The Reincarnationist Papers Read online

  “Good morning, Leo,” I bellowed. “Take the fucking lock off my door. I’m going to pay the rent.”

  The grubby manager emerged from behind the curtain, picked up the small dome-shaped bell, and threw it past my head into the empty lobby with a motion so sudden and unexpected that I didn’t have time to flinch at its proximity. It landed at the base of the far wall with a combination of muted rings and thuds.

  “Give me the money,” he said in a gravelly voice.

  I pulled two bills out of my pocket and placed them on the clean spot on the counter where the bell had been. “That’s for this week and next week.”

  He picked up the pair of hundred-dollar bills the same way he’d picked up the bell, and I half expected him to throw them at my head. Instead, he produced his receipt book and began scribbling.

  He walked to the stairway leading to the second-floor rooms as he searched for the blue key on his oversized key ring. He turned to face me after he had unlocked my room, but kept his narrow, bloodshot eyes fixed on my kneecaps. “Don’t ever fucking touch that bell again.” Each of his words hit me squarely in the chest like a stone.

  I didn’t say anything as he walked past me back down the hall. I stepped inside and went straight to sleep.

  i didn’t know why i stayed at the iowa. I didn’t know where I was supposed to be going or why I wasn’t going there. Each day in that room passed into the next without reason or purpose, and I found myself wondering more and more often if I shouldn’t just step off and start fresh again. The stiff orange noose was still hanging from the ceiling lamp, still willing. I wondered if it would be different next time, if I could forget that I can remember.

  I got up and looked out my window onto the dark street below. The clock at the bank across the street flashed nine thirty.

  It has to be p.m., it’s dark outside, I thought as I rummaged through the English and Bulgarian newspapers on the kitchen counter, looking for the Los Angeles master bus schedule. I sat on the bed and planned my getaway from the warehouse back to the club as I flipped through the coffee-stained booklet, cross-examining routes.

  The hotel lobby was full of men when I went down to use the phone. Leo sat on a stool behind the counter and strained his eyes to see the snowy television screen hanging in the corner. Red, Murphy, Cotton, and a fresh old guy were playing gin at a card table set up behind one of the couches.

  “Hey, kid, did ya scrape up enough money for rent?” Red shouted across the lobby. He chuckled to himself as he went back to his conversation.

  The Iowa hadn’t been a hotel in the conventional sense in ages. It was the kind of place that draws two types of men: those who don’t feel comfortable making plans so they live week to week, and those who stop here temporarily on their way to the street. I hoped I was in the first group.

  I stepped over to the pay phone and dialed the club.

  “Henry!” I shouted over the background noise on his end. “It’s Evan. Hey, let’s do this thing tomorrow.”

  loud knocking woke me from a dead sleep. I answered the door, rubbing at my eyes.

  “Good morning, sunshine!” said Henry, chuckling.

  I motioned for him to come in.

  “Charming. Is that a noose?” he asked sarcastically.

  “No, it’s just how they decorate here,” I said behind the bathroom door, trying to think up something. “It’s a new motivational tool the city is installing in these Seventh Avenue flophouses.”

  Henry looked around. The room was cleaner than usual. “Man, you really need to do something about this place. This is like county jail—no pictures, no art, no amenities, just books, clothes, bed . . . and a noose. Why don’t you throw up some curtains at least? Do you know what this place needs? Plants, something green and alive.”

  “Are you finished?” I asked, annoyed. “Let’s go. Did you bring the truck?”

  Henry nodded. “Can you read this?” he asked, picking up a Bulgarian paper filled with strange Cyrillic letters from the table.

  “Yes.” I locked the door behind us. He was right about the room, and it bothered me. There was no reason to live like this, in a place like this, other than habit. But if I had better habits, I’d just have to get a regular job to support them. Besides, what’s the point in a better standard of living if you’re not standard?

  When we reached his white pickup truck, I hesitated to open the passenger door and looked at him through the open windows. “Don’t worry about the noose. I put it up just to mess with the management.”

  “Where to?”

  “Sierra Chemical Company near Riverside and the 2.3 I’ll show you.”

  henry made the turn into the parking lot of the chemical store and left the motor running. “So do you just go in and buy it, or what?”

  “Yeah, they sell chemicals here, it’s no big deal. They don’t know what it’s going to be used for.”

  I had no trouble buying the industrial alcohol and emerged minutes later with a white five-gallon can.

  “That was quick,” Henry said.

  “Quick and easy. Let’s go.”

  Henry pulled into the alley and stopped by the door of Shelby’s warehouse. “Take off after I unload the stuff, and come back in an hour. I’ll leave the door open if I’m ready to go. If it’s not open, come back in another hour. It shouldn’t take any longer than that.” I put on a pair of black rubber gloves and jumped out of the cab of the truck. In less than fifteen seconds, I had opened the warehouse door, unloaded the truck, and closed the door behind me.

  My heart raced, and I sat for a moment on the steps to keep my legs from shaking. There was more light now, and I could easily see up the stairs. I pulled out a cigarette and smoked it down to the end. I crushed out the remainder and placed it in my pocket before unwrapping the roller pan and mop head. You’re not thinking clearly, you should have removed these wrappers beforehand. Concentrate.

  I placed the clear plastic in a pile by the back door so I wouldn’t—couldn’t—forget them. Concentrate. I carried the equipment up the stairs in one trip. The temperature was in the midnineties again outside and seemed to rise by five degrees inside with each stair I climbed. The second floor looked smaller now in the brighter light of day, and I had completely missed two small boxes next to the back support post in the darkness of two nights ago. The heat upstairs was stifling.

  I opened the container of alcohol, filled the paint roller pan, and let the mop head drink its fill before beginning to methodically coat the floor, starting in the front corner opposite of the stairwell. The methanol went on easily in thin coats that dried into the thirsty wooden floorboards. I worked rapidly, staying away from the uncurtained windows by making longer strokes from the sides.

  My first coat stopped at an imaginary diagonal line between the last window on the far wall and the top of the stairs. I had three of the original gallons left when the first coat was finished. My shirt was soaked through with sweat, and the biting smell of the alcohol hung in the stagnant air of the second floor.

  The vertical support beams were next. The rough, unfinished posts easily drank two coats apiece. I set the mop down and took out my lighter and a cigarette in consolation to my frayed nerves. I slapped the lighter twice, then thought better than to light it in the alcohol-charged air of the upstairs.

  The air in the downstairs bathroom was refreshingly cool. I lit a cigarette and barely recognized my own reflection in the dirt-streaked mirror. My blond hair appeared brown and clung to my sweaty forehead in narrow points. I looked pale even in the dim light of downstairs. I drew long on the cigarette and followed it in with a deep breath. The red end of the cigarette highlighted my face in the mirror. I moved closer so that I could see myself clearly through the grime.

  “This is the worst of it,” I said out loud. “It’s almost over. Concentrate.” I took the cigarette from my mouth with black-gloved fingers
and blew the smoke at my reflection as I spoke. “See you soon, old friends.”

  henry screeched his pickup to a stop, and I threw the steel door open, tossed the stuff in the back, and jumped in the cab.

  “Step on it, let’s get out of here,” I said, slamming the door closed.

  He looked at me with a sense of urgency on his face. “Why, is it gonna blow?”

  “No, it’s not gonna blow. Let’s just get away from here.” Sticking my head out the window, I ran ungloved fingers through my hair in an attempt to dry it. I looked back at the building as we drove off. “Everything is set.”

  Halfway back to the Iowa Hotel, I pulled out two hundred dollars and gave it to Henry.

  “What’s the extra fifty for?”

  “My alibi for tomorrow night.”

  “Cool. You were there all night.”

  “I’m going to come by tomorrow night and sneak out early so I can be back by last call and get a ride home with you.”

  He pulled up in front of the hotel. “Like I told the man, you were there all night. I think this is your stop.”

  “Let’s hope the man doesn’t ask. Thanks for the help today.”

  “Thanks for paying me. See you tomorrow.”

  i waited until henry had gone around the corner before I turned my pocket inside out and dumped the dozen or so inch-long cigarette butts onto the sidewalk. I crossed the street and walked through the hotel lobby and up to my room without speaking to anyone.

  The perspiration had dried out of the shirt, and it clung to my chest like shrink-wrap. I peeled it off and took it into the cool shower with me to try to rinse some of the sweat out of it. I got out of the shower without drying off, letting the water drops evaporate in an attempt to cool myself.

  Henry was right; this place was becoming more and more like a prison cell every day, and I was becoming a model prisoner, never banging my cup on the bars or burning toilet paper in protest against my condition, but accepting it, more and more every day. I felt like this room was beating me the same way it must have beaten the others who’d lived here before. I stepped around the noose and opened the window, letting the sounds of the street fill my silent cell.

  Evan mentions he got his supplies from Sierra Chemical Co. He probably means Sierra Color and Chemical on North Coolidge Ave.

  3

  Empty liquor bottles littered the alley behind the hotel. I walked the alleys on my way to the club and found four intact bottles and four stones before stopping at a liquor store for my final items: a large bottle of cheap vodka and two packs of generic cigarettes. I put the full bottle in my rucksack next to the empties and put the generics in my jacket pocket.

  There was already a short line in front of the bar when I turned the corner. I walked to the head of the line and nodded to the doorman as I went inside and waited for Henry.

  “What do you want?” Henry asked as he stepped behind his bar.

  “A beer and a shot of Old Grandad.”

  Henry raised his eyebrows, “Drinking with Grandad, nice. We’re hitting the ground running tonight, aren’t we?” he said, reaching for the bottle of brown whiskey behind the bar.

  I put a cigarette in my mouth and waited for him to light it. “Do me a favor, would ya? Take my backpack and put it behind the bar.”

  “Sure,” he said, striking a match. “I’ll run a tab for you too. I thought we’d close it out at about one thirty or so.”

  “Timestamps. Good idea.”

  “Yep, you’ll be here all night. I’ll talk to you in a while. I’ve got to clean this place up before it gets packed.”

  He filled the sink and started to work on the leftover glasses from last night. I tilted the beer glass and drank, holding the bitterness in my mouth for an instant before swallowing. The blue-white light from underneath made the brown whiskey look like green swamp water. I studied it for a few moments before downing the shot in one quick motion. Its warmth slid down my throat as I clinked the small glass on the glass top of the bar.

  “Another?” he asked, not looking away from the soapy water.

  “Yes,” I said in a flat voice. “You better keep those coming for a while.”

  I drank at a steady pace, and Henry immediately refilled my glass no matter how busy he was. By ten o’clock I was feeling the effects and slowed my pace. He came over, bottle in hand, as soon as I placed my glass on the bar again.

  Henry leaned on the bar and placed his head close to mine. “Hey, I’ve set ’em up like this for you quite a few times now and I was always curious about why you’re so careful in the planning only to get blasted the night you actually do it.”

  I looked up at him from the shot glass full of green whiskey and measured my response, knowing that I would have to remember it. “Courage.”

  He looked at me for a long time before he spoke, as though he were trying to discern the real reason. “I could see that,” he said finally. “Clouds your judgment enough to do it, huh?”

  “Something like that,” I said before turning to catch a view of the band that was tuning up below a lab-coated Vincent Price. “Hand me my gear, I’ve got to go.”

  “This way,” Henry said, leading me behind a black curtain into the storage room. “Go out this door. I’ll leave it propped open for you until we close.”

  I quickly walked to the bus stop at the side street and waited on the empty bench for the number thirty-seven to come. I caught myself tapping my foot in nervous expectation and placed both feet flat on the sidewalk to stop them. I closed my eyes and visualized the flames licking at the support posts.

  The bus stopped in front of me, and I entered, handing the fare to the female driver without making eye contact. I walked back and took a seat across from the rear door as the bus left the curb. There were six other people on board.

  My foot started tapping again, and I could feel the tension rising inside my chest. I wanted to yell out at the top of my lungs what I was about to do. I wanted to shock these six people into my reality. I was about to commune with who I had been, but I really wanted to commune with them, with anyone. I stared at each one in turn, my foot hammering now. They didn’t care. They just sat there, ignorant, distant, dead.

  I hadn’t told anyone the truth about myself since I’d left home. I’d thought about telling several friends and lovers along the way, but always held back in the end, and it always seemed to drive them away. I can’t lie to myself, I’ve missed having someone close to me through these three years, someone who could know me. I’ve almost told Henry several times, but like all the rest, I chose to keep him in the dark, but keep him around nonetheless, as long as I could. I have always preferred an ignorant friend to an enlightened, yet unbelieving, confidant. I had felt like this many times since I left Minnesota; I had felt like screaming at strangers because I didn’t have the courage to hazard a friendship. But somehow I have always resisted attacking them with my story. I have resisted telling them that all penitent sinners and good little boys don’t go to heaven when they die; sometimes they go to LA. I’ve resisted telling them that no one up there gives a damn if they’ve been naughty or nice anyway. I’ve resisted screaming at them to quit their dreary jobs and change their dreary lives because if they don’t remember, then this is all they’ll ever get. I never tell them because I want to keep up the facade, for my own sake, so that I might still pretend to be like them. In the end, I always take my facade home and tell myself the stories again just to make sure I haven’t forgotten them. I forget nothing.

  they must have all tired of me resisting temptation because the bus was empty when it reached my stop. The back doors opened, and I stepped onto the curb of the dark and deserted LA street without looking in the driver’s direction. The bus pulled away and disappeared around the corner, taking all signs of life with it. I’ve always felt at home in this type of desolation, as though these abandoned neighborhoods be
ckoned me to release them from their shame and solitude.

  The lone light down the alley behind the warehouse was still on and shone just brightly enough for me to find the key. I put on the gloves, took off the backpack, and stepped inside. A faint air of solvent crept down from the second floor.

  I sat the rucksack at the base of the stairs, removed both packs of generic cigarettes, and opened them, taking out four from the full flavor pack and two from the mild. I put the six cigarettes in my mouth, primed the lighter, and lit all of them at once, being careful not to draw the concentrated smoke into my lungs. The six burning tips glowed bright red in the darkness. I left the lighter burning and placed it on its flat base on the fourth step, then sat each cigarette one by one next to the lighter with their lit ends hanging over the edge of the step so they could burn down to their filters. When they burned as far as they would go, I crushed out each one on the gray-painted floor of the back room. I imagined the arson inspector walking through the charred remains as I removed two bottles and tossed them onto the concrete floor of the back room. The wine bottle broke, and the gin bottle bounced and landed next to the bathroom door.

  I then picked up the lighter, not disturbing the flame, and went upstairs to repeat the same process with the remaining cigarettes. I placed the two black folding chairs across from each other near my point of origin in front of the center post. Each time I crushed one out on the methanol saturated floor, I had to be careful to keep my rubber-soled shoe on it long enough to keep it from igniting. Sitting in the chair facing the lit windows, I took the last three bottles out of the rucksack, setting the full one next to the burning lighter.

  The light from the flame refracted through the liter bottle of vodka and threw several small spectrums of color across the polished floor. I picked up the bottle, turned it back and forth in front of the flame, and watched the tiny rainbows as they danced around the dark room. Cracking the seal, I removed the plastic cap and placed the open mouth next to my own, letting the quick liquid race over my tongue and down my throat, burning as it went. I gritted my teeth before taking a second swallow, then a third. Standing up, I held the bottle by its base and threw long lines of vodka across the floor toward the front of the building. Three, four, five long arcs of liquid splashed to the floor like fingers reaching out from where I stood. With the last of the bottle, I carefully connected all the near ends of the streaks back to my point of origin. When the bottle was empty, I placed it next to the two others and kicked them across the room. I moved the chair back and got down on all fours next to the puddle, then took the still burning lighter down from the other chair in my left hand and with a gloved forefinger drew a line of wet vodka out of the center. After several strokes, I had stretched it out a full two feet. It was no more than an inch wide but was as deep as the puddle itself. I switched the lighter to my right hand and held the flame inches above the end of the narrow line, then stopped and studied the lighter in my hand for a moment. Its strange Cyrillic letters and red starburst background were easily visible by its own light. My eyes looked at the small flame and defocused as it began to dance in my shaking hand.