Forty-Fifth Paradox Writing

What do they keep in those back rooms downtown? Those rooms always seem bigger than necessary, and mostly empty. Perhaps the owners of the coffee shop live there, but they insist on hiding the furniture upstairs. Or maybe, at night, they drag in the comfy couches from the shop decor, and sleep on them (as well as the lamps.) That’s why they serve coffee you know. It takes nearly all night for them to move the furniture; they hardly get any sleep.

I found a bike in one, with empty stalls. The stalls may or may not have had curtains. What does a coffee shop need dressing rooms for? If you whisper the password with your order, will they give you a costume to try on? Is it frappuchino? No place seems to serve them, and Starbucks doesn’t have back rooms.

Susan Wheeler died on the 21st of June. The warm breeze gave her away to the first passerby, a seventeen year-old man (or a boy, if one talked to his mother) named Brad Pinkerton. He passed her body, not yet cooled (as if anything could cool on the sidewalks of Pasadena), and he was reported saying “She smelled like last weeks garbage.”

The autopsy report confirmed that the body was only a few hours old.  Both parents confirmed that the nineteen year old had gone missing earlier that day, just after lunch, when the sun cooked eggs on the concrete. Later they identified Wheeler’s dark tresses and the mole on her left cheek. Her parents couldn’t recognize much else.

Police investigated the case, calling the case a homicide. Five years later and no murderer had been found. Every third Friday a twenty-four year old woman visits the lawn, though the police have long since removed the yellow tape. She runs her hand along the blazing concrete and smirks, before she walks off, the sun catching the wave in her dark curls.

He came down the aisle and stopped at the appropriate row. Pausing, the man took his pillow and stashed it up above in the nearest compartment and closed the hatch securely. Then he sat down, taking deep breaths as he flipped through the Skymall magazine, his eyes only glancing at each ad for two seconds. Setting the catalog aside, he ran his hand through his hair, impatiently waiting for the plan to take off.

Other passengers milled about and took their own seats. He wondered if anyone would be sitting between him and the window. In the worst possible scenario he imagined, he’d get stuck between two large chatty passengers who wouldn’t allow him a moment to think. As he waited, he stared at the images in the sky mall magazine until the colors congealed like those in an old man’s tattoo.

He’d been training for this day for a couple years.

“Excuse me sir.” She stood less than a foot away, wearing a blouse and a loose skirt. “I have the window seat.”

Nodding, he set his neglected magazine aside and stood up to allow her through. He dropped into his seat faster than a two-ton bomb and she floated down to hers a second later.

“I’m Callie.” She volunteered, watching him as he picked up the catalog again.

He nodded in reply, before glancing back through his catalog. Her persistent gaze attempted to burn holes in the paper.

“And what’s yours?”

After a little hesitation, he replied “Ali.”

“Oo, like the boxer?” She leaned forward over the empty seat between them.

“Yeah, like the boxer.” He smiled at the right corner of his mouth.

The flight attendants went through the demonstration, holding up oxygen masks for all the passengers to see. Ali looked around him to see if anyone paid attention; nobody seemed to. He wondered if masks were all that useful in certain situations. Certainly they wouldn’t work if the passengers had died on impact, definitely not if they burned alive. If the plane sank in the water, the masks would only serve to keep passengers alive for so long.

Soon enough the plane interrupted Ali’s thought process with the pull of takeoff. He stared at the no-smoking light as he counted the hours and minutes. Ali only had to wait two hours and—

“I’m from San Diego. You?”

He held back a sigh, and instead he smirked. “Where do you think?”

Callie pressed her lips together, narrowing her eyes as she ran through her bank of information. (Near as Ali could tell, she hadn’t deposited much in her account.) “You have an accent, that’s for sure.”

“So do you. It’s just different.” He laughed, managing to keep the nerves out of his voice.

“Mm, yeah, I guess so. Mm…..Dubai?”

Ali’s eye twitched. “You’re too kind.” He hated that dump of a city.

“One of those Stan countries?”

“Close enough. Saudi Arabia, actually.”

“Oh, neat!” She continued to chatter away, but Ali heard little of what Callie said.

He dug into his backpack, feeling each and every package he had inside. As required by airport security, each and every bottle had less than three ounces of liquid inside. They didn’t seem to care how many bottles he packed with him, however, and so he packed as many as he could in the quart-sized Ziploc back. Ali rehearsed in his mind the exact sequence and recipe that required such ingredients. Like his fellow trainees, he knew he’d have a hard time finding them in a supermarket. If Ali messed up the order he might destroy his foot, or burn a whole through the bottom of his backpack; he wanted to avoid both scenarios.

Callie still hadn’t stopped talking. “Me and my brother used to play soccer all the time before he died. He always dreamed of playing in the World Cup.”

“Really? So did my brother. But he decided to help my dad with his souvenir stand instead.”

“What souvenirs did you sell?”

“T-shirts, key chains, and postcards. And local candy.” Ali checked his watch, swallowing hard. He needed to focus. He needed to stop talking to a San Diego girl named Callie. He needed to act, but she was nice to talk to. He couldn’t silence her just yet.

The phone rang again. Patterson did his best to ignore it, preferring to listen to the whir of his fan. It did next to nothing about the heat, but the fan  did have its useful purposes.

He could hear his secretary shuffling around her desk. She only did that when she felt anxious. Let her be anxious, Patterson thought idly. What else did he pay her for anyway, than to worry about things for him?

At last, Kelsey couldn’t stand it any more. She phoned his line, and Patterson could see her gripping the phone through the frosted glass. Patterson quirked his head to the side, watching her silhouette. It’s not like he had any other sort of entertainment here. He wondered if the lighting would allow her to see him through the glass. Maybe someday he would have to have her schedule an installation of some one-way mirrors. Then Patterson wouldn’t feel boredom as constantly as he did now.

Her silhouette grew shrank in size as she approached the door, finally knocking on the frosted glass rather lightly. Patterson let her stew a bit longer before he called out with a sigh “What is it, Kelsey?”

“You have a phone call, sir.”

“From who?”

She glanced at him, then glanced at the phone, and sighed. “Maybe you should just talk to him.”

Patterson blinked, picking up his phone. “Hello?”

The voice on the other line took a moment to respond. For a moment Patterson considered pulling his anti-telemarketer tricks, but in the end he decided to entertain the offer. Unfortunately, the person on the other line didn’t have the offer he expected, in fact, this person didn’t even work as a telemarketer.

“Detective Patterson?” The voice asked quietly; he sounded both elderly and mild. He seemed the kind of person opposite the type that Patterson usually dealt with.

“What do you want?” Patterson asked tiredly.

“Sorry to bother you, but I’m Pastor Gabe…”

Pastor Gabe? Patterson hadn’t heard from one of those in a while. What did he do this time? Did he forget to pay his taxes? Did he take the tag off his mattress? “I’m afraid I can’t help you…” His hand reached to hang up the call but the pastor’s voice interrupted him.

“But, Detective Patterson, I could use your help.”

“Look, I’m not sure how much help I can be to you.”

The pastor continued undaunted. “We’re starting a prison ministry next week and–”

Patterson failed to hear the rest of the man’s request. The words ‘prison’ and ‘ministry’ headed towards one another too quickly, collided in in his mind and refused to mingle peacefully. Finally, after using the patterns in the window as inkblots, Patterson resumed conversation. “Uh, sure I guess.”

Pastor Gabe sounded surprised, and relieved. “Great! See you Tuesday at three.”

“Wait…what? Where?”

The pastor responded with a bit of a sigh in his voice. “Columbia River Correctional Facility, in the lobby. See you then.” He hung up.

Patterson stared at the receiver in his hands, and asked to no one in particular “What the hell have I got myself into this time?”

When I add a cat to a thunderstorm, I’m supposed to get a wet cat, right? This time I didn’t. She’s been shedding like crazy, long after the storm’s over. I think something’s up, something…unusual.

Cat’s have always given me the impression that they know more than they let on. They’ll argue with me over the weather, but when I try to get their attention, they’ll just wiggle their ears as if the reception’s bad. Then they’ll take naps on my lap like they care about nothing else, and then suddenly they’ll interject their commentary into my conversation.

Do they really hate each other like they imply when they hiss at each other? Do they have secret meeting places? Dry ones? Force fields?

Perhaps, they’ve kept it a secret all along. I think they’re from another planet. That has to be it. Cats, my friends, are aliens.

Not much happened for what seemed like hours. I hadn’t been there too long before boredom made me try the fasteners on the straitjacket. They had shiny metal and intricate structure in the buckles, and I seemed to lose track of time trying to put them together. Try after try I failed to fasten the sleeves behind behind my back. Leaning against the wall, I decided to fold my arms instead.

It’s amazing what boredom can lead to. I’m not quite sure when I started to hum the alphabet….or maybe I hummed Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. Either way, I started humming it to pass the time…or maybe to entertain myself. Either way, I forgot about finding an exit. Somehow humming turned to singing. I wished I had a bottle of water. Pretty soon my voice went hoarse without any water to replenish it, but I didn’t stop singing, until someone interrupted me.

The door opened, revealing a white hallway…with tiles on the floor outside. I only saw a shadow of a person, holding something in their hand. Stepping forward, the figure chimed flatly: “It’s time for your meds.”

I stiffened, seeing a nurse with a needle in the full light of the padded room. “Where am I?” The question seemed appropriate for the first time that day.

The nurse smiled sweetly, like she would to a feral dog. “Same place you always are, Parge’s Asylum.”

I blinked, backing up against the padded wall behind me. “You’ve got it all wrong! I work in an office building! I’m an accountant!”

She winked with a sparkle in her eyes as she grabbed my arm. “Yesterday you told me you were a straightjacket tester. What will it be tomorrow? A professional bungee jumper?”

“But… I have a driver’s license.  Let me show you.” I fumbled in to reach in my pockets, but straightjackets sleeves had been designed to be too long. I couldn’t reach that far.

She didn’t respond. “It’s in my wallet! In my pocket!” I became more hysterical by the second.

“Calm down now, just a little poke is all.” She said soothingly, as she cleared an area on my neck.

With tears running down my face I whimpered. “Please…don’t. I don’t belong here.” I’m pretty sure she couldn’t hear the last word bathed in a sob. Then the needle reached my skin, and she forced some medicine into my veins. I blacked out.

These days I spend on what I think is the 13th floor, but I’ll never know because they never let me leave. I still wonder if I truly had a life outside of here…or if they’re telling me the truth. One day I will get out, and I will learn what exists beyond the 13th Floor.

The office sat wearily, even the light sank to the floor on beds of dust. Pieces of paper, once white, had turned yellow with age. Five fingers tapped the desk languidly as two eyes roved the room for some clue as to the time. A sigh fell from his chapped lips as he stood up. He didn’t bother to adjust his suit as he trudged across the room to pull the clock from the wall. The batteries had died again.

He pushed his bushy chestnut hair out of his face as he headed back to his desk, dead clock in hand. Fumbling through his desk drawer, he searched for batteries, but found none. With a sigh, he wearily glanced at the frosted glass in his office door. Did he really want to talk to her? Not particularly, but he probably should anyway. After all, he paid her to be his secretary and receptionist for something, though at the moment he didn’t know what it was.

He reached for the knob, and took a deep breath as he turned it. Somehow, talking to her took a lot more energy than it used to. At one time she could renew him with energy, and now she seemed to suck it right out of him. He opened the door and stepped into the front room. The secretary in question leaned over her desk, trying to sort through all the piles of paper in vain. It made him wonder why she bothered.

“Do you need something, sir?” She glanced up at him curiously, the light from the lone lamp in the ceiling reflecting of her glasses. Her eyes shone blue, starkly contrasting with all the faded golds and browns that stained the office.

At first, he didn’t respond. He just stared at her, wondering how they had come to this. Maybe her age made a difference. It certainly didn’t when they first met, at her interview. She had stood out from the rest, then. Maybe he shouldn’t have hired her to begin with. It’s not like she had the most skills or experiece….but she had a smile that made him melt. To go with it she had a voice that could make any man’s head turn, or at least it seemed that way at the time. Now the mere sound of it made him want to hide under his desk.

Even with all that, he still hadn’t worked up the urge to fire her. “Do you have any AAA batteries?”

“Er…sure.” She seemed like she wanted to shrug off his odd request, but she still needed to work on her acting skills. Rumaging through the bottom drawer, she found a few batteries. “They might work, but I don’t know. They’re kind of old.”

“Like everything else in this place.” He muttered, then he added at vollume she could hear: “Next time keep fresh ones in stock.” Hopefully he wouldn’t allow her a second time. Hopefully he’d finally scrounge up the willpower to let her go.

The phone rang. He waved his hands, in hopes she would get the hint and tell the person on the phone that he   was out of his office. She didn’t. Picking up the phone, she chimed “Patterson Private Investigation, this is Kelsey. How may I help you?”

Patterson bit his lip, as he watched Kelsey take notes on the pad in front of her. He should have seen the red flags the first time they met, but he didn’t. And now he had the chance to pay for his mistake every time they worked together. Like now, for instance.

“Oh, yes, just a moment please.” She looked up at him expectantly, and he wished he could hide.

Patterson summoned up the nerve to take the phone from Kelsey’s hand. He dragged it up to his ear, and cleared his throat. “Patterson speaking.”

“Portland P.D. We have a case for you.”

He rubbed his face tiredly as he scrounged his brain for an answer. “You’ll have to give me more to go on than that. I’m not telepathic.”

“Remember that gang homicide case a year ago?”

“They already convicted somebody. You’re wasting my time.” He started to hand the phone to his secretary so she could end the call.

“Wait!” The officer pleaded.

Sighing, Patterson brought brought the phone up to his ear. “What is it now?”

“It made the news, remember? And now, a somebody’s committed a murder nearly identical to it, even when the convict’s still in jail.”

He shrugged his shoulders, trying to muster up the patience for this. “What’s your name, Officer?”

“Peter Randall.”

Patterson rubbed his forehead. “Listen, Officer Randall, that homicide happened because of a gang fight. It’s probably just a copy cat killer in the same gang. Call me when you have a legitimate case for me to work on.”

“Just come and check out the crime scene. It’s too similar to have been done by another person. I’ll even buy you some coffee.”

Pinching his eyes shut, Patterson thought it over. “Alright, but it better be some good coffee.”

I stepped through the door, and once again blinked at the brightness of the room. How could anyone even sleep in here? My eyes traveled along the padded walls, but not for long. The only occupant in the room quickly demanded my attention. He had blond hair, one green eye, and one blue one. Or, at least it seemed that way at first. They seemed to change like lights at a dance club.

“Hi!” He greeted cheerily. Standing up on two legs, he walked over to inspect my elbows. Leaning each way and that, he nearly fell over once or twice. You see, his arms had been fastened behind his back by the straight jacket.

I didn’t quite know what to say. ‘Hello’ just didn’t seem appropriate. “So…you test straight jackets?”

He nodded eagerly. To demonstrate, he struggled, and writhed. The jacket didn’t come off.

“So it works pretty good, then.”

More nodding. “Oh, one thing.” He stepped closer. “Could you unlock this for me?” Turning around, he showed me the buckles holding the jacket together.

I blinked. “Wouldn’t defeat the purpose of testing it?”

He didn’t move away. “No! That is the purpose.”

Until I left the floor, or the room, anyway, I figured I had nothing better to do. I grabbed the buckle and undid it. “How long have you been working here?”

“Long enough.” As soon as the buckle came off, a smile exploded off his face, sending his teeth scattering around the room. Hours later I still found pieces of teeth in my hair. “I’m free!” He dashed toward the door.

Finally it occured to me that I should probably ask for directions out of here, but the straight-jacket tester had already disapeared. I moved to follow him out the door…but it slammed shut. Sitting on the floor, I wondered how I would find my way out of here. I walked to the door, but the inside didn’t have a handle. I walked past each corner of the room, checked the ceiling and the floor, but still I didn’t find an escape.

And so I picked up the straight jacket and I put it on.

For a moment I couldn’t see anything; the light had left so many purple and green spots in my eyes. I glanced back toward the elevator, trying to ride my head of the dull ache. Who knew that elevators could leave me with a hangover? A few moments passed and the dull ache waned, and I shakily stood up. How could I ever guess an elevator would irk my fear of heights?

I guess I found it most odd that the elevator doors never closed, even after all that time, until after I stepped out of the elevator. Thirteen steps out of the elevator, and the doors snapped shut, and the elevator, shaft, ropes, and all dropped through the floor. Curious, I turned around and walked back the way I came, and peered into the hole. Heat blasted my face so intensely that I couldn’t open my eyes. Glancing upwards, and I saw clouds and heard birds singing.

Rubbing my eyes, I explored the thirteenth floor. So far, besides the creepy elevator, everything seemed pretty normal. The elevator opened  onto a hall wall, with office doors, windows, and brass name plates lining it on each side. I turned to my right and read the nameplates as I went by. They started out pretty normal as well. A doctor, a lawyer, a shrink had the offices closest to the elevator. The further I walked though, the stranger the occupations of the owners of these offices became. Frame thrower inspector, balloon blower, professional lip-syncher, the name plates read. Finally, I reached a door with a profession I couldn’t ignore: straight-jacket tester.

I leaned my ear against the door and listened. Inside I could hear singing, off-key, but clearly someone at least tried to sing beyond that door. Knocking on the door, I listened more. The singing stopped.

“Wash your elbows before you enter, please.” The voice requested.

As I blinked in confusion, a slot opened up next to the doorknob. Like a drive-up window at a bank a canister popped out of the slot. Inside the canister I found a washcloth and some hand sanitizer. Shrugging, I squeezed a dab of the anti-bacterial gel onto the cloth and rubbed my elbows. A camera over head buzzed curiously as it watched my progress.

“Thank you!” The voice chimed.

And then the door opened.

Sirens squealed and howled, but they seemed more faint. Even their bright red and blue lights appeared muted, nearly grey that afternoon. It didn’t feel that late in the day either. Everything felt cold to the touch, except the body. Once touched, the skin felt luke-warm, and squishy like a water balloon. Above all else, the sticky blood overloaded her senses. Scarlet, appearing red, then brown, filling her nose with the rank smell of human flesh, leaving a metallic taste on her tongue. The of gun powder made itself known, but failed to take over the smell of mortal blood.

Then they were alone. She vaguely remembered her hands feeling cold and heavy. They slid over a smooth metallic surface, not caring to recognize what they touched. Her eyes stared ahead at the body, the carcass, the dead. Moments dragged on, and the wounded failed to rise….as did their chests. Nothing felt real anymore. Soon she’d wake up, soon. Her hand tried to reach her other arm to pinch it, killing the dream, but it wouldn’t leave the weapon it held. It wouldn’t let go.

Hands grabbed her shoulders, pulling her back and away from the scene, and pulling the cold steel from her hands. A smile crept along her lips as her hands felt lighter, but only for a moment. The same hands that pulled her back and held her captive, clamped on cold, stiff rings. She blinked, feeling the reality of handcuffs. She would wake up soon.

“You have the right to remain silent.”

She had to wake up.