There Is No Year - Blake Butler [51]
INDICATIONS OF THE MANNER BY WHICH YOU WILL ARRIVE
The son received directions to the girl’s house in a black envelope delivered in the night. There’d been no one in the hallway. The son had not slept. He hadn’t seen the girl at school since the invitation. None of the teachers knew a thing. The other students still would not acknowledge him. The girl’s locker seemed to be filled with some kind of buzz. The girl’s directions were several pages long and writ in ink that changed colors in the light. The son read them again and again, over and over until he could hear them in his head:
FIND AN EGG—ANY EGG!—BREAK THE EGG OPEN—IN THE EGG THERE IS A KEY—WRAP THE KEY INSIDE A TUFT OF HAIR THEN PLACE IT ON YOUR TONGUE—NOW SUCK!—GO THROUGH THE INSIDE TO THE OUTSIDE—TAKE A RIGHT—A RIGHT—A LEFT—A SLIGHT RIGHT—A RIGHT—YOUR OTHER RIGHT—A RIGHT AGAIN—GOOD JOB—IF AT ANY POINT YOU PASS A LIBRARY, TAKE A KNEE & BURN YOUR FINGER WITH A MATCH—NOW OUTSIDE A PICTURE WINDOW WITH NO PICTURE CURL ON THE GROUND INTO A BALL—ROLL FORWARD ONCE FOR EACH TIME YOU’VE KISSED YOUR MOTHER—FOR EACH TIME YOU’VE GIGGLED, MARK YOUR ARM—RECITE THE WITNESS—CALL THE NUMBER—SPIT THE KEY INTO THE SAND—THE KEY WILL SINK—DIG AFTER THE KEY WITH YOUR LONGER FINGER—WHEN YOU FIND THE KEY AGAIN YOU WILL HAVE FOUND A WALL—THE WALL WILL OPEN—LET THE SAND FILL IN BEHIND YOU—COME IN ALONE—I WILL BE THERE SHORTLY—NO ONE MUST KNOW—NO ONE MUST KNOW—GO.
The directions continued on for pages, including footnotes. There was a map so splotched with lines and symbols you could not see through it even when you held it up to the light.
The son sent the girl an email—LOL, say wha? The girl did not respond. The son did not know the girl’s last name to look it up. The son felt much too warm.
And yet when it came time to go, he went. He didn’t tell the father or the mother where he was going, as he knew the mother would not let him—not alone.
That night the son shaved his face for the first time with a knife he found inside his hand when he woke up. He did not notice all the blood, or the strange smell, or the nodule in his hair.
The son was an expert at forgetting.
EXIT METHOD
The son walked into the long night. He went up one street and down another. He turned and turned at times for turning. The streetlamps were dead or blue or strobed. The trees along the roadside hung down right against the gravel, fat with slug and chrysalis, thick with ash. The son walked. The son crawled a little. The son’s legs began to ache. The son tried to hail a long white taxi that barreled past him but the taxi did not slow or stop. Through the taxi windows the son saw no one. The son felt hungry. His hair was itching. The son licked his wrists. The son looked into the light. The night was scorched and streaked in lines. The son could hardly see. The son’s pants were wet around the edges, though it hadn’t rained in months. The son got a nosebleed. His skin felt heavy. There were wrinkles in his face. The son took a minute to lie down—an exit method he’d grown fond of—and against the earth his body rattled. The dirt was hard and itching, filled with lumps that bulged and warmed and wormed. The son rolled into some grassing. The grass smelled familiar. The son nodded off. The son woke up and walked. He saw the sky above him. The sky was gushing green. The sky was wrapped in mosses attached to trees attached to houses. There was a constellation in the shape of a dead horse. The son walked underneath it. A flood of pigs ran past. One of the pigs was a man on hands and knees. A pack of long dogs with even longer ass hair came after. The son no longer wished to go where he was going. He had never felt so tired. The son turned to head back the way he’d come but everything behind him now looked different. The concrete was bright yellow and glowed inside its cracks. Sometimes the cracks ejected worms. A man came out of the dark and asked the son for a quarter. The son said he didn’t have any money. The man asked again and the man