Nothingness

Nothingness

Published by Steve Farrell at Smashwords

Text Copyright © 2012 Steve Farrell

All Rights Reserved

Book Design by Gabriella Horvath

Smashwords Edition

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and locations are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

This file is licensed for private individual entertainment only. The book contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into an information retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photographic, audio recording, or otherwise) for any reason (excepting the uses permitted to the licensee by copyright law under terms of fair use) without the specific written permission of the author.

Contents

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

Part V

About The Author

Part I

—Well, who could doubt it? —answered Don Quijote.

—I could doubt it —responded Sancho Panza.

Don Quijote de la Mancha

Downtown Framingham, Massachusetts

Monday 8 March 2010

—Please, Lord —Boyd heard as he woke up on the train—, don't let me die in Framingham.

Boyd sat up and noticed a heavy man across the aisle with a shaved head and a soaking slicker. He tried to avoid eye contact.

—Next stop is Framingham —the conductor's voice blared over the speaker—. Last and final stop.

The train crept out of West Natick station, and the conductor hurried by in his dripping raincoat. Boyd pulled his camera out of the case to review the pictures he had taken over the weekend.

—I believe, I believe in my soul, this train is going to Worcester —Boyd heard as he clicked the power button of the camera and saw the images appear.

Pictures of New York City, where he had stopped on the ride back from Pennsylvania. Lower Manhattan, Fraunces Tavern. Some kid working a shell game for the tourists under an awning. His companion Gibbsy, wet and scowling at Ground Zero: he had walked his fat body up and down the streets around the site while Boyd stayed out of the rain. What’s it look like, Boyd had asked him. It’s a crime scene, Gibbsy had said portentously.

Then some shots of the 9/11 truther event in Pennsylvania. People holding signs that said TIME FOR TRUTH. Boyd scoffed. More like a waste of time.

—Excuse me.

Then a few older pictures still on the memory stick. His son Jamey dressed in his hockey gear at a tournament in January. Maureen standing next to him, her mouth stretched in an awkward grin. Teenaged Dan, in town at New Year’s, standing next to an ice sculpture looking bored with everything.

—Excuse me —Boyd's fellow passenger said insistently. Boyd was forced to look over. His neighbor's face was unshaven and wet.

—This train is going to Worcester, isn't it? —the man asked in a worried whisper.

—Um, no —Boyd said—, it stops in Framingham.

Tears welled in the man's eyes.

—I need to get to Worcester... —he muttered.

—You just have to get off and wait for the Worcester train, that's all —Boyd said in a calm voice, and stuffed his camera back in the case—. It should be along in just...

—But I believe...

—Framingham —announced the conductor's voice—. Lovely Framingham Center. End of the line.

Through the wet window Boyd could see his hometown slowing down as the train rolled toward the station; the Memorial Building loomed in the distance. Headlights of the early-morning rush hour traffic waited for the train’s inconvenient entrance.

—People die in Framingham —Boyd heard from across the aisle.

Yeah, but at least the graffiti is legible here, Boyd thought as he read MERCURIA in big black letters on the billboard next to the tracks. The weird shapes he had seen sprayed onto buildings in New York City communicated nothing.

Boyd walked in the rain through downtown, carrying his umbrella and small bag. He walked past people standing under the awning in the doorway of Gibbsy’s Salvation Army, crowded under the bus shelter in front of the parking lot, and huddled in the doorway of the Sampan Restaurant.

—Back to the Castle —Boyd whispered into the wet air as his grim apartment building came into view. He pulled two day’s mail out of the mailbox and noticed the plastic bowl on the porch was empty.

Boyd went straight to the phone as soon as he hung up his wet coat, and pushed the button next to the blinking light. He stepped out to fill the cat’s bowl as the machine announced he had four new messages.

—This is Coach Riley —said the gruff voice on the first message—. Just wanted to remind you that Jamey has a game at the Westboro rink on Sunday at 8:05 AM.

—Thanks, coach —Boyd said, and pushed the button to delete the message.

—Boyd —said the voice on the next message—, it’s Hank. Hey, I know you’re on a leave of absence and all, but the guy on the Ashland project...

—Aw, do you miss me? —Boyd asked. He deleted the message as he wiped his face with a towel—. I’ll check in today, Hank, don’t you worry.

—Mr. Geistman —began the next message, a middle-aged woman’s voice—, this is April, Dan’s probation officer. I just wanted to make sure we keep both you and Dan’s mom in the loop about the status of things.

—Uh huh —Boyd said. He looked at the balding head on his skinny body as he hung up the towel in the bathroom.

—Just because Dan’s last urine test was negative doesn’t necessarily mean we’re out of the woods —April declared—. I just want to stress that Dan is still...

—A bad, bad boy —said Boyd as he deleted the message—. His fucking urine.

—Boyd, it’s me —the final message began. Boyd sat down wearily when he heard his wife’s voice—. Could you pick up if you’re…are you there?

—Not here, Maureen —he replied.

—Well —Maureen continued—, um, Boyd, there’s a lot of water in the basement here. The back yard is completely underwater...

—Can’t do much about that, darling —he said bitterly—. That’s what you get when you buy a house next to a river.

—I really need you to…when you get back…you’ve gotta look at this basement, Boyd. Okay? Thanks.

The beep announced the end of the message. Boyd put on his wet coat again and left.

Castle Ozon

Monday 8 March

His dad’s shaving mirror magnified Dan’s face as he peered intently at the little whiskers on his neck. His fingers slowly probed the flesh of his cheek and lips.

—Hey, Dan —a voice called from the other room—, the cat’s bowl is full.

—Huh? —Dan asked, his dilated pupils staring at his reflection.

—The cat’s out there gobbling away —Casey said, the voice coming closer—. Let me use a towel, okay?

—Gobbling? —repeated Dan. The light in the bathroom seemed to flicker slightly. Better get on with this, he thought.

—What are you doing? —asked Casey, drying his curly hair with Boyd’s towel.

—My neck itches —replied Dan—. I wanna take care of it before this shit kicks in.

—Dude, I do NOT recommend you do that while you’re tripping —Casey said on his way back out to the kitchen of Boyd’s tiny apartment.

Dan sprayed foam into his palm and was amused by the PWOOSHT sound the can made.

—Pwoosht —he said.

—Hey —called Casey from the kitchen—, can we stick around here until the rain stops?

—We’re supposed to be in school, dude —Dan said, lathering his face.

Casey laughed, and opened one of Boyd’s beers.

—Plus —Dan added—, I gotta be home in a little while to get my kid brother off the bus.

—How long has your dad lived here? —Casey asked, surveying the sorry digs.

—Like a year —replied Dan, scraping his white neck carefully with the plastic razor.

—Think your folks will get divorced? —asked Casey.

Dan splashed cold water on his face and neck.

—Put some music on —he said when he lifted his head from the sink.

—Can we smoke a joint? —Casey asked—. I mean, can I, inhaler-boy?

—Just let me open the window —Dan said, patting his neck with a towel as he walked into the living room—. I don’t want the place to reek of weed.

—Good thinking.

Dan struggled with the old wooden window. Out the wet pane he could see a masonry truck parked on Grant Street right in front of the apartment building. After a couple of tugs, the rickety window finally slid up in the channel, cold air blew in, and Dan noticed the truck was gone.

Casey was kneeling in front of Boyd’s little TV table, placing a silver disc in the tray of the DVD player; the case lying on the floor bore a picture of two naked women embracing. Dan looked over and saw that one of the bureau drawers was open.

—Dude —Dan said—, did you just...

—It’s how I get when I’m tripping —Casey explained as he hopped onto Boyd’s recliner with the remote in his hand—. Your dad doesn’t have much selection, but I can work with it.

—Glad we could accommodate you —Dan said with a sneer.

—What’s the matter with you? —Casey asked, intent on clicking through the menu to the feature—.You haven’t had any in so long you should just enjoy it.

—I haven’t had any? —Dan hollered, feeling the first shudders of the trip—. You should talk.

—I’m working on it —Casey said in protest—. Hey, take a look.

Dan looked over toward Casey, seated in the old recliner in front of the TV. He heard the hiss of passing cars in the rainy street as Casey rolled up his sleeve and showed Dan a Mercury symbol drawn in black marker on his forearm: a little stick figure with horns.

—Aw, not you too —Dan said. He closed the drawer and walked over to the couch—. You’d better watch out, dude.

—I think she’s into me —Casey said as he admired his makeshift tattoo—. I bet I could get with her and shit.

The DVD started playing as Dan lay on the tiny couch.

—I dunno —Dan said—, dope girl and all, but her boyfriend is nuts.

—Francisco’s her ex-boyfriend now —Casey said, clicking through to the action with the remote. A pale, thin blonde appeared on the screen. She was naked except for white fishnet stockings and high heels.

—Ex-boyfriend —said Dan in a mocking tone—. Is that why he’s got her name spray painted all over town?

Casey giggled as the hand-held camera followed the girl through a sunlit room.

—Right —Casey said—. Francisco’s gang broke into the freight yard last weekend and tagged like a hundred cars. Her brother’s gonna kill him.

—Dude. I wouldn’t want Gustavo after me either —Dan said as Casey fast-forwarded the movie. Suddenly the blonde was walking quickly around the room, and Casey giggled again.

Dan shut his eyes. He could feel the rush now. He thought of Nicole out on Pelham Island, his girlfriend far away. All this trouble and misery and rain, and she wasn’t here to make him feel better.

He could hear the movie now, the girl and two guys grunting and moaning. It was a relief that his dad wasn’t into anything weird as far as porn goes, considering the tense discussion Maureen had had with Dan and Jamey after Boyd moved out. We’re not seeing things the same, Maureen had said. Sex things? Jamey had asked. Maureen turned beet red and walked upstairs, and never mentioned the incident again.

Sex things. All of a sudden the porn bugged him. Why would they take a girl that pink and pretty and make her look so ugly? The blotches and wrinkles on her body, the awkward positions. He didn’t like how long you could watch without seeing her face, it gave him a creepy decapitation vibe. The artifice started to annoy him as well: the sunny room far away from rainy Massachusetts, the action taking place maybe even years ago, the weird editing, it was all getting in the way of the experience. Did the director expect him to believe this was really happening? When a drop of something hit the lens, it was too much for Dan. Too many lenses.

—I need some music on —he said, as he got up and walked over to Boyd’s CD collection.

—Dude! —Casey shouted—. Play some electronic noise!

—Huh? —he asked. Dan couldn’t focus on the titles very well.

—If you play white noise really loud, you get off. I read it somewhere.

—We’re already tripping —Dan pointed out—. I just gave you a joint to smoke. And you’re drinking my dad’s beer.

Casey was still transfixed by the movie.

—Yeah? —he asked.

Suddenly they both burst out laughing. They started out roaring, then the laughs got more and more sibilant as the boys lost their breath. Dan collapsed onto his knees, holding his stomach in spasms of hilarity. At one point all they could hear was the grunts of the actors from the TV and, through the window, the sound of a train coming into downtown.

Dan finally stood up and wiped his eyes, still giggling. He grabbed a familiar CD and placed it in Boyd’s stereo.

—Um, okay. This is Xenakis —he said.

—Zen who? —asked Casey.

—Xenakis. The Legend of Er. It’s about this guy who sails his boat down the river to the underworld.

—Is it electronic music?

—Everything is electronic music, basically. You’ve got a digital recording of sounds generated in a studio or picked up through a microphone. The...

—Yeah yeah. Play it really loud. Your dad has such a huge stereo, why doesn’t he have a better TV? Is he like a DJ or something?

—He’s an electrical engineer. He used to be in a band.

—What band?

—You wouldn’t...

—What’s that sound?

The ringing tones had started, the shooting stars at the beginning of the piece. It sounded like bells ringing, except without the bells.

—It gets kinda weird —Dan said—. Mute the movie, okay?

The gurgling and grunting stopped, leaving nothing but the shallow oscillating tones of the music. For minutes on end the tones rang and receded from one channel and then the next, like waves on a digital shore. The music was so loud that Dan heard glasses rattle in the cabinets in the kitchen.

—Awesome —Casey whispered after lighting the joint.

It may have been Dan’s heightened awareness, but the tones gradually seemed to achieve depth, and the electronic echo made him feel as if he were listening down into the river of noise. The drug-induced synaesthesia had him seeing the flow of sound as it swelled in front of him. The progress of the music was accompanied by quick rhythmic effects, acoustic ostinati which gradually increased in volume until Dan realized someone was knocking at Boyd’s door.

—Shit! —said Casey.

—Don’t worry —Dan said—, I can get through the music.

Dan walked quickly through the thick noise, considering an algorithm that would describe the change in the trajectory of each vibration as he walked past surfaces that launched the oscillating tones toward him from ever-changing angles. He thought about writing out the equations now that he was up and in the kitchen, until the knocking at the door reminded him why he had gotten up off the couch.

—Dan! But what if...

—I’ll put it on paper later, Casey —said Dan as he opened the door. Outside in the hallway was one of the Brazilians from upstairs, scowling ferociously.

—Hey, come on —she said, her little brown hands fluttering around her head—. The noise, okay?

—Okay, okay —Dan insisted—, I know the rate I’m walking, so the derivative of the equation, um…

—Hey —repeated the girl. Her scowl softened as she sniffed the air—, you guys getting high?

Dan stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him.

—High? Naw. why, you wanna joint?

The Brazilian girl smiled, and beckoned Dan to follow her upstairs. He walked up the stairs behind her, hoping to get a glimpse of what was under the long t-shirt that seemed to be all she was wearing.

Her apartment smelled like strong coffee. Dan could feel the vibrations of the music from Boyd’s place below, and he marveled at how poorly insulated the floors were. He thought, if you could calculate the rate at which heat...

—You okay? —the girl asked—. You look worried.

She and Dan sat on the couch under a green and yellow banner that read ORDEM E PROGRESSO. Dan took the pot and papers out of his pocket.

—I’m Dan —he said as he started breaking up the pot to roll a joint.

—I’m Fazinha —she replied. She flashed a sweet, young smile—. You should be in school?

Dan chuckled. Fazinha leaned back on the couch and stretched. Dan was trying to fill a folded paper with weed, but was distracted by Fazinha sitting beside him, her bare feet up on the coffee table. The music downstairs sounded like loud whistles.

He glanced over at her naked legs while he licked the joint to seal it. She was staring at him with a sly grin, and nudged him with one of her feet.

—Maybe you give me more than one joint? —she asked.

Dan shuddered. He might not have been a big-time dealer, but he felt insulted that this girl thought she could get free drugs just by flirting with him. I'm not just some horny teenager, Dan thought as he sucked on Fazinha’s tongue and caressed her body.

Dan realized he was sweating. She keeps the heat up high here, he thought while he kissed Fazinha’s neck and fondled her breast through the t-shirt. Or maybe the heat rose from Boyd’s flat at a rate, let’s see...

—A que se passa abaixo-la? —he heard Fazinha say.

Yeah, what was happening down there? The music sounded like screeching brakes, a kind of whine. It was difficult to explain. How do you describe things like electroacoustic music in Portuguese? Obviously Fazinha thought something was wrong.

Dan quickly descended the stairs as Fazinha stood in her doorway. The light in the downstairs hallway was out, so he felt like he was sinking into liquid as he ran down into the dark noise. From Boyd’s door came that strange whine Dan didn’t remember in the Xenakis piece. He thought he saw twinkles in the dark stairwell, like luminous plankton in the water that seethed around him, but it was just dust that his heavy steps had kicked up from the dirty stair carpet. He opened Boyd’s door, and hurried through.

—Casey! What...

Casey was still sitting in the chair in front of the TV, but he was writhing in pain. His mouth was wide open, emitting a high infant wail.

—Could I get a bag with that?

—Hah? —the old clerk growled.

—A bag? —Maureen pointed shyly at the black plastic bags behind the counter and raised her eyebrows.

The cashier ripped a bag from the rack, stuffed the handful of nips inside, and dropped the bag in front of Maureen.

—Thank you —said Maureen quietly and exited the store.

The antiseptic taste of vodka usually calmed Maureen’s nerves even before she felt the light numbness of inebriation. It had been a frightful day, quite frankly, and what she had in store made her crave more than what she had in the bag on the passenger’s seat beside her. But that would have to wait.

The afternoon traffic on Route 9 was as bad as usual, so Maureen sat patiently, watching the line of brake lights through the soaked windshield. Periodically she would reach into the black bag, produce a little bottle, twist off the cap, and pour the vodka into her mouth. Before she knew it, the bottles were all empty. She waited again.

The news station on Maureen’s car radio announced that the rains in Massachusetts were already approaching record levels for March. Flood warnings were in effect for the Sudbury and Assabet rivers, and there was a long list of road closures.

A short man wearing a nylon Patriots slicker sat in the corner of the coffee shop by the old Ski Market, and noticed Maureen walk in, shake her umbrella, and survey the clientele. Must be her, he thought. Not bad for one of those top-heavy middle-aged broads, kind of saggy face. Probably hot twenty years ago. Call it twenty-five.

—Nora? —he called out, not bothering to stand.

Maureen grinned as she made her way over.

—I’m sorry I’m late —she said—, um, Michael, right?

—Yeah, no problem. Nice to meet you.

His picture on the site must have been fairly old, Maureen thought. Perhaps he just seemed older because of the way he was sitting, weary and hunched over a cup of coffee. Not particularly well dressed, dyed hair. Still, she tried to be positive, as her friends had advised. This was, she always said, such a fraught business. The excitement was almost always replaced by mutual disappointment, but there was something brave in hoping for the best.

—It’s Maureen, actually. Nora is just my username on the site.

—Huh. I thought Nora was your name.

—Nora Buena —Maureen explained—, it’s a Spanish phrase. En hora buena, it’s an idiomatic, um…

—Oh, that’s right, you’re the teacher.

—Professor, yes —Maureen tried hard to make her eyes light up—. Spanish language and literature. I’m teaching Don Quixote now. Have you ever...

—How about this weather, hah? —Michael shook his head.

—Goodness. The weather —Maureen shook her head too.

—I’m sick of the God damn rain, that’s for sure.

—Yes —she said. Maureen could feel her smile waning.

—Whole cellar’s full of water.

—Funny you should mention that —Maureen sighed.

—Jesus, not you too? Crazy, isn’t it?

—Well…

This encounter was following the consistent pattern Maureen had observed in online dating: younger men never seemed to show an interest in her for long, and the older men were all cranks. She insisted on Date Zero to keep everyone honest: meet at a coffee shop and have a friendly chat. She didn’t want to give someone false hope by allowing them to pay for an expensive meal. In spite of her efforts, there always seemed to be expectations she couldn’t fulfill.

—You got someone to take care of the cellar? —Michael asked.

—Oh, yes —replied Maureen—. My ex lives in Framingham too.

—Your ex?

—Actually, we’re not technically divorced, we’re separated. It’s a long story —Maureen said with a weak smile, looking out the window at the wet highway.

—I bet.

—Pardon? —she tried to give the impression she was playing along, in case her companion was in fact jesting. Most times Maureen found it hard to tell.

—Nothing, I didn’t mean anything —Michael said.

—Oh —Maureen said slyly—, you’re making fun of me, aren’t you?

—No no no —Michael said, after finishing his coffee—. I’m just listening. So, violence, cheating, what?

—I’m going to get a coffee —Maureen said quickly—. Can I get you something while I’m up there?

Standing at the counter waiting for her latte, Maureen pulled a stack of napkins out of the dispenser and pondered the situation. It wasn’t always obvious when a date had potential, but it was always painfully clear when he didn’t. She had been in the Michael seat, as it were, plenty of times, and she was too polite to just walk out or make a scene. She realized it was nice to have conversation that wasn’t about work or the kids’ situations, but she was afraid to