A. A. G. M. Ch. 2

March 15th, 2012

The commotion came from the bathroom, but the world is a sloshy semi-lucid mess. Noises slur out of my mouth, as my body jolts upright. Functioning drunk is my forte, but the tiny, nearly unrecognizable voice in the back of my mind–which is my sober voice–is desperately telling me not to go into the bathroom.

So, of course, I go. Drunk Riz enjoys making poor life choices.

There’s a tiny battle in my brain, as my nearly mute, heavily sedated sober voice tries to claw its way into the driver’s seat. This version of me doesn’t stand a chance against tequila Riz, who now stands firmly in the bathroom.

I scan the space. The shower curtain is ripped, the sink is on, and the toilet lid is broken; still, the room is void of anyone. My intoxicated self is convinced this destruction is my doing—a drunken rampage in the bathroom before passing out.

I splash water on my face, turn off the faucet, and stare at my features in the mirror. The heaviness under my eyes holds the weight of not only the night of work but years of personal neglect.

Then, in the reflection, the door behind me moves. It’s subtle, and drunk Riz might have missed it, if not for the next scene.

As if in slow motion, four fingers curl around the edge of the door. Above it, the tangles of a disheveled white mane fall into view.

My sober voice, like a tiny mouse, squeaks, oh fuck. It begs to run, but drunk Riz reacts.

“Oh, hell no!” I slam the door against the intruder, grab the fingers and bend two of them back hard enough to give me control over the wrist. My shoulder presses firmly into the door, and my left foot shoots out behind me to push against the sink counter.

This person’s fingers feel wrong like they aren’t fully organic. My body reacts, betraying me, and my hand lets go. Because I’m nearly horizontal at this point, and my leverage is split between my shoulder against the door, and my failing grip, I slip and fall. My head connects with the doorknob, and the world goes gray.

Images swirl together, like the shades of a black and white movie shot slightly out of focus. I’m floating–or am I being carried. My concept of time is disjointed; it couldn’t have been more than a handful of moments from going nearly unconscious to landing on my bed. Then the world snaps back into place.

Above me is a piece of paper, blocking the face of the person holding it. My eyes focus on the words: can’t speak bitte help

I scan the hand, and up the grayish arm clothed in pink terry cloth–Is this my bathrobe?

My gaze continues up the shoulder, and it’s confirmed that it is, in fact, my bathrobe. Then my breath stops in my throat at the nightmare leaning over me.

Drunk or not, I knew living skin does not look like this.

I crab walk faster than what seems possible away from this white-haired man in my pink bathrobe. His gray skin sent off poofs of dust with each movement. It’s as if he's covered in soot; the particles float around him like a halo.

This is a dream. My head is pounding. Do you feel things in dreams? Fear mixed with oscillating pricks of pain coursing through my head, as if each heartbeat is carrying needles. My rationality blurs.

Maybe the acid I did in high school is coming back to haunt me. Or someone slipped something in my drink last night.

I shake my head no, over and over, but neither my sober voice nor my intoxicated one dares to move past my vocal cords.

This can’t be real.

I’m staring, aghast, at the two hollow sockets where his eyes should be.

I'd seen a horse missing an eye once in Vermont. The caretaker, Harper, explained the horse had an accident with a barbed-wire fence. The place where its eye should have healed over, and there was hair and skin where the wound was. It was as if the horse considered an eye, then decided that the side of his face looked better without one.

This was not the case today. The gray-skinned man had two black holes sitting solemnly on his face.

I need to leave–right now, but my body went stiff. My legs wouldn’t budge. It's fight, flight, or freeze, and I froze.

He moves away from me and toward the front door. Good, leave. Then my skin goes cold, as he stops at the fridge, opens the freezer, and pulls out a bag.

He moved towards me, and in my mind, I pictured him smothering me with this bag of frozen food—my last breaths being muddled by a meal in my freezer I forgot existed.

He leans towards my face, and in my mind, I scream. In my imagination, I thrash and claw. In reality, he opens his mouth, and a nearly inaudible groan drifts out. He focuses his attention on my face and pushes the bag against the wound on my forehead. Then he gently takes my hand in his, and pushes my fingers against the bag.

I can’t bear his lack of eyes, so I look down and notice my bunny slippers on his feet. Pursing my lips, I take several more breaths, trying to slow my heart rate. “What is going on?”

He sits in front of me, as I let the coolness of the bag ground me.

There’s something queer about him, and not just the two black holes on his face or his unnerverving inability to speak. It wasn't the pink robe or the bunny slippers, but rather, the gray complexion and the way small puffs of dust circle around him with each movement. Between his erratic, white hair and thick, fluffy mustache, there is something uncouthly familiar. It is likely this feeling, as well as the kind of gesture of frozen food to ease my throbbing head, that disarms me. That, and I’m still a little drunk.

“Who are you?”

He takes the note, flips it over, and scribbles down two words.

My free hand, still shaking, stretches out to retrieve the paper. Reading the note, I drop the makeshift cold press into my lap. The cold snap against my legs sent my words into a stutter, “R-r-really?” This makes my tone seem more hopeful than sarcastic.

His face perks up, and his posture lightens. He smells like old compost in a freshly tilled garden. His soft demeanor puts me even more at ease, and I open myself to the possibility that he could, in fact, be Albert Einstein.

This, of course, makes everything significantly more fucked, because if he really is Einstein, that means he’s undead.

My brain shifts through an array of zombie movies, and as I replay the gore, I blurt out, “Don’t eat my brain.”

There’s a look of befuddlement, then he smiles. Confusion is replacing my terror, as I take several deep breaths. “Why can’t you speak–” then quickly realized I didn't want to know. “Wait. Never mind.”

He shows me anyway.

From the other pocket of my pink robe, he pulls out my small LED flashlight. It’s attached to my house keys I’d left on the kitchen table. He points it directly in his wide open mouth. The light illuminates the back of his skull, and pours through his open sockets. I turn away, “Stop stop stop.” I close my eyes, this is normal, this is every day, this is easy, but I don’t believe it.

I should leave.

Or call the police.

A mortician.

My brother.

The Ghostbusters.

My bedside table is in arm's reach, so, eyes still shut, I fumble around with my left hand until it lands on what I’m looking for. “Put this on.”

A beat passes, and I open my eyes. The hollow holes that lead to his lack of brain are now concealed behind two cartoonish eyes with long eyelash of my eye mask. The spools of his white hair crisscross in the bands. His ridiculous ensemble is complete and the horror show is over.

“You don’t seem like a zombie.”

He nods.

“You don’t look alive, either.”

He shrugs.

I laugh.

He gives a mute, full-body laugh.

Deep, billowing laughs pour out of me for longer than I’ve laughed in years. My hysteria fades into small giggles until I slow and sputter. I let myself accept completely that he is undead Einstein. “How did you get here?”

He grabs the paper and pen, and I watch him scribble a few lines, “Stop, wait.” I retrieve my laptop from the bedside table, flip up the screen, and run my finger over the power button. I gesture it to him. “Can you type?”

He nods and I hand him the computer. As he runs his finger across the touchpad and watches the cursor dart across the screen, his shoulders jump with excitement. He places his fingers on the keyboard and starts clicking.