Zen and the Art of Killing Your Self

1How to Mix a Murder

Suicide? Ellie’s voice hit him like a defibrillator.

Murder! Zen blurted, spasming and knocking over the cherry soda sitting next to him. A sticky red mess bled out onto his kitchen counter.

Sorry, Ellie said, I didn’t mean to startle you. Here, let me help. She really knew her way around a paper towel. She was a blur, moving so fast he could hardly see what was happening. It was only seconds before she was kicking the foot lever and tossing the saturated wad into the trashcan. Spic and span, she said with a smile. Satisfied with the job done, she slid alongside him at the counter.

She was close enough now that he could feel the gravity coming off of her. He did his best to keep from falling in. She was so alive. She was lightning walking. She crackled with energy. He had never met anyone with such a quick, biting wit, nor with such an honest tongue that could surely shred a person so quickly or so completely. She … didn’t belong here.

Belonging.

What did it mean to belong to someone? Zen only seemed to be interested in things that didn’t belong. For instance, he always bought the can of soup that was facing the wrong way. As a kid he picked out the weird-looking puppy with the crooked tail and catlike ears. That dog used to stand in the doorway of the living room, watching and waiting for the right moment to come bounding into the room—trumpets blaring, he imagined—to triumphantly place her face on his lap, while an announcer blurted over a stadium PA: Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Pepper’s FACE! Rub it! Ruuuub it!

His group of friends only seemed to belong together because they didn’t belong anywhere else. Erica was a boot—Zen’s word for a petite woman who wore leather, rode a motorcycle, and loved to knit and bake. Dart, from what Zen had gathered, was in America on political asylum, though from which country, he didn’t know. He liked to imagine that his friend was a former KGB teen operative who once was quite a looker before losing his hair early in his twenties, due either to the stress of the international spy business or Russian shampoo.

Even among this group, Ellie didn’t belong, which was the only reason Zen could figure that she did. The others were misfits, but she … she was a transcendent being. When he thought of her, he wondered if God sometimes sent angels to Earth as sleeper agents to live among His people, just waiting to accomplish some task only He could know or understand.

She could be one of them.

Maybe that was why she intimidated him so. What are you doing? he asked.

Show me how to make a murder, she said.

Normally when he felt the need to protest he would face a person directly, but couldn’t bring himself to do so now. He tried to stare out the kitchen window. Maybe if it looked like he didn’t notice her she’d go away. It was no use. All he could see was his reflection standing next to hers, set off like ghosts against the black nothingness outside. He had to say something. Aren’t you going to, you know…?

Why should I? her reflection said.

"Because, you touched the paper towels that touched the soda that touched the countertop, meaning that you touched the countertop, and I don’t trust my countertop to be free from staph and salmonella. Then, when you threw said paper towel into the bin, particulate trash molecules could have flown out, permeated the air, and engulfed your hands. Your hands, being covered with sugary soda—which is a perfect, and sticky, breeding ground for bacteria— could now be instruments of death! He got so worked up that he forgot himself, unwittingly catching her eyes. They stared at him, studying his face, burning into him. They were the most penetrating shade of electric blue, with irises that seemed to constantly change like a silent storm gathering in the moonlight of midnight. He was sure she could see past the facades (fa-KADES" as he liked to pronounce it, just to irritate her) that people put on for others, and cut them away with surgical precision.

"You question my hygiene? she said, placing a hand on a hip. I’ll have you know that I wash my hands so often that on my days off I have to slather them with ointment and wrap them with gauze. She paused, waiting for his reaction. He gave her none. But if it makes you happy…"

It’ll make me slightly less unhappy, he said, smiling as he watched the bubbles lather up her skin.

She dried her hands on one of the towels hanging neatly from the oven handle. Now, what can I do to help?

Want to make the salad?

Ellie nodded and flung the refrigerator door open. Did you get the baby spinach?

He crossed his arms and leaned back against the countertop. Of course—and the berries, dressing, and the crispy kale croutons. You can set up here next to my drink stand.

I know, you silly thing, she said, carefully balancing all of the ingredients.

He didn’t know if silly thing was a desirable appellation or not. Was it a term of endearment or a euphemism for you poor— adorable—little idiot?

Look at this, he said. When he had her attention, he plopped three cubes of ice into his glass one by one. His ploy served one purpose per cube: keeping her at arm’s length, keeping his drink cold, and giving him something to complain about. Watch what happens when I try to take a drink. He tilted back his glass. A piece of ice bumped against his upper lip, but no liquid flowed past it. See that? I got nothing. How do they have the temerity to call these things ice cubes?

Hmm, she said in her characteristic way. I see your point. They’re clearly not cubical, or cubic, or even vaguely cube-like. Do you have a big bowl I can use?

He grabbed the wok from the pantry. Here, he said, you can use this.

It’s unconventional, she said, but it’ll wok.

Her pun slipped right past him, focused as he was on his rant. They should call these damned things ice half moons, or ice dams, because that’s what they are. The round part perfectly conforms to the curvature of the glass, effectively sealing away the fizzy goodness behind it. Clearly the person who designed the modern ice maker never tried to drink an iced soda out of a highball.

Ellie tossed the blueberries into the colorful mix. I’m still waiting for the person who designed the murder to show me how to make one.

Half iced tea and half diet cola with a lemon twist.

No booze?

No booze. I don’t think booze and my personality would be so good for each other.

I see what you mean, she said with a sideways smile. So, why do you call it a murder?

Suicide was already taken.

She shook her head and let out a long sigh. Her hands folded the ingredients into the salad. They seemed to spin, toss, and chop all at once, creating a tornado in the bowl. I really worry about you sometimes, she said.

It was just an accident! he blurted as if by reflex.

The spill? she said, making her investigative-journalist face. She stopped tossing and looked deeper into him. No, couldn’t be— not for a reaction like that. There’s something else. What do you mean, ‘It was just an accident’?

You don’t know? he said, catching her piercing gaze. He really wished he hadn’t. Her stare reached right into him, entering through his penis and following the tubing up to his bladder, giving it a big squeeze. How did she do that?

She shook her head. Know what?

Nothing. Maybe it’s better that way.

She opened her mouth to speak.

He needed to avoid her cross examination; he was in enough discomfort already. Um, I have to… he said, nodding toward the bathroom.

Again?

I have a … medical issue.

Ooh, do tell. Her eyes grew to twice their normal size. She looked like a Japanese anime character. I just finished my urology rotation. Maybe I can help.

Zen stood in an exam room wearing a look-at-my-ass gown. The light flickered above the poster detailing the cause and treatment of erectile dysfunction. He didn’t want to stare but couldn’t look away. Of course, he thought, broccoli solves everything doesn’t it? A breeze rushed up his legs. He felt his balls retreat from the cool and then relax from a gentle warmth. Instinctively, his eyes drew down to find his gown fanned out like a teepee. Something under there stirred—something big.

Your testicles look good, Mr. Conlen.

That voice.

The doctor’s head popped out from under his gown like a photographer from under an old-time camera’s hood—Ellie wearing magnifying goggles, chewing a cigar, and rolling his testicles in her hands like meditation balls. Now, why don’t you turn around and let’s have a look at that prostate. She wiggled her fingers, then pulled her latex glove taut and snapped it against her wrist.

Zen sprinted the three steps from the kitchen to the bathroom across the hall. As was his custom, he locked the door, washed his hands, and dried them on his personal towel. He always kept one stashed away where none of his guests could find it. His foot raised the seat while his hand ripped open his button fly—the fastest fly in any kind of emergency—bathroom or bedroom—and opened negotiations.

Come on, damn you! he whisper-yelled at his penis. His bladder was sending out messages that it was ready to start pumping, but the engineering staff working the nozzle at the other end of the pipeline had issued a work stop until they had positive evidence Ellie had left the kitchen.

He stood in silence, listening for the telltale sign of footsteps exiting, but only heard her mixing herself a murder. He gazed into the bowl. A tiny poo fragment stared back at him from where it was stuck to the porcelain. It was revolting, but he dared not let it out of his sight.

Kill me, he heard the poo fragment say. I want to die. Don’t make me have to live like this.

Poo fragments can’t be trusted, he thought. They’re cunning little bastards. Wait, are they cunning or are they wily? Wily … that sounds better. The wily little fucker could jump right out of there. I turn my back and it’s on me in a nanosecond—somewhere I can’t see, hiding under my armpit. Then it turns rancid. Can poo turn rancid? Yeah, sure, why not?

Minutes passed.

I wonder if Hell is like this. No, there’s no water in Hell. There’s just poo and nothing to clean it off with. It shouldn’t take this long to pee—my bladder is so full it hurts! Is time moving more slowly for me right now than for Ellie? And just like that, whatever progress his sphincter had made toward opening was nullified by the invocation of her name. Ellie … Damn. Look at this shit. Who did this? You flush, you check. If there are remnants, you flush again and check again. Who doesn’t know about the flush and check? What am I going to do? I have to flush. I could get an infection if my stream hits that thing.

That’s ridiculous, he counter-thought, the urine would be going the other way … but what if poo fragments are like salmon? Suppose viruses and bacteria can swim upstream, then what? How can we know for certain? We can’t see them. Let’s face it, either way they outnumber us a billion to one. It’s their world! As soon as they realize that… I have to flush!

But I can’t—she’s still out there.

It was a valid concern. What if Ellie heard him flush, then pee, then flush again? Never mind that she’d already heard him wash up before pulling out what he sometimes referred to as his eleventh finger. It was a finger that could just as easily say, I’m useful and adorable as it could, Fuck you.

He waited.

No amount of shaking, pulling, or stroking was working. Neither was the pleading with forces within him, yet beyond his control. He began working on his cover story in case anyone questioned the goings on, of which there were none, in the bathroom while he was gone. I’ll say I had to poo. But what if someone comes in right after me and it doesn’t smell? Maybe I could try to fart before I leave? Yeah, right, if I can’t pee on cue, how am I going to squeeze out one of those? Suppose my shit doesn’t stink. No, only a woman can pull that off—and clearly I’m not a woman.

He listened. Instead of hearing Ellie’s footsteps leave the kitchen, he heard another set walk in. Great, that’s just what I need, two people scrutinizing my urinary habits.

By the sound of the gait, the footsteps belonged to Dart. What’s going on in here? he said. Are you guys coming back to the game? Erica’s already got out her crochet thingies and you know how she gets when she starts going at it with those.

Say no more, Ellie said. A nice salad ought to keep her occupied. Grab some bowls and forks. I’ll take the wok.

In the bathroom, a little squirt shot out then abruptly stopped. Ouch! Damn that hurts! Finally, Ellie and Dart left the kitchen. Zen could finally get on with the business at hand. It felt good to let it all go. It was the best feeling an eleventh finger could ever have—apart from admiring a beautiful … naked … female … body …

Farah.

That poster. That smile. Those long, curly, golden locks. That red swimsuit, with … one nipple, straining to break free of the fabric—to be seen—to rise to its rightful position of prominence as a seminal figure in human history.

No! Dammit! Number Eleven was not authorized to give a thumbs up during a sustained urination. A thumbs up now would sever the stream, cutting off the downward flow in anticipation of an eventual upward-flow occurrence. If only Number Eleven would listen to reason. Zen closed his eyes and searched his mind for an Anti-Farah thought. What he found filled him with disgust. His eyes burst open at the mental image of his computer-store customer, known to him only as Halitosis Man.

Can you type on this computer? Halitosis Man leaned close to ask.

The very thought of it made Zen cough. He could smell the excrement on the man’s breath even here in the privacy of his own bathroom. He pulled his shirt up over his nose with his free hand, turning it into a makeshift gas mask as if doing so could really filter the foul odor’s memory. He’d spent a lot of time wondering how a person’s breath could be steeped so deeply in excrement as Halitosis Man’s. At first Zen could only imagine that the man ate his own shit, but then he noticed that occasionally other customers expelled the same brown breath from their mouths as well. Then he observed something else: they all looked like they’d had plastic surgery. They had plump, deformed, monster lips; their eyes frozen in constant surprise; and they never, ever smiled. The only explanation that made any sense was that they’d all had their rectums rerouted back to their throats so their food could exit through the same hole it had entered.

Of course, he thought-told the man. Typing is what the keyboard is there for.

How do I know that’s what it’s there for? Halitosis Man breathed in Zen’s face.

Even though he’d only imagined the conversation, Zen nearly toppled over as Halitosis Man’s exhalation engulfed him like a death cloud. In its midst Number Eleven went flaccid. The stream once again began to flow until it peacefully died and was buried with a quick flush. Zen saluted the golden bladder juice as it swirled in the bowl. In a moment it was gone, leaving him with an odd sense of personal loss.

He washed his hands again and checked his face in the mirror. His skin seemed unusually green. Surely it was just a trick of the light—or maybe Halitosis Man’s breath had poisoned him. No, that was impossible. Their exchange had taken place entirely in Zen’s head. Besides, it had been weeks since he’d seen that guy in the store. There was only one problem with that idea: his face was too green to be a result of the vanity light, which looked quite yellow to his eye. He didn’t know how Halitosis Man had done it, but this had to be his handiwork. Zen hated the thought of spending the rest of the evening unmoisturized, but he had to wash Halitosis Man’s poison breath off of his face. He scrubbed for precisely thirty-three seconds and then dried his face with his private towel, which he returned to its secret place behind the extra rolls of toilet paper in the cabinet where no once would find it.

Soon he was sliding back into his chair at the end of the dining room table. The game board was exactly as he’d left it, but now there was also a colorful salad laid out before him. It was still early in tonight’s game of Scrabblabble, a modification of the popular word game, using two game boards and an altered set of rules.

Who takes fifteen minutes to pee? Dart said in his vaguely European accent. One hand slipped out of the shadows at the edge of the table and into the light. He grabbed a handful of chips and crumbled them over his salad. Or is there… something you’re not telling us?

Why don’t you tell me something, Zen retorted. What kind of person puts potato chips in his salad?

Dart leaned fully into the light. He stared at Zen from one corner of his face. "You left me no choice. There were no— croutons."

I didn’t have a coupon for croutons.

Yes, I see it now. You ran of toilet paper, didn’t you?

Try as he might, Zen didn’t see how the question was relevant.

Dart smiled wisely. It’s plain to see. It’s not science rockets. You ran out of toilet paper so you had to poop on your crouton coupons!

Everyone at the table burst into laughter except Ellie. He has a medical condition. Her glare bore into Dart, deflating his confidence.

Dart retreated back into the shadows. Sorry.

Some seconds passed before Zen broke the nervous silence. It’s called…

Ha! Ellie shouted. I totally got you, Mr. Science Rockets!

Laughter erupted again. Dart’s body relaxed, happy to be free from Ellie’s hold. That’s what it’s called, isn’t it? Science rockets?

Without looking up from her knitting, Erica corrected him. Rocket science.

It’s called what? Dart asked, looking at Zen.

Zen felt compelled to answer now, but could he trust his friends with the truth? What choice did he really have? EINB, he said at last.

What’s that, a NASA thing?

My condition.

Never heard of it, Dart said. Have you, Ellie?

Me neither, but I’m only a second-year.

Zen sat back with arms crossed. I’m told it’s very rare. So rare that I couldn’t even find anything about it on the Internet. There was nothing about EINB on the web because it didn’t exist. It was a self-diagnosis, an acronym for Ellie-Induced Nervous Bladder. It only affected him when he was near her—so it was a problem every week at game night, but he couldn’t tell them that. They wouldn’t understand. Dart would say his nervousness was because Zen had sucked his thumb until he was eleven. Erica would say it stemmed from a fear of strong women. Ellie … She’d turn those eyes of hers on him, staring into his soul, dissecting him.

A tumbleweed crossed the street, but there was no wind. The air was still, seemingly devoid of oxygen. Two figures came into view. On one side, a large creature was lumbering through the street. It was dressed in a long red coat adorned with ornate gold piping, buttons, and tails. It had long, curly hair flowing from underneath its hat—or was it a billboard, or a TV? Whatever it was, it obscured the creature’s face. Images of happy, beautiful faces flashed across it while a recorded voice repeated random witticisms. Can’t buy me love, but you can drive my car. Money changes everything— except diapers. Happiness is a warm gun with butter and honey drizzled on top. What’s mine is yours. Take my wife. Take me. Why not take all of me? Was it something I said? Take this. The creature’s boots clanked with each deliberate step. Gold coins fell from its clothing, sprouting weeds in the dust.

At the other end of the street was a small waif of a girl with black hair in a pixie cut. She stood at the ready—poised for an attack. She held no weapon.

The creature approached but stopped when the girl would not move. Its screen-face-facade ran through the positive images, slowly at first, looking for one that would gain some traction with her.

She was unmoved.

The creature advanced slides ever more rapidly as its recorded voice began to jumble the witticisms. Happiness is the root of all butter. A warm gun pats a baby’s ass. What’s yours is mine. What mime are you? Gold coins spewed from under the creature’s coat, creating a wild patch of weeds that grew thicker and higher. Soon the sound of its voice was muted by the overgrowth that threatened to consume it.

The girl remained silent, refusing to react.

The creature went into overdrive. Heat began to wither the weeds. Without positive or negative reinforcement, it was on a path to self-destruction.

The girl’s hair floated, as if pulled upward by static charge. The sky darkened and all the oxygen gathered into the space around her. She rose from the ground, her face glowing as she looked into the sky. Just above the overgrowth, she stopped and looked down at the creature. Blue beams shot like knives from her eyes, excising the creature’s affectations, freeing the naked soul underneath—Zen.

Utterly exposed.

You OK? It was Ellie’s concerned voice.

He hadn’t realized he’d slipped away. Um, yeah, he said with a slight smile. My doctor says there’s nothing wrong with me, but my shrink says I’m penile retentive.

The room filled with a surround sound of groaning.

"It’s a rare man who can use shrink, penile, and retentive in the same sentence," Dart said, shaking his head.

Erica, focused on her her knitting, passed her judgement. That was one of your worst ever, she declared.

Zen reached for his glass and held it close to his heart like a shield. What do you mean? Everyone always tells me to keep my dick in my puns.

Without even blinking, Erica threw her knitting at him, needles and all. It landed on his head, sitting there like a spider had shat on his hair. Pants! she said, laughing. Keep it in your pants.

Zen brushed a strand of yarn out of his eyes and then smiled as he looked over the top of his glass, swirling the murder around like it was a fine cognac. You know, I’m breaking in a new pair tomorrow.

Of dicks? Dart asked.

Zen tipped his head back to take a sip of his murder while he waited for the mocking laughter to die down. Pants! I’m shrinking a new pair.

Ellie leaned forward, reaching for the bowl of mixed nuts. How and/or why would you want to shrink your pants?

They’re shrink-to-fits, he said to puzzled faces around the table. The Holy Grail of jeans. I’m going to take a shower in them. Well, I mean I’ll wash up … you know … down there before I put them on. A sinister joy lit his expression. I’m going to drown them.

So, it’s to be murder, Ellie said.

It’s what they were made for. This is their one mission in life.

To die? Erica said. Their mission sounds like suicide to me.

Zen tipped the knitting off his head and whistled as it plunged to the ground.

Ellie’s brow pinched into a crease. Just as long as you don’t drown yourself.

Erica scowled and Zen turned around to pick up her knitting. I’d like to, he muttered under his breath.

I’m sorry, did you just say what I thought you said? Dart asked .

Zen passed him the tangle of yarn. My Self, he said. I’d like to rid myself of it.

What’s that supposed to mean? Ellie asked.

He grabbed a handful of cashews from the bowl. I like me a nice cashew, he said. Whose turn is it, anyway?

Ellie shook her head. Who do you think?

Me? All this time I’ve been secretly harboring resentment toward Erica for holding us up and it was me? Here, this should do it. He placed tiles on the board to spell idiot, connecting to the T on the end of fret. Thirteen points.

Fifteen, Dart said. You’d think an astrophysics major could count his score.

One, two, seven— Zen went over it again. Fifteen, just like I said.

Dart shook his head as he recorded the score. You are truly hopeless.

I hope not, Zen said. I still have hope for my Self, though I don’t know why.

I thought you said you wanted to rid yourself of your Self, Ellie said. Now you’re saying you have hope for it? To be what? What are you talking about? Which is it?

I don’t know. All I know is that I’m impossible to live with. I know this because I have to live with my Self most of the time. Do you have any idea what that’s like?

Yes, Dart said in his dry way. It must be hell.

Seven points, Ellie chimed in, diverting everyone’s attention back to the board.

yoid?