John opened the door, turned his back on me—allowing me to decide whether I’d stop the door and enter or let the door slam on my face.
I stopped the door with my foot, went inside, as John went into his bedroom.
“I have your bowl,” I said, while, in the distance, an ice cream truck’s music began to play.
From John’s bedroom, I heard an angry utterance. I didn’t want to know. Firstly, I’d only borrowed John’s mixing bowl last evening because I’d already taken everything out to make vegetarian meatballs (cooking was a new hobby; I often discovered that I lacked some key ingredient or apparatus in the middle of attempting a new dish) and didn’t want to abandon my culinary attempt simply because I lacked this one utensil. Secondly, I was eager to return to my apartment: I was hungry, my vegetarian meatballs had come out decent; I planned on having them for lunch.
“Thanks again,” I said, as the ice cream truck’s music ceased. “I’ll leave it on your counter.”
The ice cream truck’s music started again.
“Motherfucker!” John’s voice was so full of rage that I wondered if, beneath the ire, there was actual distress. I wasn’t concerned, but I felt obligated—a sense of obligation that aroused more annoyance than empathy—to venture into his bedroom.
“John?”
He sat on a stool, pointing a gun out the window, his finger on the trigger. It was, I think, an automatic weapon. But I was keener about finding out what John was going to do with it.
I hemmed.
But John didn’t notice, or pretended not to notice. The ice cream truck’s music again ceased; John’s finger stopped twitching in front of the trigger.
“So, what’s going on?” I attempted an aloof, unaffected air. Truthfully, though, I was concerned. I didn’t think that John would swing the gun around and shoot me, yet the possibility loomed. And I worried that he might do something else reckless—something that might involve me, if only peripherally, as I was in his apartment. I could’ve left, yet decided that if I could obviate something undesirable from happening, that would be best; so, I tried again: “So, thanks again for lending me your bowl.”
John continued pointing his gun. I wondered if anyone saw him. But then I realized that because John sat back from the window (we were on the fifth floor), had the lights off, and pointed the gun’s muzzle through a tiny square section of screen one could open to adjust the handle that opened the window, that possibly no one did.
The ice cream truck’s music started again.
“Motherfucking son of a bitch. Why doesn’t this asshole park that piece of shit someplace else?” The gun trembled in John’s hands.
“You mean the ice cream truck?” That the ice cream truck was the apparent source of his pique seemed incredible, absurd.
But John glanced at me, said, “That fucking music . . . Every day I’m trying to work, and just as I’m about to get something done . . .”
Though my main concern should’ve been whether John was going to shoot someone, another thought took precedence: just what was John working on that required such concentration? I’d suspected that he had a corporate job; I’d see him leave for work in a suit and tie. He’d then (I assumed) get into his car (we both parked in the garage, albeit I hadn’t moved my car in years) and drive to wherever corporate workers went (I supposed an office). But I had no idea what he did. Whatever it was, though, I’d never associated it with anything that would demand such concentration that his focus could be subverted by something so slight as an ice cream truck’s music.
But my own concentration (or musings) was broken by the eruption of gunfire.
Whether John aimed to hit anything, pointed his gun at random and might or might not be hitting anything, or simply shot towards the trees as a warning (though a warning for what?) wasn’t apparent.
The gunfire then ceased.
“Um,” I said, while John gazed down at the street. “Should you have . . . done that? Maybe you should put the gun down? So you don’t hurt anyone?” I then realized that maybe John did want to hurt someone; maybe he already had—even killed someone. But if he’d hit anyone, wouldn’t there have been screams? Or shouldn’t there have been screams anyway, since a barrage of bullets had just rained from his window?
Then I realized that I did hear screams—faint, faraway: a woman’s moaning, a child’s crying. And amidst these wails, the ice cream truck’s music started again.
“Son of a bitch!” John clicked something on his weapon, gunfire roared again.
I put my hands over my ears. Wisps of white smoke floated in front of the windows; the room smelled of gunpowder. I wondered if the smoke alarm would go off. As John continued firing, I pondered how many bullets the gun could shoot before needing to be reloaded.
Then something exploded, the gunfire stopped. It felt like in a video game after you lift the button to make your avatar stop shooting and then stand there in the aftermath.
“Motherfucker,” John said, looking down at the street. He glanced at me, turned back to the window, muttered, “Fucking ice cream truck. Told you to shut the fuck up.”
The ice cream truck’s music had, indeed, stopped.
I wanted to return to my apartment, regretting not having picked a better time to return John’s bowl. But then John said, “Check this out.”
I didn’t want to check it out—yet I walked toward the window and looked to where John pointed: although I heard moans and cries from down below, I didn’t see any people—or complete people.
For in front of the ice cream truck—burnt black, tires decimated, flickering flames melting the hood’s blue and white paint—lay a severed leg; from above the knee (the point of severance) bloody shards of bone protruded. It was a small leg—the leg of a child, or a very small person.
“Um . . .” I backed toward the door.
John watched me; he looked like a kid who’d just beaten a friend at a new video game but who’d had the advantage of already knowing the game’s rules and having experience playing it—yet gloated nonetheless.
I nodded toward the window. “You probably shouldn’t have done that.”
John snorted.
I continued backing away. “Your bowl is on the counter.” Then, turning, I made my way toward the door.
As I walked down the hallway, I didn’t hear or see anybody.
Did no one hear what John had done? And did no one see what happened outside? (I pictured the leg lying in the street).
But on the elevator, I encountered an older couple, whom I’d seen around. The man was tall and gaunt with limpid blue eyes, sagging skin, a sharp jawline; the face of a man who would’ve headed a farm centuries ago or led a group of pioneers.
The woman was small and frail. She stood by the man as if he were a tree to which she’d cling in the midst of a tempest. She eyed me with distrust, the man regarded me with wariness and dislike.
“Hi.”
Neither answered.
The door closed; but the elevator didn’t move; we stood there like three statues in a strained tableau.
I stared at the door. I sensed the couple looking at me. I turned, smiled at the man, did the same to the woman.
The man’s expression became crotchetier, the woman’s face tautened, as if in fright, hers like the skin of an old prune stretched back but, as there were so many wrinkles, no smooth surface would form.
After a few moments, during which time I resumed staring at the door, the woman said, “We’re not moving.”
“You think?”
“I hope we’re not stuck.”
The man guffawed. “You hope we’re not stuck.”
The woman exhaled. “What’s your problem?”
“My problem?”
“Yes. And could you stop repeating everything I say? It’s annoying. You’ve been in a mood ever since—”
“Ever since I looked out the window and saw—”
“Shh.” The woman acted as if the man was about to commit a crime. “Let’s not . . . First of all, we don’t know—”
“We don’t know?”
Again, I sensed the man’s looking at me; unable to resist, I turned: Sure enough, he glared at me. Once more, I offered a smile, albeit this one thinner, before turning back to the door, albeit I, too, worried that we weren’t moving; i.e., I feared that it had something to do with what John had done, although my unease stemmed more from the concern that my being at John’s apartment when the incident happened would somehow attach me to what John did.
“It’s worse than insanity, it’s a madhouse.”
“Henry.” The woman’s voice was pleading. “Just . . . don’t worry about it.”
“Don’t worry about it?”
The elevator lurched, we were moving. Relief washed over me, although I wasn’t sure if I had reason to be relieved. The man and woman continued bickering, but I only dimly listened: “It’s okay, Henry”; “It’s not okay, don’t tell me it’s okay”; “You’re getting worked up over nothing”; “Nothing? What wasn’t normal is now normal. What’s accepted now is sickening. How can you—”
The elevator door opened, I stepped forward.
“And I’ve seen you talking with him, don’t you deny it.”
I turned. “Sorry?”
“Henry.” The woman tugged at Henry’s sleeve, as if worried that her husband might physically confront me. But Henry didn’t move—although he continued to speak.
“I’ve seen you before, talking with that one. And I know it was his apartment. And you were on his floor just now. So don’t act like you don’t know anything about—”
“Henry!” The woman grabbed her husband’s arm; but I’d already stepped into the hallway. As the elevator door closed, Henry glowered at me.
Walking down the hallway, I was so jolted that if I raised my hands, I knew that my wrists would tremble. That damned Henry.
My floor was silent except for the cacophony of a children’ show that issued from the apartment across the hall—so loud that that I could make out the dialogue. I’d lodged complaints. Granted, once I went into my apartment and shut the door, the noise would vanish. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that the noise was obnoxious—that even when my door blocked it, I knew that as soon as I opened my door again, I’d be subjected to that racket.
I shut my door (cutting off the clamor of the children’s TV show) and stood there, as if waiting for something. I no longer thought about my neighbor and her child or children (I didn’t know if there was more than one child; what the sex of the child or children were; if there was a child or were children, or a mentally challenged adult watching these programs, or if the woman watched them. I’d never seen the tenants, only heard a voice, which was a female’s, though perhaps that voice came from the TV as well, and maybe a man lived in the apartment). I looked at the kitchen area, living room, windows—as if daring myself to walk to the windows and look out. But the blinds were closed, I saw no reason to open them. And I was hungry.
I opened the refrigerator.
The vegetarian meatballs with gluten-free chickpea pasta and all-natural marinara sauce tasted even better the day after. Granted, my judgment was clouded: I was the cook—and a cook with hitherto minimal cooking experience—so, I was more prone to give my plate a generous assessment than if I’d eaten the same meal in a restaurant. But this knowledge hardly sullied my satisfaction: sated, pleased with my cooking effort, I sat at my counter watching an old sitcom—which wasn’t so much funny as fascinating. I’d all but forgotten about the incident in John’s apartment.
But knocking on my door startled me so much that I felt a pain in my chest and lightness in my stomach that threatened to turn to queasiness. My mind raced.
The knocking, however, then stopped.
I exhaled and inhaled slowly through my nose. My breathing sounded loud (I’d paused the sitcom, fearing that the knocker might hear it). I told myself that he or it had gone away. Perhaps a mistake had been made and the knocker had intended to knock on my neighbor’s door to reprimand her (or him, or whoever or whatever lived in that apartment) about playing the TV so loudly.
But then the knocking started again.
“Mr. Daniel?”
I inhaled sharply: no one used titles before first names like that except for reps. “Coming,” I said, hating myself for responding so obediently as I walked over to and opened the door.
The rep was more or less what I’d expected: the guise of a man in his mid-thirties or early forties. The expression “face like an actor” is still overused, yet this rep veritably called that expression to mind: blue eyes so pellucid they seemed fake or at least artificially manipulated; smooth, freshly shaven skin with an oily sheen, yet an oiliness that reminded one more of makeup application than oil a human epidermis produces. The rep’s clothes—dark blue, button-down collared shirt (no tie, which I wasn’t sure was a good or bad sign, or any sign); gray slacks—might’ve covered up a good build or a flabby physique. The rep’s shoes were black, sans shine, yet clean— “blandly practical” was the description that came to mind; the type of shoes mental institutions and prisons would issue to patients and inmates.
“Mr. Daniel?” The rep affected unsureness, as if afraid it had come to the wrong apartment (an impossibility); yet cloaked within this feigned uncertainty was a confidence so absolute, or indifferent, that it was impossible to pretend wasn’t there. “Daniel X37?”
I nodded, thinking, So typical: to be addressed first by the title “mister” preceding my first name and then by my full name, sans title.
The rep brushed past me into my apartment, which miffed and discombobulated me; I wasn’t sure if I was expected to challenge the rep’s presumption and proprietary air. So, to offset if not vitiate feeling like a fool and a coward, I told myself that I was acting prudently rather than cravenly; that it was best to comport oneself calmly and tractably around reps, not challenge them, answer whatever they asked.
The rep sat down at the counter, which struck me as an even greater liberty to take than if I’d had a table and it had sat there. Perhaps it was because my counter only had two stools, which created an air of privacy, even intimacy—which this rep had all but erased, or appropriated.
Standing there with my hands in my pockets, as if I didn’t know what to do with them, I felt like an intruder in my own apartment.
The rep glanced at my laptop, on the screen of which was the paused sitcom. “What are you watching?” Its voice was friendly, languorous, its demeanor not so much indolent as letting me know that it could act indolent if it felt like it.
I said the show’s name.
The rep gazed at my electric stove, microwave, wire-free toaster oven, other appliances. It said, “It sure was different back then.” Its tone implied nostalgia.
I offered a smile, which I suspect appeared as forced as it felt. I didn’t care to discuss old sitcoms and the nostalgia, real or imaginary, they might’ve inspired. I wanted to know why the rep was here, answer what questions it had, and get on with my day.
The rep gestured toward the bowl on the counter. “Just have lunch?”
I nodded and then put the bowl in the sink and washed it out, embarrassed, despite myself, for having a dirty plate visible. As I added eco-friendly dishwashing detergent to the water, the rep said, “What’d you have?”
I shrugged, as though I’d already forgotten, but then said, “Vegetarian meatballs,” as if it were no big deal, albeit I wasn’t only proud of what I’d made, but also that my meal was ecologically friendly; I even felt prideful being able to tell (or imply) this to the rep—which made me feel meek and craven, as if I were fishing for approbation.
But approbation the rep granted, albeit with a subtle angle: “Good for you. Glad to hear that. It’s important that we eat food that’s sustainable to our environment and reflects well on us as a species. I read once that someday all lifeforms, or intelligent lifeforms, will be judged on how they treat their animals and sick and disabled people.”
I nodded.
The rep seemed satisfied, as if it could now segue into whatever it was that it had come here to talk about. “But we are, after all, humans,” it said, without the least trace of irony in its voice. “And as humans”—it pressed its fingers together, as if to impart its impending point with even more solemness, and perhaps solidarity, or empathy, as well— “we sometimes make mistakes.”
I’d been tapping my foot—which I forced myself to stop. I felt like sitting down, having a drink of vodka—yet I did neither of these things; my caution, or fear, rendering me meek, cowardly.
The rep exhaled, as though it were getting tired of being here. “There was an incident a little while ago.”
I felt encroaching dread.
“On the floor above you.”
The dread became thicker.
“In the apartment of . . .” The rep consulted the screen on its wrist (no longer a distinguishing characteristic of reps, as many companies encouraged [even compelled] their human functionaries to have these screens implanted as well), as though to make sure of the name, though I knew that it already knew the name it was about to say. “. . . John X662.” The rep looked at me. “And you, Mr. Daniel, were there.”
Fear ran up my back. “But I . . . I was only—”
“And during this incident . . .” The rep paused, affecting to be at a loss for words (so hollow was this affectation that it infused me with impatience, as reps never were at a loss for words, they were only programmed to act as if they were). “. . . Mr. John”—now referring to John with his title preceding his first name— “might have lost a little self-control.”
My thigh muscle twitched uncontrollably. “But I had nothing to do with what John did. I’d stopped by his apartment to return a bowl, and the next thing I know, he’s at his window . . . with a . . .” My voice cracked.
The rep held up its hand—which made me feel grateful, and resentful toward the rep for manipulating me into feeling this way. “You don’t have to explain, Daniel,” now just using my first name, a calculated yet nonetheless effective move. “We know everything that happened, and you know that we know everything that happened.”
It was the first time the rep had even intimated that it was, in fact, an it. I wasn’t sure if this admittance, or this intimation of an admittance, was good or bad.
“However,” the rep said, “the fact of the matter is that John X662 is a man who holds an important position.”
Again, I’d suspected that John held a corporate job, and obviously one that he dressed for (i.e., not something done virtually from home, which is what I did [in my case, teaching high school; a job which could be tedious, as none of my students communicated with me let alone turned on their cameras]). But other people here had corporate jobs, too—and corporate jobs on the outside. And, as far as I could tell, none of them held a position that would be considered substantial enough for a rep to say that it was “important.”
“And as a man of some significance, we must look out for Mr. John.” The rep slid off the stool, walked toward the windows, pushed open two slats, and gazed out, its expression grimly contemplative. It then gestured for me to come over, which, with distant resentment, I did.
The rep indicated that I open the blinds and look out; that it wasn’t going to do this for me. As I passed it, I discerned that familiar odor of reps: fabric and motor oil; an industrial cleanliness, vaguely nauseous.
I didn’t want to look out the window; but feeling compelled by things understood and not understood (the latter allowing me to indulge in the belief that I wasn’t a completely coward), I pushed open two slats and gazed out:
The blackened ice cream truck still smoldered, as if the gunfire had only riddled it seconds ago. A few parked cars were honeycombed with bullet holes, their tires flat; from some hoods, smoke arose. I could hear faint screams, albeit not screams of fear, but of agony; as though what had caused the fear had been realized, and now the aftermath had to be endured. Yet I couldn’t pinpoint from where the screams came, as I didn’t see another human—or, rather, a complete human: for the leg still lay in front of the ice cream truck. It looked the same as it had when I’d glanced at it from the John’s window: no more or less bleeding, no more or less decomposed.
Having looked for what felt like a sufficient amount of time, I let the slats fall closed. I was daunted by the thought that I waited to receive instructions from the rep, while experiencing resentment at having this thought.
“Here is what I need you to do, Mr. Daniel.”
I pressed my fingernails into my palm; not only was I even more annoyed about the situation (so much so that it seemed my irritation might dispel or at least challenge my cowardice, which itself stemmed from fear), but I resented the rep’s wording: “Here is what . . .”; the implication being that there was something the rep had in mind for me to do all along.
“I need . . .” The rep paused; I thought I discerned actual hesitance, even contrition; and I was alarmed at how real they made these reps nowadays. “. . . you to get that leg.”
“Leg?”
The rep nodded toward the window. “Out there, we can’t have that. All you need to do is go out there, and bring it inside.”
I felt numb, static, nauseated, as I tried to assimilate what the rep said. “Why,” I finally said. My voice sounded meek.
“Because.” It seemed that the rep wouldn’t say anymore. But then it said, “There are certain things we have to protect.”
I didn’t, or didn’t want to understand. “I—”
“Look.” The rep once more opened two blinds, gazed out. “I need you to do this now.” It let the slats fall closed, walked toward my kitchen. “Yes, I got your message.” I realized that it was talking into its internal phone (albeit it had put on a mini receiver and speaker on its ear for show). “He’s on his way.”
My body felt weird, as if pulled by a magnet. “I . . .” My voice sounded odd; my perception seemed skewed. “What if—”
“You’ve got to go.” The rep had put away (again, for show) its mini receiver and speaker. “But don’t worry; you’ll be fine.”
My legs felt heavy, rubbery; yet as I walked toward the door, I moved normally, briskly.
“And you’ll have coverage. But again: nothing’s going to happen.”
“Coverage?” The word bounced around my head, as I abstractedly opened the door.
The rep thinly smiled. “Mr. John.”
As I closed the door behind me, leaving the rep in my apartment (as if I had no choice in the matter), I tried to remember if I’d washed out the bowl or had left it in the sink, dirty.
For once, no noise came from the apartment across the hall—nor was there any sound from any other apartment. My legs now felt mostly normal. Maybe they hadn’t felt rubbery and heavy; perhaps I’d only imagined that they had. Or maybe I was just relieved no longer to be in the rep’s presence.
At the elevators, I pressed the “down” button; the bell sounded distantly, a few floors away. In this quietude, I imagined that I was a tourist in a hotel waiting to explore a city, or a citizen on his way to work, eager to meet the day’s challenges.
As I got on the starkly clean elevator (our building self-cleaned; we didn’t hire workers except for complex jobs), this illusion persisted: I was a traveler, ready to sightsee; a corporate go-getter, on his way to the office to advise people about investing money.
But when the doors opened onto the lobby, the fantasy collapsed: outside the office sat Henry and his wife; Henry hunched over, his nose and chin covered in blood, tears streaming down his cheeks, though it was difficult to say if these were tears of pain or frustration. He pressed a handkerchief (an accessory I’d hitherto only seen on old sitcoms; seeing Henry with this handkerchief filled me with tender sorrow) to his nose, staunching the blood, while his wife hovered next to him, as if wanting to help but was reluctant, not only because she sensed her husband’s resistance, but because of fear, which I think I understood: for no one went into the office unless they were summoned. (I, fortunately, had never been in the office.)
“But I told you,” Henry’s wife whispered, albeit I could still hear her as I walked by. “You can’t let this stuff bother you, and you especially can’t . . . act out like you did.” The woman’s voice got lower; it started to trail off. “I’m always telling you, and see where it’s got you? And I don’t want to think about what—”
“The hell with it!” Henry hissed, but underneath the truculence, his voice belied regret. “The hell with it,” he muttered again, though by this point I could barely hear either of them and was no longer listening: for I’d reached the bulletproof, glass doors.
From behind the glass, if one focused one’s gaze on the park across the street, or towards the trees, the world looked tranquil. It was when one lowered one’s eyes that it took on a scene of horror: the blackened, smoldering ice cream truck; the small, severed leg; the cars riddled with bullet holes, and with destroyed tires; the desolation: not a single person could be seen, no cars passed.
I gazed at the leg. It looked viscerally bloody, yet fake, like a real severed leg, but also like one from a video game. Blackish blood had collected around it.
I put my hand on the door’s handle. Behind me, Henry’s wife sobbed while Henry muttered irascibly.
I pushed the door open.
The air tasted sandy, with a coppery tinge; you felt like drinking water, even though you weren’t thirsty.
I glanced around: no people, though my reconnaissance was cursory. I heard a woman’s far-off moans, along with the deeper, lugubrious wails of a man.
I walked quickly, my gait wobbly, until I reached the leg. Up close, it looked, from above the point of severance (above the knee) down, like the normal leg of a child: a small foot in a red and white sneaker; the calf and part of the thigh adorned in dark blue corduroys—a sturdy leg; the leg of a robust boy.
The screaming had stopped. Leaves rustled, though I perceived no wind. I planned on grabbing a piece of corduroy and dragging the leg, away from me, to avoid getting any blood on me; my fingers were grazing the fabric when I heard a scraping sound. Turning, I saw the boy: he dragged himself around the front of the ice cream truck, a bloody stump where his leg had been. He wore a red and white sneaker; the rest of the corduroys; a torn, bloody T-shirt.
My heart felt like it would implode. The boy’s face—the child was maybe seven or eight—was smeared with dirt, blood. His eyes looked murderous as he dragged himself toward me with hands and arms. The stump left a slimy trail of blood.
Picking up the leg by a piece of corduroy, I started to turn, when the boy made a noise: it was guttural, horrible. I turned again, the boy reached out, my heart accelerated dangerously.
Then a white, red flash; the boy seemed to fade, or flicker, in the manner that images on TV screens flickered with static years ago. A resounding noise as well, which I at first didn’t register; but upon seeing the boy’s face, chest, hands, and fingers get torn into bloody chunks, pieces, and ribbons of gore and bone and cartilage, I realized was gunfire, and turned: John stood at his window, holding his gun. He waved. My perception of everything seemed to implode, or was swallowed; without looking back at the boy, nor at the leg, which I carried at an angle, I ran toward the doors.