Stay In The Light
By: Leo Bruschetta
Prologue
Domingo Bolibar had spent the last few years of his life deciphering hidden messages and searching for clues. He had developed an uncanny ability to find information in places where most people never bothered to look. To him, the world was a cacophony of complex, interrelated systems, with messages waiting to be uncovered at its core. Subtle nuances—such as the timing of a phone call—could offer keen insight into a realm that couldn’t be seen, only felt, if one were sufficiently attuned to it. He could spot hidden meanings in road signs and read people at a glance, understanding their thoughts without a single word.
Had it been up to Domingo, the price would have gone unpaid. The development of such a talent came at a cost. But in life, some debts cannot go unpaid, and for Domingo Bolibar, the debt was far greater than he had ever imagined. ⁷
To gain the world in the form of love and admiration, only to lose it all—and lose one’s soul in the process—had to be listed somewhere in The Book of Greatest Ways to Fuck Up, had such a book existed. He typed: ‘The true shame is how ill-prepared I was for all of it. But, alas… as always in life, first come the tests, then the lessons!
Each image before him held layers of meaning—meanings that drove him mad. Somewhere along his life’s path, he knew he had made a dastardly mistake, and now he had lost someone who had once been very important to him. In this moment, the images were all he knew—frames of a life without him.
Only a few of his peers knew about his crippling heartache, his addictions, and his madness. Many were confounded by his sudden string of choices and harbored suspicions about what was going on in his life. Living out of his car, he appeared brazen, bold, stupid, perhaps even a fool—or mentally unstable.
”Why would you go missing from your own job, your own apartment?” his mother would say. The truth was too far-fetched to relay. “I was having a really hard time with work and with some people there,” he would say. “I couldn’t keep up with it… I’ll be fine.” he would tell his parents. “I just need some time to figure things out.”
He cruised the streets during the day, investigating the lives of those he once knew. He made himself a ghost, hiding the truth he carried about them — and about their future — whenever he entered their midst.
Before all of this, there was someone he had lost along the way — someone he had fallen in love with a long time ago. She understood him in ways no one else could. She was his dilemma. She once loved him, and cared for him like no one else ever had. But she was gone now, and there seemed to be no hope of getting her back.
It wasn’t always this way. There was a time when Domingo Bolibar, from Sheepshead Bay was normal.
Normal… Domingo thought. My life has never been “normal.” ”Normal people find the person they want to marry in college. Normal people have a lawn, a mortgage, a wedding band, and 2.5 kids.”Normal… normal is overrated, just like Falon used to say. Who really wants to be normal? I didn’t used to think normal was all that great, he typed. Now… I don’t know. It’s been this way for so long that I can barely remember when it all started.
A rollercoaster car from a bygone era sat still at the corner gas station near the apartment where he “used to live.” It reminded him of her every time he passed by.
For as long as he could remember, His life had been like a roller-coaster, and now the roller-coaster had finally stopped. Sitting on display for passersby, giving little or no interest. For now, at least… It’s funny… He wrote.
I’m writing this down because no-one will ever believe me. It’s been three months since I was sent back in time from the year 2016. Ten solid years of life were erased from my timeline. Yet… I still remember everything that happened!
The watcher at the gate said he would send me back in time so I could escape the realm of Pergo and repair the madness that had overtaken me. It’s been three months since my return, and I’ve only just begun to piece my life back together.
Before I arrived, I was a Human Inventory Analyst for the Tax Distribution Commission in Harrisbard. In just ten years, I was promoted four times, moving up from a liquor store clerk to Human Inventory Analyst. During that time, I was also in love with a girl named Falon… and I still am.
He typed. He hesitated. He thought deeper about what he was writing.
The last thing she said to me was “to never underestimate the value of a moment.”
He felt a burning in his chest, as if acid flowed through his veins. The sensation spread through his hands as he scrawled his notes onto an old three-ring binder filled with notebook paper. It was hard to bear the thoughts and emotions he’d kept bottled up inside. The pages soaked up the remnants of brackish water flowing from his bloodshot eyes.
I believe I was possessed by some kind of entity. One can never be too sure when it comes to the supernatural. When you’re lonely, it’s easy to scare yourself and get worked up over nothing. I’m trying to keep it together the best I can… given everything that’s happened. It’s hard to know where to begin, and even harder to explain. I’m not a scientist — I only understand the theory behind what happened. Somehow, I’ve traveled backward in time.
Here I am. It’s 2006 all over again. Finding my old cellphone in pristine condition offers firm evidence of that. The TV, the computers, every calendar I come across tells me the same. It’s almost like nothing ever happened. My body has grown younger. The wounds inflicted on me before the shift are gone. Physically, I feel fantastic. I’ve got some time on my hands right now, but it won’t be long before I’m out of gas, food, and money. One thing is certain: I’m fighting a battle. Not a battle that can be seen, but a battle nonetheless. One that affects all of us. Everything that exists.
Late one night, unable to sleep, he etched a sharp and cunning image of a human-like lion’s face onto a piece of graph paper. It stared back at him through lifeless, cold, and shadowed receptacles. The lines in its vacant eyes flowed downward toward its crooked, smirking mouth. Its crude mane, encased in a circle, was comprised of twenty-one blade-like sectors that varied in shape and size due to their hand-etched nature. The crudeness of the image gave it the subtlety of both a Greek sculpture and a cave drawing in similitude.
He breathed a sigh of relief at its inception. Something had released its torrid claws on him that night. It felt as if he were seeing life through new eyes. The thrill of a thousand wayward nights had left his life in tatters. Torrid love affairs be damned—he was through with the destruction seduction caused. A little while later, he came across a rather large cat that resembled nothing other than an exceptionally large female lion casually “cruising the strip” thus confirming that the magic had taken effect.
Took the Trans-Am out to Carlizzle tonight. Having trouble sleeping. Saw a large cat in the road about a mile from the truck stop. No mane. It appeared to be a female lion…
Chapter I
The year was 2005. He had been living in a small apartment in the hills of Mechanic’s Bird, a small town in the State of Pencilvania—one he considered quaint. An outpost far beyond the outskirts of crowded Phifedale. Someplace safe. Something he could barely afford. With the sound of trains off in the distance.
He had moved there after a tumultuous end to an even more tumultuous college career, followed by a stint in Phifedale, where he had worked various jobs in various offices, coding and designing web pages. His commute was complicated, his job was complex, but rather thankless. He made barely enough.
For broccoli-headed atheletic, Domingo Bolibar, even with his fresh education, life had been a struggle. Most of the work he found was temporary. He had searched the internet vigorously for jobs in his field of study, Communications, but often came up empty-handed. Companies were looking for experienced employees or those with a more specialized education.
The papers he had written had earned him another fancy, yet useless, piece of paper— the kind with little swirly designs demarcating the borders. It was interesting to think that someone had actually been paid to create something like this, he thought. His education had paved the way for a job like that, and yet, when he looked around, he found none. It was the type of job he might have scoffed at in his younger years; it felt beneath him. He considered himself a student of philosophy and admired things of high-minded virtues, whether he understood them or not. Like any philosopher, his goal was to obtain a greater understanding of the world around him—not necessarily to find a job.
After being turned down for several positions in various fields, he took his father’s advice and applied for the State Civil Service exam. He scored nearly a perfect grade on a test to become a liquor store clerk. On the scale of things in life, Domingo considered this neither very grand nor impressive. It was civil service work—boring, steady, predictable—but he didn’t care. He needed something stable—something that could lead to a greater fight, a higher purpose. With the struggle he had come to know as “the real world.” He was simply seeking a foot in the door of a stable career. What that career would be, he wasn’t exactly sure.
The job came easy. After a simple interview, he was offered a position as a seasonal liquor store clerk—with the chance of becoming full-time. It felt safe. It was safe. It was predictable, low-key, and very low-paying. He didn’t care. He was young enough that it didn’t matter. He was ready to begin working his first full-time job, and that meant a lot to him—even though his peers would have laughed at him. He was secure in who he was, regardless of what they might have said had they known. He didn’t care. That was his motto—not exactly a winner’s anthem. His mind had always been more concerned with cosmic things that didn’t make any money—at least not in any real sense of the word.
On his first day at the store, he met a team of what he considered to be misfits —people of mild ambition. Their profession made them seem simple, honest, even humble… very real. This was a different crowd than Domingo was used to. They had a dynamic he couldn’t find anywhere else. Each character in the play had already been carved out before him. They were like a family—“a great big dysfunctional family.” as Ken Smathers had pointed out. Ken had struck a chord with him early on. Domingo found Ken intriguing—the way he spoke boldly, almost heroically at times. He often spoke like a poet and even quoted great writers from throughout history. He wasn’t always perfect, but that didn’t matter. During a conversation between Ken and Julie, one of the daytime store clerks, it became clear just how true that was.
“Domingo, you went to college, didn’t you? Have you ever heard of Tolstoy?”
“Yeah, I’ve heard the name. Why?” He responded. “Well, the Russians had one of the most tumultuous countries in the history of the world. Aside from their dictatorships and pogroms, they also produced some really good writers. I find them fascinating. You have heard of Tolstoy, haven’t you? He had a really good quote on change.”
Change…” he said stoically, with a look in his eyes that could captivate an army.
“Change is… wait, what was it?”
“Change is… groaning!”
“Change is groaning?” said Domingo, stunned by the anecdote.
“No,” Julie interjected. “I think you mean, ‘Everybody wants to change the world, but nobody wants to change themselves’?”
Ken Myers had been working at liquor stores since he was 18. He found that the work suited him well, and he enjoyed it. Over the last twenty years, he had seen a lot of people come—and a lot of them go. One of his finer qualities was his ability to tell a story.
“So how about this? I worked a couple of weekends over at the Tannerville store, and I got to know Kathy. I actually got along really well with her. We have the same kind of sense of humor, and she likes to joke around. She started flirting with me right away when I met her. She even said she was ‘really into me.’”
“I thought she was just kidding around, ya know? So I’d say stuff like, ‘I’m really into you too, you know, just joking back. Then one night, when I was closing up the store, she said, ‘Tomorrow is Saturday. Maybe, if you want… I can come over to your house.’
“Jokingly, I said, ‘Sure, come on over. Wear a mini-skirt too—it’ll be real hot.’
‘‘Sounds like a plan.” she says.
“I thought we were joking around, like I said, but the following day she shows up at my place wearing a damn leopard print mini-skirt!”
“Holy shit, really?” said Domingo. “She showed up!? What did you do?”
“I said to her – “What are you doing!? You’re married! Get the hell out of here!””
“It took a minute or two for her to figure out I was serious, and boy, was her face red when she turned to leave.”
Domingo was both humored and intrigued. This was the first “adult” discussion that he had had with an adult other than his parents since he had finished school. Considered a man legally but still felt new to this world. The professional world. The store.
He had a very tumultuous recent history. He had stowed himself away from reality for as long as he could remember. Even after college, he had lived a semi-transient life—bouncing from one abode to another, doing his best to find some kind of stability. If only they could have seen the last five years of my life, they probably would never have hired me, he often thought to himself.
The store brought a sense of stability and normalcy—something he hadn’t felt since he left school. There was comfort in working such a boring and predictable job. And Domingo knew that if he followed the rules and stayed out of trouble, he could eventually make a living from it. He could tell because many of the people around him drove decent cars. Julie was one of the exceptions.
Julie Richards drove a purple Ford Fiesta with 256,000 miles on the odometer. She wore clothes from secondhand shops and couldn’t afford contacts—so she wore glasses instead.
“See, most of us under forty don’t get paid much. In fact, if they paid us any less, I’d have to quit eating.” She’d say. “I used to smoke, but I had to quit that because it cost too much.
“It makes sense when you think about it, Domingo. The way these older guys like Don and Dunn can drink as much as they do and not go broke— meanwhile, I can barely afford to breathe.”
Dunn was an ex-Army vet. He had spent a year in Vietnam. His story was that he had fallen out of a guard tower.
“Fall probably would’ve killed me if I didn’t get caught by that wire.” he’d say.
Dunn’s fall had been halted abruptly by a communications wire secured tightly to the tower. He had spun around head over heels completely before falling the remaining fifteen feet to the ground. The fall injured his lower back. He was sent home. Later, he would be honorably discharged.
The wife and I saw the Phillies play this weekend. It was a lot of fun. I had so much food…
“By food, he means beer.” Julie would interject.
“Every weekend, Dunn tells people he’s busy doing things when he’s actually sitting at home in his underwear, drinking Canadian Club.”
She was right. After only a few weeks, Domingo had begun to recognize the casual drinkers from the hardcore ones. His observations were echoed by Geo”, the chef from Phifedale who moonlighted as a liquor store clerk. Or was it the other way around? Domingo couldn’t tell.
“The hardcore drinkers are here when the doors open in the morning.” Geoff said as the two were working the registers.
“I swear, every week it’s the same people coming in as soon as we open up. Oftentimes, they’ll be here waiting at the door, ready to get their fuckin’ fix.”
“A lot of the hardcore ones get airplane bottles because they’re easy to conceal, I guess. Or they buy cases.” Geoff nodded toward a blonde woman loading up her car outside. “See that lady? She stops in here once a month, like clockwork, and buys a case of Nikolai Vodka—the shittiest there is.”
Domingo noted how accurate Geoff’s observations were. He had come to know each regular customer by their nickname. There was “The Joaquin Guy” who would come in twice a day, five days a week—sometimes six—to buy a single pint of Joaquin’s Vodka. He’d always say, “I’m not jokin’. I want Joaquin.” A line that had lost its humor after the second or third time he used it.
There was Jameson, the old retired Army captain. He had a preferred drink for every occasion. Jim Beam for watching football, Jack Daniels for watching TV, wine for watching movies, whiskey for when he went to his sister’s, gin for when his sister came over… the list went on.
“Rats. Filthy, dirty rats. I can’t stand them. They just reek of defeat and despicable behavior. See, Domingo? See, Geoff? This is why I refuse to work the register. I can’t stand them,” said Marvin, one of the store clerks, having overheard their conversation.
Marvin Packard had spent the last five years facing shelves. His story was that he refused to work nights, and when he did work, he only stocked shelves and moved boxes. He would refuse to work the register unless “there was an emergency.”
“That’s why I walk around here at night with this while I’m stocking shelves!” Marvin revealed a two-foot-long solid piece of pine, cut into the shape of a perfect cylinder. Domingo feigned disbelief. The staff had been marked midway with a black ring that read “Karma’s a bitch.”
“I hope you never have to use it,” said Domingo.
“I haven’t yet, but you never know with the riff-raff coming in here, Domingo,” said Marvin. Marvin’s eyes shifted toward the register. “Customer.”
Domingo went on about his business checking out customers. The conversation with Marvin sat in the back of his mind like mold on a shower curtain. This must be why nobody here seems to like you.
That evening, Domingo went home to his efficiency, feeling more depressed than usual. The conversations with Marvin were starting to wear him down a little.
Marvin was single—had been as long as anyone could remember. He says he likes petite women, but no one has ever seen him with one… let alone any woman. It scares me. The thought that I might end up like him. It’s been nearly a year since I left Phifedale. Here I am, with not much to show for the last three years—no girl, just this room, this job, that car, this TV, this computer…
While others made it look so easy, Domingo scraped by. He wasn’t happy with his finances and was deeply disappointed with the void surrounding him. At times, it felt like an envelope of silence.
The transition from college to the real world had been traumatic. His pastimes were questionable. Pornography had filled the void of his sex life, and films had replaced the emptiness of his lost social scene.
He stayed up nights watching movies. They had become one of his favorite escapes from reality. Gene Hackman, Richard Pryor, Eddie Murphy, George Carlin and the cast of Cheers were all there for him in his nomadic and semi-vacuous lifestyle.
College had taught him to live on a meager income but did little to prepare him for a career. He had learned a lot about the business of mass media but found the degree impractical. Every interview he attended if he could find one at all was a bust. He had no portfolio. No package to display his talent. No starting point. So he continued just as he had—scraping by on whatever he could get his hands on. He thought of himself as a businessperson, though he had no real idea how to do business. At times, he was contradictory. If things “went south”. He’d move on.
The modern world of business was within his grasp, but his college degree wasn’t helping him much in his quest. His knowledge of business was mostly theoretical, revolving around units and widgets. His mind, however, was geared for philosophy. He was even poetic at times while speaking. His written poetry had not gone unnoticed at Phifedale Academy.
He had studied religion and culture with a critical eye, but eventually tossed it all aside in favor of a more rational view of the universe—one that discarded the traditional aspects of faith taught to him by his Protestant upbringing. He thought of evil as a term to explain man’s more dire outcomes, but at its core, perhaps nothing more. It played no part in any bigger scheme featuring immaculate conceptions or giant wooden boats. He had fallen upon hard times, nonetheless. It felt as if failure had been following him around for years, and moving didn’t help. He turned the lights out in his bedroom.
“I’ll find my way.” He said to himself one night before falling asleep. That night, he had the first in a series of horrible dreams. He dreamt that he was back in the bustling neighborhood of his youth. Surrounded by familiarity, it felt good to be home again.
He dreamt that he was riding in a car with his best friend, Britt, through the streets of East Brookland—just like in the movies. Music was playing on the car stereo until it was interrupted first by pure static, then by silence. Perplexed, he looked at the stereo, searching for some clue as to what was happening, when a voice spoke from the center console.
“He doesn’t have a prayer.” Said the mysterious voice – The kind you might have heard on the intercom in the third grade. A principal perhaps… Domingo scanned his brain for some connection of the voice with a face but found none. The voice spoke again, as if Domingo were hearing only one side of a conversation.
“He doesn’t know about them.”
The car slowed to a stop at the crest of a hill. Domingo looked to his left for Britt, but Britt had vanished. He looked forward to see the empty streets sinking before him, with the sky—pure blue—accompanied by an eerie calmness and the static from the stereo.
I’m being shown this… Why am I being shown this…
His thoughts came to an abrupt end at the sight of it. His stomach twisted as he noticed it in the sky—a sleek flying machine that grew larger as it approached. His eyes were not only fixed on the object, but the object appeared enlarged, as if Domingo were looking through a zoom lens. He could see, from a great distance, every mind-bending detail of what was approaching in the sky before him.
It’s some sort of craft. He thought.
The craft was no larger than a sports car, with no wings and no visible source of propulsion. It had no windows or doors and was elaborately decorated to resemble the head of a dragon. Integrated bloodshot red eyes the size of beach balls, lime-green porcelain scales, and glazed white porcelain teeth came snarling into view in mind-blowing detail.
The sleek dragon-head drew closer, gliding effortlessly through the cool morning air. It’s trajectory began to curve in his direction. “oh no!” Its eyes were fixed on Domingo. He was nothing but the scene before him.
What does it want? He thought.
The answer came to him just as he asked the question. Surely, it wanted death. It was clear. His destructor had come, and it was a sleek flying machine that couldn’t possibly exist.
The dragon vessel moved silently through the calm blue sky, without hesitation, without careening. It moved with an unnerving steadiness toward its target. As the dragon vessel sliced through the air, cutting the bucolic scenery with maddening precision, it was only inches away from the windshield of the car. Its terrifying snout and bloodshot eyes were in full view when Domingo awoke into a similar dream where the same sequence of events would repeat themselves. Rising from his bed and walking to the sun-drenched balcony would be the precursor. The dragon head would once again appear on the horizon. Flashing white teeth in the morning sun, the beast-machine would approach from off in the distance. His mind knew it was there. It knew where to look. He knew it was coming again and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He would run back inside of his apartment’s living room. Locking the sliding glass door he thought might somehow prevent certain disaster but nothing could stop the dragon-vessel from crashing through the double-pane layers of glass that shattered like giant porcelain bells rung for the first time.
The following day, Domingo went about his business ringing up customers and bagging groceries. Roger Rohill the stores manager had an important announcement to make. “We are getting a new employee today. His name is John Stann. He will be working here part time to start out.” No one in the store was very interested in the news. The news was met with murmurs from the staff and some feigned looks of surprise. The best store ever… Domingo thought to himself….
Around noon Domingo noticed a new face in the store. He didn’t hesitate to introduce himself. “So… You are John Stann? I’m Domingo. Nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.” His sarcastic words must not have been received as playful as John Stann’s reaction was lukewarm at best. At six-foot-two his white crew-cut and white goatee, tan skin and olive dress-shirt and pink tie complemented his presence making him appear much like a boutique sales person.
Domingo was quick to change his stance to one of inquiry. “Have you ever worked at a liquor store before? “Nice to meet you Domingo. That’s an interesting name. Is it Spanish? This is the first time working at one. This is the first time I’ve ever actually worked for The Common Trust. Usually, I buy and sell real estate. In fact, I’ve been selling like crazy for the last ten years but it seems things have dried up, unfortunately. Do you own a house?” “No. I live in an apartment.” Said Domingo.
“Smart.” Said John with a smile and a laugh. “I would probably do that as long as possible.”
“Why? Said Domingo. I actually can’t stand it. Because. The market was hot until a couple of months ago. Now, I can’t seem to make a sell. Haven’t sold anything in months. Hence my decision to work here… Domingo was processing what he was hearing. Do you think the market is tanking? I don’t think the market is tanking, Domingo. I know. Interesting. Said Domingo. Good thing I’m not looking for a house. I couldn’t afford one anyway. The Trust doesn’t pay enough at this pay grade.” He smiled and so did John. Domingo found his new acquaintance charming.
Weeks went by and the friendship between the two strengthened. Having both started working for the liquor store at about the same time they felt a bond that didn’t exist with the other store employees. They often worked side-by-side running register. The thirty year gap between them often felt transcended.
“Even though I like working here John, I’ll have to admit. Sometimes I feel like a slave.” Domingo said quietly. We just don’t get paid enough. You feel like a slave said John. I feel like a horse. Hrfff. John began to make whinny’ing sounds.
“Sometimes, I feel like a horse too, John. Look at us. Here we are like a couple of horses with blinders on, standing in our stables doing what we are told.” Said Domingo. John followed up.
“We could do better. You could do better. I’d rather raise horses. And you… You’ve got a college degree.”
Domingo sarcastically interjected. “Maybe I like being desperate.”
“I’m sure you don’t.” said John. “Nobody does. Say, you know what works for desperation, don’t you? A nice glass of Scotch. Do you like Scotch?”
“Somewhat.” Domingo replied. He had only taken shots of it in college. “It’s too expensive.”
“Not all of it.” said John. “Have you ever tried Gray’s? It’s cheap, but it tastes just as good as the more expensive stuff, like Dewarren’s.”
That night Domingo took his friends suggestion and brought home a bottle of Gray’s scotch. He played music, watched TV, and drank half the bottle before going to sleep. It wasn’t bad as long as there was enough ice to cut the flavor. Cigarellos to take the edge off.
He would have another horrific dream only this time it would come to him in the bright morning as he slept with a mild hangover.
He awoke in a cold sweat with little time to prepare for his day at work. Once he had arrived at the store he greeted his boss Roger and took his station at one of the registers. “Still working the store I see, said Domingo. No horses?” No horses yet said John but I’ve got my eye out.
Later that day John came through Domingo’s checkout line to purchase a bottle of scotch. The corkscrew earring in his left ear drew Domingo’s eyes as he had never noticed it before. “Nice earring.” Domingo said. What? The spiral?”
Domingo looked closer at the silver earring, noting how much the tip of it—a conical shape—looked familiar. The feeling of horror rushed back to him. Domingo closed his eyes for a moment and steadied himself on the edge of the counter.
What? Yeah. I’m fine. It’s nothing. Just something I ate, I think. The memory came rushing back, tainted with fear. He felt nauseous as he experienced it for a second time.
The dream…
In the dream, a cartoonish, cherub-like creature with purplish grey colored skin, wielding a trident sauntered onto an old stage, like something out of a silent-era film. An interaction would take place. The cherub would do a strange little dance, drunkedly falling on the floor where it would let out a little puff of gas from it’s naked buttocks. Immediately following that display it would laugh nervously almost as if it were embarrassed.
Domingo, feeling a child-like sense of curiosity, questioned the infant-like and devilish little critter. “Hey there guy… That’s an interesting fork.” He would beckon at the cherub. It stood up on the stage awkwardly. Domingo’s eyes focused in on its strange little face and was surprised to see the expression of a bitter and hate-filled pudgy man. It was so angry and angst-ridden.
The grotesque cherub mewed on the stage. Shifting from side to side anxiously.
”What’s wrong with you?” He said the words compassionately as if he were talking to a child. He could sense that compassion was not the key that was going to break this lock. The lock that would free this creature from its distemper. It would saunter back and forth across the stage in Domingo’s mind. It would stumble around clumsily as if it were performing some slapstick stand-up comedy routine.
Letting out a few small grunts, the anguished creature protested and proceeded to “break the fourth wall” by hurling its trident repeatedly against the glass pane that was the interior of his mind. The glass eventually gave way, leaving a jagged hole through which the caricature unabashedly urinated into the broken glass of Domingo’s consciousness—and subsequently into his brain.
As if all of this wasn’t bad enough, the creature finished off its assault by spreading its awful wings, laughing devilishly, and then taking flight directly through the fourth wall into Domingo’s mind, waking him in an alert and bewildered state.
The last thing he had seen of the caricature was its tail—a corkscrew. But what he remembered most vividly, beyond all else, was its hideous little face… Its face… Its sour little face… It was so sour… So ugly. So filled with contempt and hatred. It was the ugliest part of myself, in perfect clarity, personified by a cherublike demon.
I don’t normally feel so affected by bad dreams. He thought. They don’t usually bother me… And yet here I am, standing in a liquor store where I work, feeling worried… Worried about a bad dream I had the night before…
It took him some time to regain his composure. He was weak at the knees from recalling the dream.
“Domingo, are you ok? You look paler than usual.” Said John Stann.
“Yeah, said Domingo. It must have been something I ate. I’m not feeling so well. I’ll be fine. What did you have?”
Domingo paused to think about what he had had for breakfast that morning. The chicken sandwich from the night before didn’t look appealing that morning so all he had was a cup of coffee yet the answer supplied: “Mom’s French Toast”.
“Kids.” Retorted John Stann sarcastically.
It was a Saturday and business was more brisk than usual. The line at Domingo’s cash register had begun to form a curve as he plodded along ringing up customers. One by one, he processed their orders, counted their change, and handed their receipts. He felt that if he kept moving that he could forget about the bizarre week he had been having.
Dusk had fallen and the influx of customers had finally begun to diminish. “Do you happen to have any of this chilled said a female customer?” She was holding a bottle of Arbor Mist, a fruity wine that he knew was madly popular among women. He paused to think about what she had asked when he noticed the flashing blue and red lights of a police cruiser in the stores parking lot.
“That can’t be good.” Said John as he stepped away from his register towards the storefront windows. The lights made the store look like a disco.
“Do you see that car?” Said Domingo to John. Outside the store sat a wrecked royal blue Mazda 6 sports sedan with tan interior. The flashing lights had formed a silhouette of black shapes that almost looked like words. The front bumper had been partially ripped off and had begun to partially twist itself around the front axle causing it to jut out to the side like a wing. Shards of broken fiberglass were scattered throughout the damage.
“Holy shit!” Said Marvin. “Ohhhh!” Gasped one of the customers. The scene had stopped her in her tracks as she made her way towards the door. The lights had come on silent but blinding nonetheless.
Only silhouettes could be seen by the staff as they watched the spectacle before them. They could see the police interrogating a small figure sitting hunched over in the seat. Domingo was attempting not to notice. By the time he counted his drawer and punched out for the night they were gone.
In the morning he headed into work. Middle shift. He noticed that the blue car from the night before was still sitting in the same spot. Its’ bumper, twisted like a ribbon, shined in the midday sun.
“Hey, Domingo. You were here last night. Weren’t you?” Said Marvin as Domingo entered the store. He could sense trouble. The room began to spin a bit as Marvin laid the news on him.
“You were here working register?”
“Yeah I was here working register. What is this about?”
“It’s about that car outside, Domingo. Roger wants to know and the cops want to know. They have been here all morning. Where have you been?”
“I was at home. Now I’m here. I wasn’t scheduled to be here till now, 10:00 AM. What happened?”
“I’ve been talking with them. What they are saying is that a lady drove that car right there to our store exactly like it is right now, came into our store picked up two large jugs of wine and paid for them at one of our registers. And now… They want to know.”
“They want to know who sold it?”
“Yep. They want to know, Domingo. They want to know. So… What f should I tell them?”
“I don’t rememb… What did she look like?”
“She was short. About 110 lbs. Dark, short curly hair. Two big jugs of wine. One in each hand. Ring a bell?”
Domingo closed his eyes to help remember.
I don’t remember serving anyone like that. I served so many customers yesterday it was just a blur. I don’t remember thinking that any of them were intoxicated. Domingo was doing his best to recall the events from the night before. He could see her face … two jugs of wine… He shook his head. “I remember her vaguely but I don’t remember thinking there was anything wrong with her. I mean if she was drunk… I didn’t see any indication…”
“Alright. That’s what I’ll tell them.” Said Marvin plainly. He stood in the bright morning light catching fragmented rays of yellow light on the backs of his shoulders. Sleeves rolled up, arms folded. It was clear he was not interested in helping the police any more than necessary.
“Do you want me to talk to them?”
“No. You stay right here. I’ll handle them.” Marvin broke into motion toward the door.
When Marvin returned Domingo felt sick to his stomach having learned that the police had gleaned from an eyewitness that she had hit the curb about a half mile down the road.
“So not only did she get shit-faced but according to an eyewitness, she tried to commit suicide. They say she was laying in the street somewhere near her wrecked vehicle.” Said Marvin. Eyes bigger than usual.
“That’s weird.” Said Domingo. “So what? Some lady gets shit-faced and wrecks her car on the way in here? What are you looking at me for…” His mouth dropped a little at the realization.
“She also managed to purchase two jugs of wine from our store somehow after the accident.” Said Marvin, with concern. Domingo was doing his best to avoid looking anything less than collected… He thought about the implications of what Marvin was saying.
“What are you talking about, Marvin? What are you saying? She some kind of drunk zombie or something?”
“Could be.” He said. Standing up straight as if to check his own posture. Domingo had warded off any suspicion of wrongdoing on his part. That was the most important thing He detailed everything he had experienced every little nuance that night in his journal after looking furiously for a new job. The next day he would announce his plan to start over.
“Today the most bizarre thing happened…” He wrote. “Some old wino crashed her car outside the store this morning. I’m noting this down in case anything else happens. Anything strange. Fuck. If someone finds my befuddled corpse somewhere, maybe you can laugh about this at my funeral. Call me crazy, but the customers are turning into zombies.
Today’s mishap was something I almost felt responsible for, until I found out the fantastic improbability of what they say happened actually happening. I would’ve noticed a zombie. I would’ve noticed a woman who wrecks her car and is found lying in the road.”
He realized he didn’t know who had seen her lying in the road and reported it to the police. How did she go from lying in the road, back into her wrecked car, and then into the liquor store? Had she been to the store before? Probably. There were so many customers. How could he possibly keep track?
The following day, he made his announcement. “I want to work for the Gambling Board. I understand that The Board is new within the last three years and I think that it would be a good fit for me.”
Dunn gazed at Domingo with a vague look of disdain. “Domingo.” He said. Are you sure you want to do that? Harrisbard is an awful shitty place. Are you really going to try and commu…” Julie cut him off.
“I think you should go for it, Domingo! Don’t listen to Dunn, he doesn’t want anyone to be happy.”
“A good fit!? Do you think that commuting to hell on earth is a good fit!?” Said Dunn.
“I think working for The Trust is a good fit, Dunn. It might be a shitty place but that’s where the jobs are.”
“What’s so wrong with Harrisbard, anyway?” He said as if he had forgotten all he had ever seen about it in the news.” Every city has crime. He thought.
“Everything .” Said Dunn. “It’s just a shit-hole.” Their crime rate is one of the highest in The Nation. Their taxes are high, their cost of living is high. I’m telling you, kid. You’ll regret it. Trust me.”
“Move there? Said Dunn. You don’t want to move there.” Domingo glared at the pock marks on his stubborn coworkers cheek. “If you do, you better stay on the West Shore of the Waif River.”
”Why the west shore?” Said Domingo, confounded.
Dunn glared at Domingo. “Don’t take this the wrong way, dude. He said. It’s because, you seem more white than black to me.”
The obtuse comment sent waves of electricity up Domingo’s spine. He was used to ignorant comments from ignorant people. Being misunderstood his entire life was something that he had been preparing for since he was a child.
Rather than get angry, he always felt it easier to keep ignorance in check by rebuking such comments. “I’m not white” he said. “I’m half and half. You know, like an Oreo. But if I was white, I still wouldn’t say that shit. It’s ignorant. You’re lucky I like you”.
“Whatever, Domingo.” Said Dunn as he reached for his timecard. “Who knows? Maybe in HBURD you won’t have to do this every day.” He said, punching his card with a loud bang.
Weeks went by and the incident in the parking lot faded from the store’s collective memory. Domingo continued his quest to find a logical next step in his career. He drove to the city and interviewed for several positions – one of which he ended up getting.
“The TDC” wants me said Domingo to John. This is it he said. I’ll be starting in a month. A month? Really? Why so long and what is the job? “Well it’s not actually a job. It’s a training program.” said Domingo. “It has something to do with Human Resources. I’ll be hired by the Tax Distribution Commission to work in various areas of Human Resources for different agencies within The State. The training program doesn’t start for another month though… So, that is why the delay.”
”Well my friend, it has been very nice getting to work with you.” said John Stann. Perhaps we’ll cross paths again some day.” He looked Dom in the eye with a wild, stone-cold, emotionless smile that shook Domingo. His eyes are perplexing, Domingo thought. “One last thought before I go…” Said John. “Why do they call it Wine & Spirits?” Domingo needed not wrack his brain at the answer. John walked away before he could respond. Dom wasn’t proud of his own lack of knowledge on the matter.
What it was about the man’s eyes that he could not comprehend was hard to describe in words. Not because the words to describe what he saw evaded him, but because the irrationality of the words when strung together, and the sentences they formed, were what he found troublesome.
In his dreams, John had appeared as a wildly outlandish apparition. He was wearing a bright red and orange clown suit, with his face painted white. Domingo could still recognize his face beneath the clown makeup. John the clown opened his mouth to emit harsh, guttural grunting sounds for a moment before coming to a halt. Then, it was as if each eye were speaking— one with intense coldness, the other with heat. The eyes fired off in rapid succession, spinning inside their skull. The clown’s skull rotated an impossible 120 degrees, revealing a soft, bald, translucent patch through which Domingo could see that there was a giant wasp flying inside his head, as the eyes spoke in elemental tongues. Then the mouth of the near-cadaver opened up to dispel its message – I know you. I’ve known you a very long time. I was there when you tried out for little league baseball and failed. I was there when you got in a fight at football practice. I was there in the yard with you when you accidentally hit your sister with a shovel. I was definitely there when you broke your leg playing basketball. I remember the look on your face… Your bones were so brittle you little brat. Your eyes got were HUGE… It was on the Jumbotron for everyone to see…hahaha!!!”
Following this dream he felt an intimacy with John. A closeness. A strange kind of closeness. Some people… He thought while working the store one day. Some people just don’t know when to look away…realizing then that he was the one staring.
Not everyone in the store took Domingo’s news in such a pleasant manner.
Dunn responded to the news with a tone of mild disgust. “You did what!?” Said Dunn. “I got a promotion with the TDC.” That’s great he said. But what did I tell you about Harrisbard? You said it’s a little shit hole, and I believe you, but I gotta go. Domingo felt fearless. I have to find something better. I can’t wait around here the rest of my life for a promotion and there are bigger things…” There was a long unexpected pause. “Stranger things” said Dunn ominously. Domingo was mildly amused by Dunn’s attitude. This guy really doesn’t like Harrisbard.
Domingo said his goodbyes to everyone in the store over the course of the month. He felt elated. The letter that they had sent him in the mail was both exciting and intimidating:
Dear Domingo,
You have been selected to be one of eighteen candidates in a year-long training program in the field of Human Inventory Management (HIM). Over the course of a year you will be given the opportunity to participate in a training program designed to make you into a human resource professional. The program consists of four rotations in various parenthetical of Human Inventory Management (HIM). Each rotation will consist of a di”erent job at a di”erent agency. Throughout the year you will expected to attend 30 training sessions in addition to the completion of regular work assignments that come along with your job assignment for that quarter. You will be expected to pass all of the training assignments in order to graduate successfully from the program. Upon successful completion of the program you will be given a position within your funding agency as well as an increase in pay…
Things moved quickly that last month at the store. Domingo never felt better about running register and facing shelves. He knew that he was moving onto better things no matter what they said. Soon, I’ll have my own apartment, and who knows, maybe I’ll even meet a girl for once?
A year has passed since Domingo had any kind of relationship with a woman. In the years prior he had a few relationships. The year was 2005 and things were getting better slowly. So, this is what Ken Myers meant by change is groaning. Maybe he meant change is painful. I’m going to miss these people. But I have to do this…
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