Read Online House of Cabal Volume One: Eden by Wesley McCraw - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Wesley McCraw
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and benches and tiles materialize out of the steam,
along with the smell of sweat and bleach, but still everything
blurs together. Unknown men dress or undress, and you hear banter
but can’t distinguish words.
A well-built man named Rod sits beside me,
his face vague like in a dream. I pull up my boxers under my towel
so as not to expose myself. I have light red, almost blond, chest
hair. Body hair trails down my defined abs. Freckles dust my
muscled shoulders. You can’t take in more than one detail at a
time.
I pull on my jeans, pull down the bunched
legs of my boxer shorts, and button my fly. As I dress, the
paranoia I felt earlier during my workout distracts me.
While I performed my chin-ups and bench
press, while I tried to focus on proper form, the whole time I felt
someone secretly watching me. People check me out all the time.
This was different. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on
end.
Even now I get a chill.
Should I mention it to Rod? Or am I being
crazy?
“Same time?” I say.
“Yep.”
I’ve known Rod for a few years. We spot each
other when we lift. I like that we rarely talk. He’s not dressed
yet, and I leave him behind, per usual.
As I turn the corner to exit the locker room,
a bodybuilder knocks into me hard. His skin is a shade darker than
Caucasian, with full lips and a clean-shaven jaw. His hair is cut
close to the scalp. His dark, intense eyes cruise me. Or is that
anger? Instead of saying anything, he pulls off his shirt. One
nipple is pierced with a silver ring.
Heat comes to my face, and I keep walking.
“Sorry.”
As you and I come out of the locker room, the
workout area overwhelms your senses with its complexity. Everything
blurs gray again.
Stay close.
You follow my instructions, staying close
enough to smell my deodorant. If you lose me, I’m worried you’ll be
lost in the void. Focus on me. Focus on my thoughts. My thoughts
create your reality.
I take the MAX: Portland’s light rail public
transit system.
Intense body odor invades your nostrils. You
still can’t see the complete scene, only small details: A ratty
scarf knitted in a million dirty colors. A patch on an elbow or a
knee. Empty cans rattling in plastic shopping bags. You can’t seem
to fill in the gaps, to piece the homeless passenger together in
your mind.
The ever-present gray looms outside the
window. If you look directly at the abyss, you fear you’ll glimpse
the alien presence you sensed before in the locker room. You
imagine it floating out there, a dark wraith or a large bloodshot
eyeball with tentacles coming out the back.
It’s just boring Portland outside as far I
can tell. Hold tight.
Normally I don’t take the MAX, but it’s been
raining hard lately. I don’t mind a sprinkle, but I don’t like
getting drenched.
I step off, and it’s dark and pouring. I jog,
my legs weak and heavy from the workout, and the blur of sidewalk
rushes underneath you. It’s like being underwater, and as I move, a
current pulls you along with me. You surrender to the pull. What
choice do you have?
Once home, the current around you calms and
you once again move of your own accord. I change into my plaid
pajamas. You feel like a ghost haunting me. This can’t be real.
I sit in my Laz-E-Boy. It’s okay, Chuck. I’m
right here: a twenty-seven-year-old in green and blue plaid pajamas
relaxing after an exhausting day of normality.
You stand behind my chair, fixing your tie,
not really looking at me. You want the real world back: your wife,
your children, your work.
But, Chuck, I am your work.
You collect your composure. In your breast
pocket the tape recorder spins its gears. Your other pockets are
stuffed with cassette tapes. You ask what year this is.
Two thousand. It still feels weird, doesn’t
it? Two thousand. The new millennium. Oh, it’s May 15, 2000, if you
need something more exact. You’re a biographer, right? Sorry. I’m
starting to forget. Why write about me? I’m nothing
along with the smell of sweat and bleach, but still everything
blurs together. Unknown men dress or undress, and you hear banter
but can’t distinguish words.
A well-built man named Rod sits beside me,
his face vague like in a dream. I pull up my boxers under my towel
so as not to expose myself. I have light red, almost blond, chest
hair. Body hair trails down my defined abs. Freckles dust my
muscled shoulders. You can’t take in more than one detail at a
time.
I pull on my jeans, pull down the bunched
legs of my boxer shorts, and button my fly. As I dress, the
paranoia I felt earlier during my workout distracts me.
While I performed my chin-ups and bench
press, while I tried to focus on proper form, the whole time I felt
someone secretly watching me. People check me out all the time.
This was different. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on
end.
Even now I get a chill.
Should I mention it to Rod? Or am I being
crazy?
“Same time?” I say.
“Yep.”
I’ve known Rod for a few years. We spot each
other when we lift. I like that we rarely talk. He’s not dressed
yet, and I leave him behind, per usual.
As I turn the corner to exit the locker room,
a bodybuilder knocks into me hard. His skin is a shade darker than
Caucasian, with full lips and a clean-shaven jaw. His hair is cut
close to the scalp. His dark, intense eyes cruise me. Or is that
anger? Instead of saying anything, he pulls off his shirt. One
nipple is pierced with a silver ring.
Heat comes to my face, and I keep walking.
“Sorry.”
As you and I come out of the locker room, the
workout area overwhelms your senses with its complexity. Everything
blurs gray again.
Stay close.
You follow my instructions, staying close
enough to smell my deodorant. If you lose me, I’m worried you’ll be
lost in the void. Focus on me. Focus on my thoughts. My thoughts
create your reality.
I take the MAX: Portland’s light rail public
transit system.
Intense body odor invades your nostrils. You
still can’t see the complete scene, only small details: A ratty
scarf knitted in a million dirty colors. A patch on an elbow or a
knee. Empty cans rattling in plastic shopping bags. You can’t seem
to fill in the gaps, to piece the homeless passenger together in
your mind.
The ever-present gray looms outside the
window. If you look directly at the abyss, you fear you’ll glimpse
the alien presence you sensed before in the locker room. You
imagine it floating out there, a dark wraith or a large bloodshot
eyeball with tentacles coming out the back.
It’s just boring Portland outside as far I
can tell. Hold tight.
Normally I don’t take the MAX, but it’s been
raining hard lately. I don’t mind a sprinkle, but I don’t like
getting drenched.
I step off, and it’s dark and pouring. I jog,
my legs weak and heavy from the workout, and the blur of sidewalk
rushes underneath you. It’s like being underwater, and as I move, a
current pulls you along with me. You surrender to the pull. What
choice do you have?
Once home, the current around you calms and
you once again move of your own accord. I change into my plaid
pajamas. You feel like a ghost haunting me. This can’t be real.
I sit in my Laz-E-Boy. It’s okay, Chuck. I’m
right here: a twenty-seven-year-old in green and blue plaid pajamas
relaxing after an exhausting day of normality.
You stand behind my chair, fixing your tie,
not really looking at me. You want the real world back: your wife,
your children, your work.
But, Chuck, I am your work.
You collect your composure. In your breast
pocket the tape recorder spins its gears. Your other pockets are
stuffed with cassette tapes. You ask what year this is.
Two thousand. It still feels weird, doesn’t
it? Two thousand. The new millennium. Oh, it’s May 15, 2000, if you
need something more exact. You’re a biographer, right? Sorry. I’m
starting to forget. Why write about me? I’m nothing
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