by Morgan Hobbs
I still mailed them in, even though mail had long since given way to email, which itself had been replaced several times over by more technologically advanced systems. I still mailed them, even though there was nobody left to read the mail, much less deliver it. Kind of like putting a message in a bottle and throwing it out into the ocean. I still wrote everything by hand in a notebook and typed it out later on an electric typewriter that always seemed to be in need of a new ribbon. It’s not that they couldn’t be found. For the time being there was plenty of everything – typewriter ribbons, toothpaste, cat food, double A batteries, beer, liquor, dish soap. What else did a person need? I’d always managed to lead a simple life, punctuated here and there by the love affair, and these would always begin so unassumingly I barely knew I was in one before the world got turned upside down. It seemed I attracted the tempestuous types. After all these years I never saw it coming, never learned my lesson.
I turned another page in the notebook and waited. I took a drag on the cigarette and looked deep within myself, or wherever the place was that the mind went to during the creative act, the region of the daydream, the hall of mirrors, the echoing caves. The brown cat walked along the windowsill and the blue one sat on the floor facing the corner. I finished the beer and opened another bottle. The night was young, virginal, fresh meat. The song playing on the radio was a long Mingus piece from Town Hall Concert, one of the Erics. I liked Mingus, but didn’t know all of his work intimately. The surprising thing was there was more radio than ever, coming through the window from somewhere, from unknown stations.
Somehow in that simple act of turning the page I’d lost the golden thread and had to spend a moment trying to pick it back up. Better to drop it and spin up a new one. That was one lesson I had learned. The next one would be even better. Another slug of beer to get the juices flowing. Before the bottle met my lips they came in through the door. That was another thing. Nobody knocked anymore, and locks were useless. There were two of them, the tall one looked like a banker who’d seen better days, same for the shorter one, who had the build of a construction worker. Everybody looked like they’d seen better days. They knew right where to go. The banker reached under the bed and pulled him out, squealing and kicking and screaming. It would do him no good. These things—the jugs, we called them–had no more pity than reptiles. I’d seen it happen so many times I didn’t know what I felt anymore, less than the jugs probably. I only hoped they didn’t do it right there on the floor. I spent a long weekend cleaning up after the last one.
The banker threw him over his shoulder–a young Asian guy, maybe 21, once a grand age, but not anymore. There were fewer left every day, of the young ones. I almost wondered what would happen when the supply ran out. But it wasn’t my problem, now less than ever. The kid’s eyes screamed louder than his words, pleading with me to do something. My expression was made of oak. My eyes were as heavy as millstones. It was better not to give them anything—sympathy, humanity, compassion, anything that could inspire false hope. The world had already left them behind. There was no plan for them anymore. The jug with the muscles caught a scent and sniffed the air like a dog. He took the knob and nearly ripped the door off the hinges. The young woman, a petite brunette about the same age as the boy, tried to disappear into the depths of the closet, but there wasn’t enough depth and not nearly enough camouflage, only a broom and dustpan, a mop, a bottle of ammonia.
I kept hoping word would get out that my humble pad wasn’t a good place to hide. But they kept coming, crawling under our beds, hiding in our closets and armoires (for those who had them). That’s one reason I kept my old place, small and basic as it was. There were fewer places to hide. Besides, it suited me. I liked to keep things simple. I could have taken my pick, moved into one of the penthouses or mansions, and in no time it would be crawling with refugees, and in short order the jugs right after them, tearing the place apart, turning it inside out. I didn’t need that kind of aggravation. No amount of luxury was worth it. Luxury used to have one kind of price tag, now it came with another, and people like me would never get close to it, not in this world or any other.
At first it looked like the girl was in shock, scared mute. When the jug grabbed her, it shook something loose and the terror came screaming out of her like an exorcism. I showed her no more pit than I had the boy, as her eyes locked with mine and the jug dragged her out of the apartment, but neither did I look away, show her how much I couldn’t stand the noise. It was the least I could do, and about the only thing.
Once they’d left, I only needed to straighten up a bit, push the bed against the wall, tip the broom handle back into the closet. And before I knew it, it was like nothing had even happened. The cats hadn’t so much as moved. They’d seen the show enough times to know they had no part in it. The jugs were only interested in one thing—fresh, healthy human liver. How they came to acquire this taste was a question for scientists, and there weren’t many of them left. And there were none among the people I knew. So whether it was a virus or parasite or mass hypnosis or space rays was still a matter of wild speculation at the couple of places I frequented. I never weighed in. We weren’t the kind of people who could make even an educated guess about something like this. The origin of the name jug was just as contentious, some claiming it was because they resembled jug heads, others maintaining it was because they avoided the drunks. There was no place to look these things up anymore, and I wouldn’t have anyway.
I walked over and closed the door, then returned to the desk. I finished the beer and opened another one. The radio was still playing one of the Erics. I searched the cracks in the wall for patterns, not really to get ideas, more because I couldn’t think of anything else to do. It was no use. Maybe I wasn’t as numb as I thought. They were getting to me after all. I needed something to take the mind off, and walked down the street a few blocks to Nick’s. Old Nick stood behind the bar, where he’d been standing for eons, apocalypse or not. He wasn’t going to miss a chance to make a buck, regardless of the fact that money had long ceased to have any value since there was more than enough of everything you needed. He hadn’t even changed the prices, or switched to the bartering system, or whatever an economist would have recommended. The laws of supply and demand held no sway between these walls.
Besides Nick, there were three other people in the bar—two regulars and a young woman I’d never seen before. I took a seat at the bar a few spots down from the young woman. She had a pretty face and a long, flourishing figure, and wore her hair in a purple Mohawk. There was a hoop through her nose and a few other places. Half her shirt had been ripped away. She was too young to be out in the open, but it was none of my business. She had nice clear skin and rosy lips and a general ruddiness of pallor that suggested good health—of course, you could never tell for sure about the inside. She could have had a liver like cheesecloth. Hard drugs maybe, although I didn’t see any tracks. I offered to buy her a drink.
“I can pay my own way,” she said, without so much as a glance my way.
“I’m just being polite,” I said.
“Sure,” she said, lighting a menthol cigarette.
“It’s the only thing we have left,” I said. “Manners, custom, ritual.”
“I’ve got plenty,” she said, taking the cigarette out of her mouth. “I have everything I need.”
“People always want more,” I said, staring straight ahead at the bottles lined up behind the bar.
After all these years, I knew the labels like the back of my hand.
“Not me,” she said.
“We’ll see,” I said.
We sat there in silence and nursed our drinks. A scotch and soda for me, what looked like a negroni for the young woman. The regulars walked out, and it was just the young woman and me, plus Nick, which was almost like being alone. Nick was a man of few words. After a lifetime behind the bar, he’d already said everything he had to say. The silence was not exactly uncomfortable but it was starting to needle at me. Only I couldn’t think of anything to say, not out loud anyway. The problem was solved for me when three jugs came in. The first went right behind the bar and pulled out a guy in shorts and running shoes with the ankle socks. The second jug made a beeline for the restroom, pulling out a sharply dressed and admirably coiffed middle aged woman who I recognized from some real estate signs around town. The third jug rummaged around the stock room before emerging with an attractive 40ish fitness instructor in spandex pants and a sleeveless top. What can I say about the three jugs except that they came from all walks of life—one was a beefy black man in a flannel shirt and trucker’s hat, another had clearly been a United Airlines stewardess because she was still wearing the outfit, and the third was an unshaven man in slippers and a bathrobe who looked like he sold insurance. They were as strong as wild animals and dragged their victims out of the bar kicking and screaming,leaving behind little more mess than a few tipped over stoolsand ashtrays.
“Did you know they were in here?” I asked Nick.
He shrugged.
“A person can’t get any peace and quiet anymore,” I added.
“So far you’re the one’s making all the noise,” said the young woman.
“Maybe I like a little conversation with my peace and quiet,” I said. “You and I could be the last man and woman on earth.”
“That’s obviously not true,” she said.
“I’ve never seen you around before.”
“I’m passing through.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“I’m Christine.”
She was turned toward me now, with one foot on the rail and one dangling.
“Harry,” I said.
“Harry?” she laughed. “You’re not that old.”
“You’ve got a funny way of paying a compliment,” I said.
“That was hardly a compliment,” said Christine.
“That’s kind of my point,” I said.
Nick brought another round. I paid, and this time she didn’t protest. We drank in silence, and then Christine got up and put some money in the jukebox. The first song that came on was one by Electric Light Orchestra. I couldn’t remember the name of it even though I’d heard it more times than I could count, always on somebody else’s dime.
“I wanna dance,” she said, as she wriggled to the music.
I let it hang in the air.
“Do you wanna dance?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“What do you want to do?”
“I live a few blocks from here,” I said.
“And?”
I finished my drink.
“Would you like to come up?”
“Okay,” she said.
Christine had good posture and a nice long stride.
“Why did they leave you alone?” I asked, as we crossed the street.
“Beats me,” she said.
“You’re not a drunk. Are you a junky? A cracker?”
“Not really,” she said, spinning around a light post.
We went into the building and up the two flights to my place. Naturally, the door was unlocked. The cats didn’t bat an eye at the young woman in the Mohawk. They’d seen them come and go. I sat in my chair. Christine looked around. There wasn’t much, not even books. I liked a place that looked lived in, but not necessarily by me. I offered her a drink.
“Do you have any wine?” she asked.
“In there,” I said.
She opened the cabinet over the sink and took out a magnum of good Bourdeaux. My inventory had really gone up a notch. I didn’t require it, but there was no reason to be cheap under the circumstances. She found the glasses herself. People were surprised I had a collection of decent crystal. It was one of my few indulgences.
“How about ice?”
“There’s a bag in the freezer,” I said. “You like ice in your wine?”
“Not usually,” she said.
She poured out the wine and brought mine over, setting it on the desk. She made the notepad and electric typewriter.
“What are you working on?”
“I’m not sure anymore. I thought I knew but kind of got interrupted.”
She knew what I meant.
“My life really hasn’t changed that much,” she said. “I never had many friends.”
“A sweet kid like you?” I said.
“I wasn’t always this personable,” she said, sipping the wine. “I tended to act out.”
“Me too,” I said.
“And now here we are.”
I drank my wine and smoked a cigarette. She sat down on the bed. There were a couple of other places she could have sat.
“Do you listen to the radio?” I asked.
“Never,” she said. “I like to be in control.”
I turned on the radio anyway. Chicago Art Ensemble. I looked out the window. Down on the street, two jugs were dragging a priest into an alley. The priest had been one of us, an untouchable, but had relapsed. I hadn’t seen him at the bar in some time, enough time to heal. The Chicago Art Ensemble ended and Charlie Byrd’s House of the Rising Sun came on. I waited quietly for Buddy Deppenschmidt’s drum solo, the best part. My new young friend was unmoved.
“Aren’t you going to jump me?”
“Probably not,” I said.
“You did invite me up,” I said.
“I don’t jump everybody I invite up.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked.
“Not anymore,” I said.
The priest was giving a sermon. There was no fear in his voice.
“What happened to her?”
“Same as everybody else.”
She came over and refilled my glass, then returned to the bed.
“Your liver,” she said.
“What about it?”
“Why?”
“Why do I drink?”
“Yeah, do you have a death wish?”
“At the moment, it’s the only thing keeping me alive.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Drink is my medium of choice. If I was a fish it would be my ocean, if a bird, my clear blue sky. Without it nothing feels right. It’s the way I move through the world.”
“Like a bubble.”
“Yeah, like that,” I said. “And the question is not why I drink, but why isn’t everyone else? You’d think they’d be guzzling every jug of rotgut in sight. Obviously it takes some time, but you’d think they’d at least try, go down swinging.”
“Beats me,” she said. “Have you ever tried to kick?”
“No.”
“You should try it, just for a few weeks. See what the world really feels like.”
“I know what it feels like. It feels dead,” I said.
She pulled her shirt—what was left of it—down off her shoulder, revealing a ripe, perfectly formed breast.
“You’ve never felt this.”
I set down my glass and stood up, a little unsteadily. She smiled and hiked up her skirt, spreading her legs and letting out a little laugh as I stumbled toward her. Down below in the alley I could hear the priest singing glory glory hallelujah as the jugs took him apart limb by limb. Good for him, he’d found his ecstasy. Few of us would ever get close.
I was on my hands and knees, crawling toward Christine. She took off the rest of the shirt. The other breast was just as ripe and supple as the first, perhaps a size larger. The lopsidedness only enhanced her allure. The other thing I noticed was the sutures on her right side, under her ribs.
“You’re full of surprises,” I said, lying on the floor and looking up at her, watching her and the room spin around, or maybe it was only a wobble.
“You have no idea,” she said.
She was standing over me, with one foot on either side of meand her skirt up around her hips, giving me a glimpse of heaven, if only I could make it out. I was coming out of a dream, or going into one. Everything was a blur, a slow fade to black.
I woke up in the tub. There was a pillow behind my head. That was a nice touch. And a bag of ice, mostly melted, on my right side. I pulled away the ice and bandage, and there it was, the same sutures I’d seen on Christine. I climbed out of the tub, holding my side, and went into the kitchen. It hurt to raise my arm, so I got the bottle under the sink, still top shelf stuff. I poured out a glass, drank it down fast, then poured another and took it to my desk. Christine had left a note. Her penmanship wasn’t bad, especially for someone her age. She explained what was now obvious—they’d taken my rotten liver and replaced it with a young and healthy one. Then there was something about the movement and the survival of the race, which didn’t interest me. I’d never paid much attention to politics. She assured me that my damaged liver would be put to good use and that in return I’d have a new lease on life as long as I stayed vigilant and kept on the move, forever looking over my shoulder, and maybe one day I would join them.
No matter how poor your lot, somebody would eventually try to take it from you. I lit a cigarette, allowing my thoughts to drift with the smoke. The words would come, as they always did, and then I would put down the pen and that would be that, because at this moment, listening to the music and tasting the smoke and wine, come what may, I had all the time in the world.