rinseLacerate

Eleven

“Only the past matters up here. Those little snapshots you call memories: random and out of order portrayals, developed once and then left in a shoe box in the corner of the attic. We collect them: we like them.”

In her fancy evening dress and makeup the woman is a changed person. For a moment I consider saying something, then think better of it. She makes a dismissive gesture and takes a sip of chilled Chablis. I’m not sure when or how she got a drink. Will I be offered one? Probably not. I wipe the palms of my hands against my legs and try to relax.

She crosses her legs and leans back while absentmindedly playing with the pearl necklace. “You think you can improve, change, evolve, become. Why not just stop and look at yourself? Try to actually remember?” She giggles and says “you should see our slide nights, how we revel in the faux pas that is you and your equals: all the missed chances, the dropped balls, the endless, stupid fumbling.”

Suddenly angry, I lean forward to say something when i notice a tiny bead of sweat on her upper lip. Curious, I look closer and am suddenly aware that things aren't what they seem: her makeup is liberally but poorly applied. She has lipstick on her teeth and the rouge on her cheeks is uneven and garish. Up close that dress doesn't look so fancy anymore: it's too small for her and several beads are missing. I suddenly smell her: dried up sweat hastily covered with cheap perfume.

Uneasy with this scrutiny, she shrinks away from me and claps her hands. Without warning a bald, caucasian man, overweight but not excessively so, enters the room. She beckons him over and whispers something in his ear. He nods, comes over to me, grasps my arm lightly and says: “You are not able to go any further. Time you and I were on our way.” He smiles, warmly. “I'm the janitor, by the way.”

Twelve

Chamois and Squeegee in hand, we make our way across the land It’s surprisingly windy, 30 something floors up. The janitor and I are washing windows on a suspended platform that is slowly, slowly descending. We’re dressed in rugged work wear and orange hardhats. The janitor is singing a jolly work song. Oh tell me my frothy one, where doth one lay one’s head to rest? South-by-southwest right next to your chest?

After what seems like a very long time, we take a break. The janitor beckons me to sit down beside him, to listen to the crackle of the intercom and to share his frugal lunch. Between meat jelly sandwiches and pickled gherkins, he leans his forehead against mine and whispers comforting words. I enjoy this moment of unexpected camaraderie.

We finally come upon a window that doesn’t need cleaning, and carefully break it using sharpened ice picks and deformed lead mallets: the huge pane slowly turns milky and finally shatters in a cascade of tiny shards.

In front of us in a narrow corridor lined with broken glass stands a woman in black, her features buried in so many layers of starched cotton she essentially is faceless. For a second I think I'm back at the Victorian boarding school: the high ceilings and dark floors, poor acoustics and chipped tiles.

The janitor leaves us to go drive his machine down endless aisles, stacked with out-of-date TV-dinners, gluten-free candy and recyclable macaroni. The woman (“I'm the housekeeper, bless your heart”) shows me how to carefully cleanse the memory banks using industrial strength solvents: to gently release and pull out the units, connect the hose, choose the right formula and spray them down.

As the room fills up with vapors from the chemical reaction, our limbs start to dissolve and vanish: at some point I see the housekeeper stare at a bloody stump of rapidly dissolving bone and tissue. Is it a leg or an arm? Mine or hers? I can't be sure.

Thirteen

We buy 2nd class tickets, bottled water and peppermint bonbons on credit in a tiny kiosk next to the railway turntable. The housekeeper, finally free of heavy wool and starched collars, makes a little pirouette on the uneven cobblestones of the platform.

A shadow falls on me – the conductor, big and smelly in a stained uniform. I do my best to avoid his eyes as he hunches down and holds up his ticket punch in front of my face. The sun catches the chromed steel and blinds me, momentarily. “This better be good.” His voice is low and distorted, angry but powerless. He punches the air in front of me twice and is gone before the housekeeper even notices.

We travel by night only. The window next to me is dark and empty: an occasional street light in the distance is the only evidence of anything but void outside. I'm relieved to discover how numbingly cold the glass is: I lean in closer, try to expose as much of myself as possible as it freezes me, preserves me, makes me more insignificant.

Once I’m numb the housekeeper reaches inside and pulls something out. “Here. I'll trade you.” And she smiles with teeth too white and even to be real. “But you must promise me something worthwhile in return.” I look at what’s in her hands, and realize I have nothing.

Sensing my defeat, she leans back, crosses her legs and looks out the window. “The journey is always long. I just thought maybe it’d be a bit shorter for you.” Her voice is distant: she’s here but already leaving. The next time I look in her direction, she’s gone.

Fourteen

It seems I’ve been sitting here, alone, by this dark window for a long time. I remember people. Voices, conversations, interaction. I think there was someone here with me for a while, but I can’t quite remember. Looking around the deserted car, I suddenly feel anxious. Am I the only one left?

Just then, a door opens in the distance and before it closes, the unmistakable sound of subdued laughter and smooth jazz comes drifting towards me. Why was I not invited? I get up and make my way towards the party: I'll be damned if I miss this.

When I arrive, everyone’s already there: the doctor is ordering a tray of jello-o shots for his already intoxicated sidekick, the head cleric – stoic as ever – accepts a virgin mai tai from the butler, while the woman from the 36th floor is challenging the janitor to a tequila slammer race. Even the golden-haired elevator boy, thin to the point of emaciated, is here, huddled up next to the jukebox drinking diet coke straight from the can.

I make my way towards the bar, eager to down an iced daiquiri or two under the auspices of my old friend the barman, when someone blocks my way. “You finally decided to grace us with your presence – how delightful!” The housekeeper is here: big, smiling, unyielding. “We’ve opened our vintage champagne, dusty port and cloudy ale for you. I personally oversaw the slaughtering of a calf and a handful of ducks for some quick finger food. Even as we speak, they are polishing the fine dinnerware. Let it be known no expenses were spared.” She makes a little pirouette and says in confidence: “Once we're done here, there's Mongolian vodka and vat-grown oysters in the VIP room. Not to mention the quick pickled calf meat and duck tartar. After that... Well the night is young, isn't it. I shan't play all my cards just yet.” She giggles and claps her hands once, hard. From out of nowhere, a faceless servant appears with a tray of glasses. I grab one, but as I lift it to my mouth, something feels off. Is there a foul smell beneath that heady bouquet? Are the bubbles just a little too lively? I'm not sure. What I do know is

that I open my hand and let go of the glass that the sound of it breaking against the marble floor is surprisingly loud that everything falls silent around me

“I think that you are going to find that that was very ill-advised.” The housekeeper is too close, her breath sour and raw. Her voice low and distorted, she pronounces every word very carefully, as if to make sure I remember every syllable.

She takes a step back, watches me in disbelief, then clicks her tongue: “Try to play the part next time, would you? You silly little man.”

And with that she’s gone. I remember seeing her later, playing rock, paper, scissors with the janitor and the elevator boy, but I don’t think we ever spoke again.