You never answered my question. Why Arlene?”
He turned to me, as a manic grin stretched across his features.
“You haven’t figured it out yet? I am disappointed. You see, after years of trial and error, I cracked it.” He pulled a vial from his coat pocket. “Finally the right mixture to counteract the decay of my daughter’s heart. The only thing left was to find an organ match.” He walked to the table, and I noticed for the first time a heart inside another transparent container. This one looked in pristine condition. Arlene’s. “Arlene was the perfect candidate, and after they spiked her drink
at the bar, it was no trouble bringing her here to my laboratory. She was a wonderful girl, with a kind heart. A fitting replacement for my lovely daughter.”
At those words, I felt the pipe wiggle loose. I stood up in one fluid motion and pulled with all the strength I had. After a second, I felt the pipe come loose in my hands as steam poured out from where it was attached to. As the fog filled the room, the doctor turned and screamed, charging at me with my knife in his hands. I swung my pipe at his skull with full force, but the awkwardness of my tied wrists caused my aim to waver. He ducked, and with a snarl, rushed forward. I felt a sharp pain and knew instantly he had stabbed me. I swung my pipe again and struck his arm with enough force to feel the bone crack. The doctor screamed in agony, and I dove towards the chair he had been seated in moments ago.
I landed poorly. Forced to roll over, the pain in my side became nearly more than I could handle without going unconscious. As I turned, I saw the doctor sprinting towards me, one arm poised to stab me yet again while the other trailed at his side.
I reached blindly toward the table. As the doctor closed the distance between us, I felt my fingers brush the hilt of my gun. I kicked out with both feet to stop his advance, closing my hand around my revolver's grip. I pushed him back, aiming the gun square at his chest.
The doctor, no longer the perfectly maintained facade but instead an animalistic monster that represented his true inner self, rushed me again.
I squeezed the trigger three times. The noise was deafening in the enclosed room. The first shot went wide, and there was a crash. The second and third were dead on, hitting the doctor once in the shoulder and again in the stomach.
The doctor's eyes went wide. Blood gurgled from his lips as he crumpled to the floor. I looked down at my wound. A steady stream of blood seeped through an open puncture in my side. I reached for the bottle of liquor and poured some to sterilize the cut, wincing in pain as I did so.
I heard a noise from the floor and looked up to see the doctor dragging himself across the floor. He gurgled once, reached out towards the table where his daughter’s body lay, and fell silent.
I looked towards the table. Laying there, surrounded by shattered glass, was Arlene’s heart. I grabbed the bottle of liquor and walked to the table. Unable to stand the sight of this unholy act of selfishness, I poured the bottles' remaining contents over the machinery. I dragged
my body towards the door, shuffling as best as I could without causing any more damage to my wound. As I walked out of this nightmare, I turned and fired the rest of my gun’s rounds into the machinery. The sparks caught, engulfing the bodies of father and daughter in flame.
I dragged myself up the stairs one at a time. Moving through the crowd towards the door I had come through, I pressed my hand against my wound with little success. As I exited the building, I pulled the fire alarm. There was no need for more deaths on my hands, and the fire would likely claim a few unsuspecting victims otherwise. I heard the throngs of partiers cry out in protest, but I had more pressing concerns.
Stepping outside, I found it had begun to rain. I walked down the alley, my strength fading fast. Something in the dark caught my foot, sending me to the floor. I rolled, despite the heavy protest from my body, and propped myself up against the wall of the alleyway. I felt a warmth spread across my legs and recognized the source as my blood.
I’ve always loved the rain. It washes away sin and filth, leaving only a sense of what was and may yet be. This was no different. As I watched the rain slowly rinse away the pool of blood from beneath me, I could feel my life slowly ebbing away with each droplet’s fall. The only illumination was the flickering streetlight at the end of the alley, but it ended just before my feet, cementing that I was unlikely to be found before morning. Unable to move, the events that led me to this fate were peeled away with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel, leaving me with only the calm reassurance that, given the opportunity, I would do it all again in a heartbeat. This city is hellbent on its own destruction, but for a brief and peaceful moment, its inhabitants could sleep peacefully. As consciousness faded, I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out her picture. Staring down at it, using these final moments to burn her image into my mind, I felt a sense of peace for maybe the first time since setting foot in this damned city. Then, only oblivion.
Resonance of the Behemoth | CNF
Smothering America’s Soul
A: Why didn’t anyone mourn Kerouac’s hobo in The Vanishing American Hobo? B: As rapid industrialization swept across America in a post-WWII climate, few who rode the wave of progress considered what was left behind. In the face of such exponential expansion, the quiet corners of the country began to become fewer and far between. This had detrimental effects on the outcast, the wanderer, the quintessential American vagabond who lived upon the rails; the hobo. The hobo, a blanket term to describe any who chooses an isolated life on the road in favor of succumbing to the hegemonic pressures of the marketplace masculinity, serves as a staple of an antiquated Americana of days long since passed. These individuals choose isolation as a form of self-reclamation in the face of a system that denies them the individualism they crave. Yet unlike the cowboy or the knight, this form of masculinity was not mourned and immortalized, but quietly swept under the rug in shame. The hobo lived an isolated life, preferring the great emptiness over civilization. However, a life lived in solitude makes for a barren funeral. Through the examination of Jack Kerouac’s The Vanishing American Hobo, the hobo’s unmourned demise can be traced to the massive boom of consumerism and capitalist ideologies of 1950s America which greatly overshadowed the quiet end of one of the country’s traditional ways of life.
Before the 1950s, the hobo had existed relatively unchanged throughout American history. A lone wanderer searching for some metaphysical truth through an isolated journey through America’s pristine natural wonder. Forty Niners are perhaps the most famous example, a massive influx of young men into California who “had cast off the cultural baggage they had brought from the East, relinquishing evidence of their former civilized lives” (Kimmel 2005). This lack of baggage, both literal and metaphorical, characterized the hobo in cultural response to the steady increase in capitalist market practices in America. The hobo had no part in consumerist culture because they needed no material goods to derive meaning from life. All the hobo needed was the peace of mind derived from spending time alone in the wilderness. This meant that the hobo could not be controlled as a consumer, and in the minds of the capitalist elite of the 1950s that made them dangerous.
Following the domestication of the West, the opportunity to make one’s identity on the frontier ceased to exist, shifting in favor of the marketplace masculinity that dehumanized the individual to maximize consumerism. The hobo embodied this cultural tradition of abandoning all material possessions in favor of a life lived in absolute rejection of the social obligations inherent to marketplace masculinity. This noncompliance with the status quo resonated with many beat writers of the 1950s who were then inspired to try and capture the essence of this way of life. Jack Kerouac was one such hobo. A writer who believed in the benefits of isolation so much that he hoboed around for a few years just to experience the freedom that solitude in nature provides. However, like so many, he was forced to give it up around 1956 because of the “increasing television stories about the abominableness of strangers with packs passing through independently” (Kerouac 1960). As the paradigm shifted into the Cold War era, the social stigmatism against “othered” or outcast individuals like the hobo skyrocketed.
The widespread promotion of consumerism resulted in a massive change in hegemonic masculinity, causing a shift in social consciousness to one that was no longer accepting of
individuals who rejected the status quo. The mainstream nuclear lifestyle was promoted to increase labor under capitalism and as a result, anyone who abandoned the labor structure was demonized. Hobos were no longer the wandering loner who valued his own company and the great outdoors, but instead “the rapist, the strangler, the child-eater” (Kerouac 1960) to be shunned and forced out of your town before they have the chance to strike. This shift had detrimental effects on these individuals, who now were prayed upon by local police forces for simply existing outside social norms. The country’s open spaces were privatized and fenced off, barring entry to those who would enjoy the free and natural wonder of the country. This forced the hobo into urban environments, removing them from their natural environments and starving them of the isolation they craved. Through the vilification of the hobos' desire for isolation, those who disagreed with mainstream masculinity were trapped in the urban environment which forced them into the system they so desperately sought to escape. This system had no sympathy for those who did not participate in its structures, and as a result, the hobo was stripped of any remaining dignity and forced into the worst parts of the urban environment where those with no capitalist standing washed up.
Furthermore, this vilification was utilized as justification for the treatment of those “othered” members of society like the hobo. In direct response to the spread of communism, American leaders promoted a hyper-capitalist mindset to maximize consumerism and industry expansion. This mindset left no room for the hobo, as those who could derive pleasure from the absence of consumerism and the isolation of the natural world did not make good capitalists. Those who “fulfill the calling cannot directly be related to the highest spiritual and cultural values… generally abandons the attempt to justify it at all” (Weber 1904). Hobos felt that only through the self-imposed isolation and rejection of consumerism could they be free of
social constraints and exert self-actualization. The hobos’ rejection of the system in preferring to live their life in isolation as opposed to settling down and working, as was the masculine norm of the period, could not fit into the mainstream ideology and was driven extinct.
“The relationship between management and workers should no longer be that of employers and employees belonging to two separate castes, each struggling for its ‘rights’ against the other, but a functional relationship in which all elements within the sphere of production combined to produce the maximum for a common purpose. If this great vision of a new type of society being forged by the war were to become the vision of all concerned it would really be true ‘that neither property nor vested interest of any kind shall be permitted to obstruct the prosecution of this war to our final victory” (Murphey 1904)
Instead of transitioning away from the heightened economic power gained during WWII, America doubled down on capitalism to combat the spread of communism. To this end, 1950s America required a steady supply of bodies to grind labor out of for the course of their lives. In this quote from economist J.T. Murphey, a socialist-based system is proposed in which the hobo way of life could have been preserved if the needs of the individual were met. However, power gained is power seldom parted with, and the Cold War tension between ideologies made each desperate to prove that theirs was superior. Tragically for America, this meant the death of the hobo, one of the quintessential ways of life born from the creation of the nation. This shift into a labor-focused way of life that rewarded workers with social standing based upon labor quantity. It is therefore no surprise that the hobo, a way of life explicitly crafted to forgo labor of any kind, was done away with.
As the need for labor increased, the urban population grew as well. The hobos' freedom was revoked yet again as they were forced into these urban environments with no hope of escape. Instead of living off the random kindness of strangers as they moved from town to town, the hobo was now forced to panhandle on the street. Instead of sleeping under the natural light of the stars and enjoying the peacefulness of nature, the hobo now slept under artificial street lamps while subjected to the cacophony of urban soundscapes. The hobos' freedoms were revoked for failure to transition into the consumerist culture of 1950s America, and this destroyed the tradition entirely. Hobos were no longer the wandering loner, but the homeless bum with a sign. Though the hobo did not change much, however, the cultural shift placed such immense restrictions that they could no longer live the life they desired free of societal influences.
The death of the hobo way of life spelled the end of an era for America. Consumerist culture had grown so immense that to deny capitalist society was to be anti-American. The natural splendor of the country was no longer accessible to everyone, denying the hobo the right to self-isolate in response to societal pressures. As these pressures increased, the hobo could no longer receive the aid necessary to maintain their desired way of life, and inevitably they were crushed under the weight of capitalism. Through the examination of Kerouac’s work, the isolation the hobo so desperately craved resulted in a quiet end to their existence as they were left by the wayside.
END