Body of Immorality (15 page)

Hey, what did I tell you about worry?
said a voice in his mind.

Harper walked through the warehouse. Pallets of colored cola made towers along the walls. It reminded him of when he’d been hired, the tour Corey Vanderpool had given him:

“Stacks of two-liters on the west wide. Twelve packs there on the east, six-packs opposite, twenty-ounce, liters (for mightier thirsts) over there, and syrup bags, there.

“We stack and load according to the order on the invoice. Harper, you’re truck will be at Dock Four. Jason will load it every morning before you get here. You check the invoice. Got it?”

Harper resisted slapping his heels together and saluting, Yes,
sir!
Corey would’ve liked that.

The Hesseys were parked in single file down the middle of the warehouse. Harper was glad he drove the grocery route. The drops were easier on his back (he was able to use an electric hand-jack instead of carting soda in with a dolly like the other drivers).

Harper’s truck was ready to go. When he looked at Jason, the boy gave him a ‘thumbs up’ and nodded. All Harper had to do was check the invoice.

Corey Vanderpool, Harper’s boss, stepped into the warehouse from the lobby door, a cigar clenched between his teeth. Harper, despite his lack of (or too much) sleep, laughed to himself.

Warehouse Supervisor, Director of Operations, and all-out gunslinger was, Corey Vanderpool. The Benny’s employees simply called him, Boss. Corey Vanderpool was the manager, shipping inspector, and marketing advisor. Corey approached his job as if he were head of the Mafia. He took the position seriously, and he looked it. Moussed black hair combed straight back from a fleshy scalp. Everyday, he wore a suit and tie and polished black shoes. A gold watch chain looped outside his breast pocket. He reminded Harper of an agent for billionaire athletes. Apparently, Benny’s Cola—the Colorado Cola—did better than expected. Either that, or Corey had a lucrative job on the side. Maybe a hit man, Harper thought. He should ask the man for a raise.

It was soda pop, Harper wanted to tell his boss, not
The Godfather.
As if the way Corey looked weren’t enough, the man—much to Harper’s surprise and worry—carried a .Smith & Wesson .38 in a shoulder holster under his jacket. Okay, Harper thought, the man took his job
too
seriously.

So, maybe the guy thinks it
is The Godfather,
and he’s waiting for someone to screw up. What if I botch a delivery or count the merchandise wrong? Am I going to wake up with a horse’s head in my bed?

The gun, Harper knew, was eccentric. If the guy had a permit to carry the thing (Corey proved it to Harper one day in his office), and wanted to pretend he was Billy the Kid, or Josey Wales, or Robert De Niro in
The Godfather,
then more power to him.

Hey, Boss! Relive any fantasy you want! Just don’t pull the gun on me, will you?

“I keep it, Harpsey, because it reminds me of Pop,” Corey explained once, “and the way things used to be. Pop had a fetish for guns, and this one was a gift for my twenty-first birthday. I only take it to the shooting range.”

I think I saw you on an episode of TJ Hooker, you remember? That old show with William Shatner?

Harper
wanted
to tell Corey this, but decided—when dealing with a man and a loaded pistol—reticence was probably best. Still, the idea of Corey walking around the warehouse, chewing cigars, and armed to boot, made Harper a little nervous.

The radio’s heavy guitars, bass, and drums, added pain to Harper’s already tired mind. It was too early, he thought, for
that
kind of music. Didn’t anyone listen to Vivaldi anymore?

Rubbing the glue out of his eyes, Harper collided into Corey Vanderpool, sending the papers Corey was carrying into a flutter. Harper stumbled. Sheets of white descended around him like giant feathers. Corey, like a brick wall, was unfazed. He bent down and gathered the papers off the floor.

“Oh, man!” Harper apologized. “Sorry, Boss. Didn’t see you.”

“Whoa whoa!” Corey said, as if riding a horse, still situating the papers.

Harper blushed, blinked several times, trying to bring his boss into focus.

“Jeez, Harper,” Corey said, after he’d situated his suit, cigar, papers, and gold chain. “You look like absolute ca-ca. You know what ca-ca is?”

“Isn’t that a nice warm beverage for cold days like this one?” Harper said.

“No,” Corey told him. “That’s
cocoa.
Spelled different; sound different. Are you okay? Getting any sleep?”

Harper wondered what question he should answer first. “Excuse me?”

“I said,” Corey repeated. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Aren’t you getting any
sleep?”

“Sleep,” Harper said, yawning. “That sounds good right now.”

Corey looked concerned, black brows coming together. He frowned

For God’s sake, I’m not a crack-head!
Harper thought.
I’m just a little tired!

“Yeah,” Corey said. “You look like you could use it. What the hell’s the matter? Helen keeping you up nights, got a little chicky at home on the side? Depressed? You been hitting the bottle lately?”

Why doesn’t the guy ask me to write an essay about it?
Harper thought.
I come into work on time looking a little sad, and I’m suddenly interrogated by the Mafia with Billy the Kid to cross-examine.

Maybe he should ask Corey if he could take the day off and sleep on it. It seemed the perfect opportunity.

“No.” Harper said. “Just not sleeping well. Maybe I have insomnia.”

“Yeah,” Corey said, unconvinced. “Well, come to think of it—and I didn’t want to say it—but you, Harpsey, have looked like ca-ca for a while now. You know Helen was here a few days ago? She doesn’t know whether to be pissed or worried to death. The least you could do is keep me out of your love life. You’re a handsome man, I suppose, but I only swing one direction. I told her you were fine, but you haven’t looked well. I said you were fighting a bug, needed rest, but you refused to drive, trying to impress
me,
the boss, the man who signs your paychecks.” Corey held his belt in one hand, the papers in the other. He rocked on his heels, wearing a huge, confident smile, the cigar pinched between the fingers of one hand. “So, what I suggest is this:
You,
my tired driver, are taking the day off. I’m not gonna have you driving around town as a hazard to the community. Your health, during the day, is
my
responsibility. I like the cola, but it’s not that important.” Almost as an afterthought, he said, “I can’t believe I just said that.” Corey paused. “Anyway, you catch my drift? Good. You clock out and take your sorry-ass home. Take three days. If you need more—call. I’ll get the sick leave paperwork filled out. Andy can drive your route today. See a doctor. Get Cynthia to make an appointment. Don’t take it personally, Harpsey-chord, but your face worries me. I hope you’re not on drugs. Goodbye, my friend. You’ve been replaced. Enjoy your vacation. Report back to me…hell, give it ’til Monday. You’ve earned it. You’re good, but you need rest. Don’t come back until those bags under your eyes have cleared, and you’ve had a healthy breakfast. Thanks for your time. You’ve been dismissed.”

Corey nodded a single time, leaving Harper more befuddled than ever. Vanderpool clapped him on the back, sending Harper into a jolting stumble, and marched away, booming orders at Jason Toofey.

Harper stood alone by the rest rooms, a single trashcan, and a pop machine (no change required, compliments of Benny’s soda).

Day off, endless fun, three days of sleep without the sun.

Harper raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

See,
he thought.
It pays not to worry.

When Corey was out of earshot, Harper mumbled, “Gee. Thanks boss.”

He didn’t want to drive today anyway.

Harper opened the door to his right and was soon in the lobby. In the break room, he grabbed his time card and punched out.

“You okay, Harper?” Cynthia asked, a ballpoint pen sumptuously placed between her full, red lips. She looked ready to wink, smile, and invite him under the desk. Harper didn’t even notice.

“Taking the week off,” he replied. “Corey said it was okay. Think I’ll see a doctor. You’ll get the paperwork.”

He said this mechanically, another part of him taking over.

Cynthia frowned as he exited the lobby.

Pulling his keys out of his pocket, he tried to remember where he’d parked. Harper walked across the parking lot as if he were drunk, leaving a trail of wavering footprints in the morning snow.

*

Once home, he locked the door behind him, setting his keys on the kitchen counter. He took off his coat and fit it on the back of a dining room chair. He sighed, looking out the kitchen window into the fields behind the complex. He was three floors up. It was still dark and snowing. The sodium lamps lent a copper hue, making the world outside electrically orange.

Harper thought about a doctor only briefly. If he had trouble staying awake, he’d start drinking coffee again. He could always buy some 5-hour energy, and wasn’t that why he’d
quit
drinking coffee because it
didn’t
pry his eyes open? Maybe being a crack-head
would
solve his problems.

Harper shook his head, dislodging the thought. He went to the bedroom and took off his uniform. His only thought was the warm blankets and bed. The perfect thing for a cold day, quietly hibernating from the rest of the world.

Helen, I’m sorry. I hear you knocking in my dreams, but I’m not to the point of sleepwalking. How can I unlock the door if I can’t rouse myself from the grave? I promised I’d call, and I understand if you’re unhappy. I haven’t been feeling well. Do you think I have cancer?

He decided to sleep on it.

Maybe with time off, he’d discover what the problem was. If nothing else, he could get some rest.

Harper collapsed into bed. He forgot about the covers, and soon fell fast asleep. It took only seconds.

*

Tall, dead grass whipped past Harper’s eyes and ankles. Was something chasing him, or was
he
doing the chasing? With dreams, he never knew.

His conceptions were lunatic, a mind altered by another inhabitant. Preconceived notions of the sun filled his head.

City lights, passersby, the police, did not concern him, no late payment fees, garbage to get out on Tuesdays. He did not have to brush his teeth.

He thought about a family, something strangely not his own. How long had he been away? He missed them—no, not them—but…
others.

Like him.

Covered in the same sheen of scarlet, Harper Ellis swam through liquid carnage, something leaving him wanting more, always hungry, a life away from sleep, his lack of hunger…

In dreams, Harper ran…

A creature nipped, snapping at his heels.

Now, however, it was the middle of day. Children played on a nearby swing-set and merry-go-round. A golden retriever chased a ball and brought it back to its owner, virtually smiling, families gathering, laughing, soaking in the sun. Someone waved, welcoming him, but he didn’t recognize any of them. A television turned to static snow, channels clicking—frustrated—back and forth.

Something matted and sodden rolled under a police car, coming to a stop behind the left, rear tire.

God, it was cold ! Hadn’t he been surrounded by a family moments ago during a summer picnic? Did someone leave a door open?

There you go again, leaving your priorities up to me. I can’t sign
all
the checks. Give me a break, will ya!

The confusion of dreams made him question every vision. His life didn’t make sense. Why would dreams?

Even here, he wasn’t himself. He was a fish with gills of blood, darting happily here and there, through thick, dark water. It was paradise.

The world of slumber was a door to the unknown. He hadn’t time to question it, because he was tired all the time. He was a man made by separation, division. No one could live a double life as Harper Ellis could. No one knew more about it.

Never remember, always wanting sleep and nothing more, perchance to dream, soft sand between my toes from sand to blood and shore. Helen, darling, I’m hoooommmeee!

He tried to make sense of it by embracing his madness. In dreams, it seemed the only way.

When the sun came up, shortly after he fell into bed, Harper did not wake. When Helen came by—frustrated, worried, angry, pounding on the door—he did not rise. When the phone rang repeatedly, he breathed deeply and snored.

Something velvety, the sand of the shore…

*

Harper’s body was a band of gelatinous rubber, weak as warm syrup. He could not coerce his limbs to obey his commands. He felt drained. He could hardly move. The cold, pressured doors of sleep closed tight, a vice gripping his ears, trying to flatten his skull. Someone twisted the handle, and his eyeballs rang with pain. Harper gripped his head with clumsy hands, lifting arms made of jelly.

Getting up to make coffee was hazardous.

Wait a minute,
he thought.
I don’t drink coffee.

He lied back down again.

Had he
ever
been this tired? Why was his stomach a knot, as if he’d dined with rapture and voracity? Why he wasn’t wasting away puzzled him. How could he monitor his progress in sleep? He’d have to ask Helen to watch over him through the night. Aside from being tired all the time, he felt just great.

Thinking this, Harper managed to smile.

“You’re a bear,” he said, to the empty room.

It was already night. He’d slept through the entire day already. Was this his first day off already come and gone?

He thought about looking for something to eat but negated the idea.

He got up wearily with just enough strength to plop onto the living room couch. He grabbed the remote to see what was on television. The sudden glare forced him to close his eyes. It was too bright. He pushed the power button, sending the television into a coma.

I’ve been away, but now I’m back!