There’s something about early afternoon light that always makes one feel shameful and slightly panicky. It’s a setting created by the universe with the sole purpose to illuminate tableaux of remorseful self-loathing.
Little does the newly-awakened semi-functional brain care that its owner is too much of a no-hoper to have any obligations to tend to before noon. Or that the late bed-, and consequently wake up-, times were caused by a lengthy emergency self defense training session, rather than by an alcohol and TV streaming binge.
Having thanked my past self for filling the cats’ food bowls before going to bed, I drag my present self out of bed to provide my future self with the strongest coffee feasible within the limitations posed by my kitchen’s inventory.
Said limitations narrow all possible interpretations of the concept to ‘triple the grounds and cut down on the hot water.’ No matter how fancy the machine, there’s only so much it can do without a proper blend.
A thick canopy of brutal fumes emanates from the dark concoction. The resulting miasma is pretty much what you’d get if you gave Lucifer a moka pot for his birthday and gathered up the rest of the Fallen for a celebratory cup of joe in your broom closet.
Luckily, I’m too broke to afford delicate taste buds. I even chase the potion down with a handful of crunch-deprived tortilla chips from yesterday’s open bag. Not so much out of hunger but rather to line my stomach against the onslaught of the pungent heart-attack-in-a-mug.
The chips taste like old wool. I don’t care. I remain firm in my conviction that sealing clips are for soccer moms and anal condo-dwelling programmers named Carl. Or Ike. Ikes have always struck me as avid fans of everything plastic, pocket-sized and life-hacky one can feel smug about using around the kitchen. Maybe that’s why they call the source of all such fiddly trinkets ‘IKEA’ in the first place.
Fuck you, random guy named Ike.
I gulp down the coffee as fast as its temperature allows. Delicate taste buds or not, this is not a flavor to be savored. Once caffeinated I proceed to brush my teeth and wash the night drool and pillow folds off of my face. I keep switching between alternating torrents of ice cold and blistering-hot water, to shock away the unnerving palpitations in my chest. The third scoop of coffee blend may have been an ill-advised move on my part.
To about the same degree that invading Russia in winter is ill-advised.
So be it. When you have an anti-goblin ammunition gathering quest scheduled before lunch and a babysitting-exorcism combo shitapalooza in the evening, you may as well start the day by having your brain nuked.
I pull an oversized hoodie over my pajama t-shirt, not even bothering with a sports bra. There’s something to be said for both cold weather and chest-flatness, after all.
It’s brighter than yesterday, so I expect no frost bite. I am bitterly reminded that expectations are for corporate managers and idiots, and I’m barely fit to manage my daily meals. I cover my head and reddening ears with my hood, pulling it all the way down to the tips of my sunglasses. It feels like one of these days when the less you see - the better.
I’m not sure where the best place to look for goblin distraction mechanisms would be nowadays. There aren’t any businesses specializing in toys, crafts or school supplies in the area that either I or Google happen to know of. I do, however, tend to run into piles of sharpies and puzzle books whenever I browse the local Target for body lotion and paper towels. Which I use separately and only for legitimate, family-friendly activities of the strictly non-deviant kind.
Another quick check around the internet confirms that it is, indeed, where most procreationally inclined individuals go to unburden themselves of their life-savings, human dignity and parental guilt. The other option is Best Buy, but that would be a good twenty minutes away by bus and a whole lot of headache for a peeing baby doll and a handful of Frozen coloring books. Target, on the other hand, is less than ten blocks away and almost as cost effective.
I pointedly bypass the stacks of brightly colored plastic miscreants marketed as the year’s “most popular.” Follow me as they might with their nightmare anime eyes, I refuse to be hypnotized by the freaks’ pastel rainbow manes and opulent rhinestones. No amount of glitter can make up for the dolls’ warped proportions, special-ed names and lubelessly sodomizing price tags.
Joy does not strike me as the type of kid sociable enough to either grasp or appreciate the concept of fashionability. And I’ll be damned if I contribute to ruining the one thing I like about her. Which is a nicer way to say I’m not blowing a hundred bucks on a couple of miserly pocket-sized psychedelic horrors no benevolent God would have suffered to exist in the first place. After all, I was promised change for milk. I’m nobody’s dying millionaire grandmother, for fuck’s sake.
So instead of Y.O.L.O Candyfucklings and Awsome Bossom Poopie Hoes I start piling up on magic markers and playdough (because fuck carpets that aren’t mine), a window art kit (because ditto goes for windows I’ll never be asked to clean) and two different bead jewelry kits. I’m as scrupulous in checking price tags as I am lenient with the age warnings. It should go without saying that aforementioned carpet and window rule applies dubbly to children’s stomachs and respiratory tracts.
It’s not like you can well support a possession if you’re no longer breathing, can you? Damn, I should have suggested it to Devin in the first place!
I take out my cell-phone and dial as fast as my jittery enthusiasm allows. I barely manage to catch the end of the first ring.
“No,” he greets me from across the line.
“But it’s so much easier than…”
“And where do you think the spirit will go once the body is dead? They don’t just materialize and dematerialize spontaneously, you know. Principle of Conservation of Manes, if you like. You know what else disembodied Manes tend to do? They aspire to embody. And it will aim for one of the two bodies still breathing in the room. Does that sound like a good solution to you? Didn’t think so. Now go get some crayons. Crayons are important. And stickers, too. Something sparkly.”
“One last question before I tell you to go fuck yourself…”
“Excitement makes your signal ten times stronger. Add in the instinctive tuning in on me as the recipient of the transmission, and voila! You’ve got my range boosted all the way to about a mile in each direction. Plus, I’m pretty sure pushing Mr. Cooper over the phone has opened up some new para-chakras in my own perception. I’m reading you through the phone with hardly any disturbances now. It’s actually pretty awesome.”
Good. That means I don’t need to feel bad about abruptly hanging up. Let him read my farewells with his newly opened chakras.
I grab a pack of crayons from the clearance section and about eight dollars’ worth of unicorn stickers. The sparkly kind- so the Coopers know I mean business. Nothing says “wholesome, law-abiding, non-exorcism-performing goody-two shoes” like glittery unicorns.
Taken over by a sudden burst of generosity, I stop in front of the trinket display by the checkouts. So what if the impulse-buy stand is but a guileful trap of flashy wares? Though designed to capture nerve-wracked spawners - bullying them into spending another fiver to assuage their shrieking brood - its allure is just as captivating for the childfree.
Before I know it, my hand closes around some sort of a semi-transparent plastic egg with a random My Little Pony figure inside. Whatever, why not. It’s colorful. Plus it takes time to open, thus keeping the receiver busy for a whole minute. And it’s only two dollars apiece, tax and all.
Having dropped the pony egg in my basket, I hasten my pace towards the next available cash register. Just in case my hand decides to grab anything else merely because my eyes find it shiny and my brain finds it cheap.
I escape the store with a remainder of just about twenty dollars in change. It gets me a quart of milk plus enough left to splurge on two Salisbury steak frozen dinners and cup noodles for the rest of the week. That’s what I call a job with health benefits.
Now it’s all just a lazy waiting game, a leisurely countdown till show time. At home, I pop one of the frozen dinners into the microwave. As I place the second pack in my otherwise empty freezer, I try not to wonder whether I’ll ever get to eat it.
While the microwave turns the frozen gravy and twin bricklike lumps of ground beef and mashed potatoes into a volcanic steam trap, I try to recall something from yesterday’s lessons. The data is there, but it keeps failing to load properly. The rock is either pixelated or unfocused. When I do get to zoom in on it, the image starts blinking in and out of view. By the time I manage to form a somewhat passable granitoid construction of sorts, Devin calls to tell me I’m giving him a headache.
“You’re overstraining your brain and overwhelming mine. Pointlessly so. You can’t practice defence mechanisms with nothing to defend yourself against. So chill. You did well last night. Pushing yourself any further at this point will not only be inefficient, it will leave you drained. Which is not an advisable condition to be in when performing, or even assisting in an exorcism. So do me a favor, go eat your nasty pile of processed pseudo-nutrients, watch some cartoons on Nickelodeon or something. I’ll come over at six sharp to go over the action plan. In the meantime, try to keep brain activity to a minimum. I’ve heard you’re pretty good at that.”
I’m about to send him off to commit further acts of unnatural copulation involving a variety of livestock species, a broken broomstick and both his grandmothers. Just as I start contemplating the mechanics of the situation and the best position for each participant to take, the asshole makes it even worse.
“It’s OK to be afraid. Hell, I am. But so long as I’m standing, I’ve got your back. I can promise you this much.”
I disperse the formulating minutiae of the intricate orgy, settling for a simple “fuck you.” There are many kinds of “fuck you,” with probably a hundred different sub-contexts between them. He knows exactly what this one means and what it costs me. He also knows well enough not to say “you’re welcome.”
I hang up with a small beep. The microwave answers with a beep of its own.
I wonder how many death row inmates have opted for a TV dinner as their last meal. Then again, one can hardly expect a bunch of crazy mass murderers to make the most reasonable choices, gastronomic or otherwise.
Sure, most go for some classic steak, lobster and greasy junk food combo. But there’s got to be that odd cold SpaghettiO guy. And I’m pretty sure I’ve heard somewhere that Aileen Wuornos requested a single cup of coffee. I don’t think she even bothered with sugar and cream.
I bet, however, none of them had their triple-cheese Baconator and chocolate-covered doughnut milkshake while rewatching ‘Die Hard’ for the umpteenth time in a buttugly threadbare zebra onesie. It’s a shame they didn’t: this way it’s much easier not to think of it as a last meal.
I would have taken a beer but I need my brain at full capacity. Even if it means peeing myself every time I try to use it for anything other than keeping my “yippee ki-yay” exclamations in sync with John McClane’s.
About half a dozen yippee ki-yays into the movie, the mince and gravy start tasting less like a pre-Pentobarbital appetizer and more like a typical cheapskate’s dinner on a plain weekday afternoon. An afternoon to be followed by many others- tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
I don’t know about other incantations, but the whole yippee ki-yay business is as real as science and as efficient as penicillin. A fierce little one-spell-panacea for equal parts bravery, hope and general kickassery. Now I have a grey rock. Ho ho ho.
The food also helps. There is a little less room left for anxiety when your stomach is full.
Devin shows up about half a minute into the closing credits. I maintain an appearance of irky indifference, pretending I can hide my gratitude from either of us.We both know the simple truth: I just can’t be alone now that the movie’s over.
“Coffee?” Having nodded our greetings, we don’t bother with further pleasantries. He knows his way from the door to the living room couch.
“A touch of milk, please. No sweetener.”
“Cold milk, or microwave steamed?” Details matter on days like this. They keep you sane. Ish.
“Steamed.” He follows me into the kitchen. I don’t mind.
He keeps talking while I pour some milk into a tall glass. I don’t mind that, either. Even though he has to yell over the ruckus of the coffee machine.
“So, as I said, you won’t be taking any active part in the ritual itself. Which is good news for you…”
“Bad news is I’m yet to be told what exactly it is that I WILL be doing,” I bang the microwave door shut with just a bit more force than intended. “And the person who does know keeps stalling. And it’s two hours till show time. And…”
“Which is exactly why I’m here. Look, there was no point in getting you all worked up too early. You’d try to practice things that can not be practiced, exhausting yourself to the point where you’re of no use to either of us. So we went over the first part of your job- holding up until I arrive- to the point where you’re decently capable. We’ll have one more rehearsal- just to remind you that you can do it. Anything further will be pure waste of energy.”
Just like arguing with him. I carefully remove the thin layer of film from the milk’s frothy surface and divide the rest of the steaming liquid between the two three-thirds-full coffee mugs.
“Now, clear your mind,” he offers in exchange for his share of ghetto latte. “Just like we did yesterday.”
We carry the mugs back into the living room, but keep them cradled in our hands as we sit down on opposite ends of the couch- him slightly on the bias, me fully facing him with both feet tucked under my thighs.
I wonder if he needs the comfort of the hot beverage as much as I do, or merely imitates my mannerisms to make me feel like less of a loser for needing it. Whatever the motive, it does help me feel a little bit better.
“We won’t be practicing all the techniques. Just go for the one that feels most natural. It’s a matter of instinct. The one you summon first is most likely the right one for you.”
Initially I reach for the blanket. Heaven knows I could use the warmth. The engulfing comfort of its cuddliness.
“You’re useless!”
Not if I pull the comforter high enough over my head. If I make the down filling thick enough and the flannel cover soft enough.
“The operative word being ‘if.’ Hasn’t your whole life been about ‘ifs’? And unlikely ones, at that. When has anyone ever given you a ‘when’? Even a ‘maybe’ would be far more credit than you deserve.”
Polka dots. There’s a polka dot pattern on the cover. Pale mint on pastel yellow. And it smells of baby powder and fabric softener.
Except the coffee fumes keep seeping through. I put the mug down, but it’s still all cheap coffee and stale snacks. And the leftover smell from dinner’s gravy. Aftershave I haven’t even noticed Devin was wearing. Dish soap from the kitchen and hand soap form the open bathroom. The cats’ sandboxes.
“Has your mother ever argued with Deidre? About your pitiful prospects, your mediocre-at-best potential, your complete lack of aspiration and ambition? I bet she wanted to. Probably would, if it weren’t for her sincerity. Oh, and if she’s ever bothered to grow a spine, of course.”
Fresh Linen. That’s the scent mom has always used. Fresh Linen Bounce sheets, with a hint of lavender from the detergent. And it’s so gentle against my face. So soft it’s almost gauzy.
“Soft. That’s the one thing that could be told about her. Barely perceptible, really. Makes you wonder if she was even there in the first place.”
Too light, goddammit. I pull the fibres together with all my might, but the damned thing just won’t hold.
“Losing again, love. Color me shocked.”
I reach into the disintegrating cloud of linen-scented dust. My fingers are going right through. The sweat on my face starts mixing with tears. I’m only marginally aware of either. I reach harder, clench my fists shut. I think I hear myself grunt. Or is it a whimper?
All hope is flushed down the drain with a violent gurgle. My fists return empty.
Except suddenly, they’re not. Not the right one, at least. There is something hard clutched there. Something cold, yet reassuring at the same time. Undeniably solid.
I extend my fingers around the rough pebble, letting it grow.
“But tell me, do you think your mama ever loved you? Are invertebrates even capable of love?”
Irrelevant. I have a rock now. You’re irrelevant. Nothing is relevant. It’s all rock. And, boy, is it grey, motherfucker.
Before I know it, it’s too big to hold in one hand. Then too big for both. Vast beyond containing, albeit just as solid.
“Or is it just you that she couldn’t love? Not that I can blame…”
His voice grows faint, a dying whisper behind the ever-spreading slaty monolith. Anything beyond its bulky visage is losing substantiality with the speed of sugar dissolving in hot tea. In fact, the very existence of any objects allegedly positioned on the other side of the batholite wall- animate, inanimate or abstract- is at this point hypothetical at best.
The world is quietude. It’s sterile, thanatoid. And, oh, so reassuring.
I resent being jerked away from my little paradise. It’s a place of completeness, of uncompromised cleanliness- as secure as it is barren. Somewhere in a parallel universe, I semi-sense my shoulder muscles flex in an effort to shrug away the nudging sensation at the edge of my consciousness.
Gentle at first, the pulling intensifies. It persistently grows in tenacity, culminating in a series of shakes so aggressive they seem to ripple all the way to my fingertips.
My living room floats into view in a slow fade-in. Once it has regained some of its former solidity, Devin’s voice materializes somewhere within its washed-out boundaries.
“Perfect!” I think I hear a loud round of applause. “You were phenomenal this time!”
When the picture re-syncs with the sound I wonder if he’s been clapping with his butt-cheeks, because his arms are wrapped around me.
I try to hate it. The tears are just embarrassment, I tell myself. Nonetheless, my arms hug him back. And my brain forms the word “friend.”
I hate mind readers.
Having wiped my eyes with the fingers of my right hand behind his back and smeared the resulting moisture into my left palm, I push him away with an air of callous practicality.
As he steps back he makes no effort to hide the excitement shining in his eyes. I don’t think anyone has ever been so proud of me. I’m pretty sure I’ve never made anyone proud, period.
Great, now he looks sad. Which makes me sad.
“OK, moment’s past, bro. Time to spill the beans. What do I do while you exorcise? It can’t be all rocking and blocking, now, can it?”
He sighs.
“That bad, huh? Come on, I know you need me as bait, this has been clear from the get go. I’m over it. Now let’s make it work. The one thing worse than being a bait is being a futile attempt to pose as one. Not to mention a dead one. You said so yourself.”
“And I meant it.” He tries so hard to sound cheerful I almost start crying again.
“Good. So how do I keep baby vamp busy while you de-demonize her?”
“It’s not a demon. Demons don’t possess people. Spirits possess…”
“Fine, de-spiritize it. Whatever. How do I do the baiting bit?”
“Actually, this is the easy part. You just stop fighting. Drop the rock, so to speak.”
Another sigh.
“OK, what is it? Is depressing me some new tactic of defence against the dark arts?”
“Just…promise me you’ll try not to die.”
Now I am crying. Not because I’m afraid of dying, though I definitely am. It’s him really seeming to care that gets my face all leaky and sticky.
“Oh come on. You’ve barely known me for a couple of days.”
“You see, usually reading minds makes it a lot harder for me to get attached to people. But you- you’re different. You’re raw and abrasive and uncharming. Unbearable, really. But you tend to grow on people.”
“No I don’t,” I rub at my eyes angrily.
“You grew on me. You’re real- I like that. I like you.”
“Well, I hate you,” I stifle a little snuffle behind the most contemptuous frown I can muster.
I’ve never really had any friends. Never really minded it, either. I guess somewhere deep inside I knew what it must feel like to realize you could lose one.
Somewhere deep inside, I was wrong. It feels worse.
“Well, so we’ll just have to not get killed, right?” I break the silence, mostly to make him stop mind-reading me refer to him as a friend.
His smile at the prospect is even more heartbreaking than his sighs.
“What happens once I stop fighting?”
“She resumes the feeding.”
Ask a silly question and you'll get a silly answer.
“Which gives you time to attack.”
“Which gives me time to get a hold of her physical body while you draw out the spirit.”
“Good. And it charges towards me. What do I do?”
“I won’t let it…”
“Got you. Lay back and think of England.”
“No. You think of the grey rock again. You need to block it the moment it’s out. Like you just did, no holding back.”
“So it’s forced to turn back on you.”
“Correct. Which is where, having safely imprisoned it within a psychic circle, I throw my banishing curse. And I pray. Literally.”
“Pray to whom?”
“To whoever listens. It’s the meaning beyond the words that counts. The lifeforce invested in them. That’s what gives every incantation its true power.”
Getting into action mode does wonders to his mood. His newly found enthusiasm is outright contagious, and before long we are both engaged in a high-spirited two-person huddle.
“Wait,” he stops me in mid-sentence as I lay down my plan to enter the room with the unicorn stickers at the ready- immediately to capture Joy’s attention while I summon the rock. “You got the crayons, did you?”
“Sure, but they’re not as exciting as glittery stickers…”
“No, no. For the circle. I’ll need to chart a physical circle as a base for the psychic one. Keep the stickers slightly out of her reach, so I can draw the circle in advance. Then you call the ghost. It will be a matter of seconds- you need to be ready to let go of the rock the moment I grab the child and set the possessing entity free. Think of something painful and lure it into the circle. The moment it’s inside, you step out and I lock it. Once you’re out of the circle, pick up the rock again. Complete emotional shutdown. You will know when to let go. It’s hard not to notice a hungry spirit leaving this world.”
“The timing will need some serious practice, and we don’t have much time. Or extra mojo to spare.”
“As for the mojo, we’ll have to dry practice. And we’ll have to make do with what time we have.”
“You should be writing motivational cards.”
“Might well consider a career change after today. If I make it.”
“Enough with the ifs. Let’s do some actual making it, shall we?”
Before my own if-generator reactivates, I start running around the apartment, carrying various objects into the living room.
I fetch the crayons from the brown paper bag I’ve left on the floor earlier. Then I walk into the bedroom and grab my biggest stuffed teddy bear from the shelf.
“Joy,” I declare, handing the bear to Devin.
He nods his approval and picks up the crayon box with his free hand.
“No actual circles on my parquet,” I warn him as he takes out the green crayon. He nods again.
On the first run I drop my defences- a tiny mental stone, formed to conserve energy- a moment too late. As a result, the spirit supposedly drawn out of the teddy bear bounces back in. Then I act too soon and said spirit does not leave its host at all. When I do manage to drop the rock on time, I fail to reform it once the spirit is locked within an imaginary circle.
Five deaths and seven possessions between us later, we seem to have made the choreography work. By the end of the practice the teddy bear seems thoroughly traumatized.
Even the cats are getting quite restless. Strangers with pizza are one thing. A weird football game that turns their habitat into a temporary close quarter battle zone- now that’s a different thing altogether. A cat needs to know where to draw the line.
We do one final round for good measure and then it’s time for the real thing.
“Take a few minutes to relax. I’d suggest a meditation, but whom are we kidding. Maybe take a quick shower- I always find those invigorating. I’ll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes.”
“How about a drop of whisk…”
“Don’t mind if I do. But just a tiny bit, we need to stay sharp.”
We sure do, but nowhere near as much as we need the whiskey. I pour us about half a shot each- a health boost for our nerves.
He winces as he swallows.
“If we both make it out in one piece…”
“When!” I knock my empty glass on the counter.
“After this demon moonshine?! Not so sure. Anyway, I’m getting you a bottle of decent stuff.”
“What’s wrong with Jameson?”
He merely shakes his head, gives me a quick pet on the shoulder and starts walking towards the door.
“Fifteen minutes,” he reminds me on his way out.
The shower does help. So does the whiskey- in spite of Devin’s harsh critique. I do, however, need to brush my teeth twice and chew on some coffee grounds to rid my breath of at least some distillery fumes. I hope the mixed punch of coffee and listerine is strong enough to conceal most of the stench.
I put the crayons back in the bag, keeping them within reach, right next to the stickers. Then I make sure my T-shirt is clean and my sweatshirt is whole. I’ve even dug out my one pair of untorn jeans.
One last sniff of my breath- 50% coffee, a whiff of mint and one hell of a prayer the rest goes unnoticed- and out I go.
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