Took a bullet at the duty free when the riots broke out. It was pins and needles all through this goddam hand to mouth country. Would've had to get salty sooner or later. Dropped my tagged bottle and did what I was good at. Writhed under the table, grimaced, groaned, spread my lips back over my teeth, popped my eyes. This time was like I meant it, and quite a performance, even for a pro like me.
See, that was my regular paycheck--I worked deadguy for a budget Italian horror flick outfit. 15 times a week I bought it on camera in a variety of horrible ways. Bludgeoning, stabs, explosives, bitings, bleedings...Christ, gunshots were cakewalks.
I kept waiting for the smell of burnt cotton from the blanks to itch in my nose, but all I got was a searing spread of pain in my stomach, where the blood was gluing my shirt to my skin.
Someone dropped a toaster on my hand. Opened my eyes, and a little boy with shoe button eyes was handing me a scented piece of tissue to dab my wound, while he lifted my wallet.
"It just creased you, bud," he whistled before he ducked back out into the melee. Which avoided me for the most part. A couple old women frisked me, maybe looking for a price tag to see if I was worth anything. It took three or four hours for the locals to get the shop cleaned out. When it was quiet, I crawled to the front desk to find some paper clips to do up my wound. Thought I was Marshall Dillon for a minute. Decided to take a nap instead. Woke up with the crickets in my ears. Sounded like they stole the roof. When I opened my eyes, I could see the crowbar marks in the corners where someone had tried.
Finally got up and winced my way outside. The street was covered with garbage. Saw some happy kid wearing my other pair of pants. Three sizes too big for him. Had my suitcase on his head. Get some suspenders, you little bastard. 100% silk too. Shit. Anyway, wasn't in much of a condition to give chase, for obvious reasons. At least the bleeding had stopped. Or it wasn't as loud as it used to be.
Looked down and a cat was licking at my shoes. Made me faint, and strangely aroused, especially when it began to purr stats from the Guinness Book of World Records at me. "Longest standing jump. 32 meters." Came trickling its furry throat like honey. "Heaviest car. Sheik Abdul Hosam's '78 Crown Victoria: 22 tons. Most of the weight was bullet proofing" It nosed at my ankles.
"Really?" I whispered.
". 75 K to the gallon, baby. Tops out at 5 per hour."
Cute kitty. I reached down to scratch its ears and toppled over.
Facedown on the pavement until the sun rose, hot. When the hell are they going to print this scene? Longest cadaver I'd ever had to pull. Usually takes about three seconds. You usually have to keep doing it over and over, but it sure beats this. Could've used some food. Maybe an IV drip. A good spy novel. Kill some time until the whole thing clouds over.
Looks like that'll be soon. Sweating foul and shaky knees. Infections probably staking out territory by now, divvying up my pounds of flesh. Got up slow and pitched some bile over the guardrail into the Nile or whatever godawful creek it was. Leaned heavy on the hot metal, staring into the blue. Cool. Serene. Wanted in. A bath would suit me. Got far-fetched idea that river water would stitch me up nice. Probably boost my crop yield, too. Paying too much attention to the local fertility myths. Hand over hand on the rail, down the stairs to the dock. Was going to jump right in, Baptist style. Was interrupted by a voice from the forest of masts along the river wall.
"Hey, Englishman. Need a ride?" The voice was coming from a wiry black man in an immaculate white shirt and billowing pants. Big smile. Neat moustache. Waved at me. "England!"
I tried to tell him that I was from Cincinnati, and currently a resident of Milan, but only came up with mumbling. He hopped lightly from stern to stern along the row of boats, until he was right below me.
"Look at you," he said, "Stuck pig."
I was a fan of his grin. Didn't want to let him know that. "Fuck off," I growled.
"You need doctors. Maybe I can sail you down to the town, get you fixed." He leans on one knee. "Come on."
What the hell, I figured. Dying anyhow. Might as well do it on the pitching waves. He helped me navigate the floating path to his boat.
He got me settled on the carpeted deck, and then drew himself up to his full five feet of height. "My name is Captain Sensible," he said, with a finger pointing at the center of his chest. His shirt was so white. So clean. I wanted it.
"Have you got another one of those?"
"Shirts? No, man. Take yours off. We get out, you can wash it in the water."
Made sense. Got the buttons undone and peeled away. Jesus CHRIST, that stung. Can see right through me. Creased, my ass. Plugged me good. Thank God for shock, numbing me still. Can't wait 'til it starts hurting.
The boast had a carpeted flat loft in back. I sat down and took stock of my situation while the Captain tied knots, untied knots and monkeyed with the sail.
Look at me now.
I saw it every day, or representations of it, painted ghouls, rotting and stiff-legged, in the blood-splat on the camera lens, in the dismemberings, beheadings, tortures and puke-spitting possession induced demises. My boss, a thickset Milanese with eyebrows that hoisted themselves on his forehead like stormclouds, explained it to me in his office after he pulled me out of the crowd of extras and told me that I was going to play the "prima uomo della morte" in Bayou Zombies for 70000 L per-a tremendous sum for a dedicated, crust-ridden backpacker like me.
"Listen, I'll tell you what I know about horror. I can tell you why people keep coming back to the movies we keep shitting out three times a month. It's because people are embarrassed about how they die. Like anything else that embarrasses people, it fascinates them too. If people would accept that they are going to leak impolite and messy fluids from every orifice when they die, we would go out of business. Then I would have to go back to making training films for stewardesses. Christ, I hope they never figure that out."
Flies on my torn belly. Leaking for sure, but not necessarily embarrassed. Just bored. Stuck here. Sticky and tired.
We were out on the water. Sensible was singing. I assumed it was just like what he did for the khwaga, the whitefolks welcomed to open their wallets in the face of local culture. He grabbed hold of the frame of rope that ran around the flat deck, and was threaded lightly along the rail to the rudder. We sliced the water, and the sun dappled and spun in our spray.
"I don't know how to do this," I muttered.
He heard me, and took his eyes from the sail to stare at me a moment. "Do what, England?"
"This. I'm American, anyways."
"Not England?" He laughed. "You from California?"
"No." The pain was doubling, tripling. "Cincinnati."
My seams were bursting.
"Don't know it." He shrugged, and turned his eye back to the sail, and busied his hands with minute adjustments.
Eventually, he turned again to face me and hooked his legs over the side.
"What are you doing here anyways?"
"Where did you learn English?"
"Oh, my passengers. Many people like you. "
Head hinged back into the sun. Rope trailing from aft to fore burnt green in my vision.
His voice was near. "Why are you here, English? What are you doing?" Such a smile. Teeth like tigers.
It felt like something was retreating in me. Crawling in on itself. Into holes, caves, hideouts. I coughed and tasted salt and my jaw locked shut. He laid his hands on my chest. His palms were rough. I could feel the burr of his fingerprints. I opened my eyes. I felt stronger, all of a sudden. Magic, maybe? Save the day, Sensible, shake hands with your savior from the stretcher, me?
"Can you help me?" I whispered, tearjerk TV movie style.
"Never been shot before," he giggled. "Don't know. We'll get to the doctor." He stood up. "I don't think they'll blow up the hospital on this one."
"Blow up the hospital? What the hell do you mean?"
"Sometimes they get a little excited, blow up the wrong things. Maybe the hospital this time. We'll see."
He starts to flutter and fade, blanking out every fourth frame. Even in my lapses, I can feel the breeze blowing. The connection still kicks-we must be midstream, moving quicker. I can tell, too, that Captain is getting a little worried. A little bird keeps telling me that he's slapping my face, harder and harder, but I don't get to feel it, except in the stilted, second-hand way that you inhale with an on-screen punch.
Cuts become slower now. He appears every once in a while. The sky is purpling behind his silhouette. The masthead bisecting the frame. I keep pretending that it matters, until he uses his thumbs to close my eyelids. I know. I felt him do it.
We float lazy downstream. And they roll the credits somewhere. And the slow wind feels good, for a little while.
copyright: Greg Miller 1999
