Hair of the Dog (Part II)

Hair of the Dog (Part II)

by Brett Van Valkenburg

Phil gasped and sat up.  He was on the couch in his apartment on South 3^rd Street in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.  He fell back onto a throw pillow and breathed deeply.  Crazy dreams, he thought—three nightmares in a row. 

After a few minutes, Phil got up to shower and dress for work.  As he brushed his teeth, he stared at his face, as if trying to catch it doing something it shouldn’t.  Before leaving the apartment Phil crouched on the floor and peered beneath the threshold of his roommate’s door.  The light was on, but he couldn’t hear her moving around.   He shook his head and left the apartment.

Phil smoked a cigarette on his way to the subway.  He passed two girls skipping in the hot summer sun.  A delivery man opened the barrel hatch beneath the Alligator Lounge.  The man handed cases of beer, at which Phil licked his lips, to a Mexican bar-back standing in the cellar.  As he neared the subway station Phil could hear the train screeching to a halt beneath his feet.  He and his fellow suits rushed down the stairs to the platform, eager to arrive at their three and a half walled prisons on time. 

As he rode the subway he revisited the first dream.  Phil hadn’t thought about Robert in years.  As soon as his mother had introduced him, Phil had hated him fiercely.  In his adolescent mind, he saw Robert as his mother’s attempt to supplant the memory of his father, and to punish them both Phil had treated them like garbage.  At least Robert was finally able to escape Phil’s wrath.  The marriage hadn’t lasted more than a year before he threw in the towel.  He left her citing a lack of common interests, but she suspected it was because of Phil.  Robert really was a good man—too good to tell his mother the truth about why he couldn’t stick it out.

Phil shook his head.  Poor mom, he thought.

The workload was light that day.  Only a handful of people called customer service to inquire about their credit cards, and Phil answered each question as efficiently as he could.  When the workday ended none of his coworkers wanted to go for a drink.  His colleagues had spouses to meet—children to attend to.  Everyone had to get home leaving him to do the same by default.

On the way to his apartment he grabbed a turkey sandwich and a six pack of PBR from El Morro Deli across the street.  When he returned home, he found that Haley’s bedroom door was still closed, but now he could hear the television. 

Phil leaned his head against the door.  “Haley?” he spoke softly.

No answer. 

He sighed and gave up.  Haley’s temperament was fickle, he knew, and if she was in one of her moods, it was better to just leave her alone. 

Phil plopped down on the couch.  He fired up an episode of the Simpsons on the DVD player and watched as he ate.  After a few episodes and a few more beers he shuffled off to bed.

The next day unfolded the same as the day before, as did the next and the next—a routine he was very used to.  Work was unstimulating. Haley was still locked in her room.  The only things that changed were the television shows as he ate his turkey sandwich and drank PBR. 

But the days didn’t just feel repetitive.  They felt familiar.  Lived in.  It was as if the events of each day were preceded by the memory of having experienced them before, like a protracted case of déjà vu.  That’s why they call it a routine, thought Phil, trying to dismiss his apprehensions. 

As he headed home on day five Phil stopped into the Tin Lounge, desperate to break up the monotony of the week.  He pulled up a stool at the bar and ordered a gin and tonic.  As he waited for the bartender he thought about his Disney dream, as he had many times that week.

  A glass hit the bar with a thud.  “Thanks,” said Phil with a start.

“Hair of the dog,” replied the bartender. 

Phil squinted at him.  “Sure,” he replied.  He took a sip of the drink and spit it back into the glass. 

“Hey,” he said beckoning to the bartender with his index finger. 

The barkeep glided toward him.

“This is isn’t what I ordered.”

“Hair of the dog,” replied the bartender with a smile.

Phil eyed the bartender warily.  His reply sounded eerily familiar.  “I ordered a Beefeater and tonic.” 

“Hair of the dog,” repeated the bartender through his wide toothy smile.  His head pivoted from side to side as if his neck were full of ball bearings. 

Phil began to sweat.  He grabbed the bartender’s hand.  “You shut up.  Do you hear me?  Shut up!” he repeated, with a hint of desperation in his voice.  Phil got off the barstool and backed toward the door.  It’s happening again, he thought. 

“Something wrong, mein Herr?” 

As Phil slipped out the door he could still hear the bartender rambling behind him.  “I’d smoke one myself if I wasn’t on the clock,” he said.

Phil ran around the corner and fell back against the brick wall.  He ran his fingers through his hair.  “Am I losing my mind?  Am I in a padded room somewhere?”

Back at his apartment, Phil put his back against door and slowly slumped to the floor.  He stared at the worn parquet slats and caught his breath.  Eventually his attention floated to Haley’s door.  At that moment he realized he hadn’t seen his roommate all week.  He was used to her locking herself away, but he’d see her periodically when she came out to use the bathroom or microwave some god-awful vegan meal. 

Phil rose and approached her bedroom.  His hand trembled as reached for the doorknob.  What’s in there? He wondered.  It couldn’t be her.  She’s, he paused as he realized what he’d already known for years.  She’s dead.

The knob wouldn’t turn.  Phil wanted to let it be, but he was compelled to see what lay inside Haley’s bedroom.

“Haley?  It’s Phil.  I need you to open the door,” he said.

No reply.

Phil tried the knob again, this time with more force.  “Haley, damn it, enough is enough.  You open the door right now or I will break it down!” 

Still nothing.

Phil wound-up and kicked, splintering the doorjamb. 

Haley sat on the bed cross-legged, her head facing away from him.  He cautiously stepped into the room.  The air tasted stale and dusty. 

As Phil crept closer Haley remained motionless.  He put his hand on her shoulder and when he did her head pivoted 180 degrees.  Her wooden face revealed a tooth-filled smile.  Haley’s waist rotated.   Her hands extended toward him, eager to reset the nightmare.

“Stop,” said Phil forcefully.

Haley’s hands fell to her sides. 

“You’re dead.”  His voice caught in his throat.  “You killed yourself.”

“You let me die, Phil.”  As she spoke her smile never wavered, like a ventriloquist’s dummy. 

                “I didn’t let you die,” he said, his voice quavering.  “How was I supposed to know something was wrong with you?”

                Haley’s arms sprung reached toward Phil.

                “Stop,” Phil said with authority. 

                Haley obeyed.

Phil guessed that if he was in a dream, then he could control it as long as he was confident. 

                “I want Haley!  I want the real Haley.”

                Suddenly the doll’s plasticity began to soften until what sat before him was the organic semblance of his dead roommate.

Phil squinted.  “Who are you?”

“Haley.”

He shook his head. 

“You ran,” Haley said.

“What?”

“When I needed you, you left.”

He pursed his lips and narrowed his brow.  “So what if I did?” said Phil.  “You were miserable.  You hated me.  Who wouldn’t have moved out?”

“I didn’t hate you, Phil.  I was sick.”

Phil’s scowl faded.  “I know.  I just,” he exhaled, unsure of what he was trying to say.  “I’d never dealt with mental illness before.  I felt like—like I wasn’t enough for you.”

“I was depressed.  I only needed you to understand.  Just like your mother needed you to.”

Phil lowered his eyes and was silent.  After a moment he spoke up.  “Can you forgive me?”

“I can’t.  I’m not really Haley.”

Phil raised an eyebrow.

“This Haley,” she said, lowering her arms as if presenting herself, “is a reflection of you.  The dead can’t forgive.  You can only forgive yourself.  Can you?”

Phil swallowed.  “I can try.”

She smiled and nodded.              

                They stared at one another.  “If you’re not Haley, then who are you?

“I am the mind beneath the mind.”

                Phil squinted.  “What’s this place?” He said, looking around the room.

                “A prison.” 

                “What do you mean?”

“It’s an illusion—fashioned from pieces of memory—to keep you trapped in your subconscious.” 

                “What about the animatronics?”

                “The prison guards.  They restrain you when you get close to escaping.”

                “Who’s keeping me here?”

                “I can’t tell you because you don’t know.”

                Phil sighed.  “How do I get out?”

“Memories are only a recreation of what your mind believes happened.  Seek what you can’t imagine.”

               

Semi sat on the backrest of a weathered bench in Alistair Park drinking an Old English forty—a ritual that had come to precede each night’s work.  A refreshing breeze filtered through the empty playground equipment causing the swings to gently sway.  Even when it was daytime no children played there.  

Semi was thinking of an excommunicated Hasidic Jew named Aharon.  Aharon had taken to trafficking psychedelics to a small splinter sect of Hasids that used the drugs—LSD and ecstasy mostly—as a means of communing with god.  Aharon had failed to deliver the money for the last shipment.  Semi’s distributor had instructed him to find Aharon and shake him down. 

Ever since Darnell sold out his distribution network to avoid jail it seemed like all Semi did was muscle low-level dealers.  But that wasn’t a surprise.  Darnell’s betrayal had brought down nearly every dealer, mule, holder, and pusher in his boss’s circle.  Each position needed to be replaced and each person was green to the role.  Mistakes needed to be corrected, noses had to be broken.  Malt liquor took the edge off.

The hum of traffic rolling down Borenquin Avenue eased his anxious mind.  The Jew would buckle, he thought, and the running around would die down just as soon as all the new dealers were housebroken. 

As Semi put the bottle to his lips a violent blow to the back knocked him off the bench.  His front tooth cracked on the lip of the bottled as he crumpled to the ground. 

Though overwhelmed with pain he still could hear laughter behind him.  Semi tried to roll onto his back, but he couldn’t move.  His second and third thoracic vertebrae had been shattered sending shards of bone into his spinal cord.  He was paralyzed from the chest down. 

Semi was overcome with terror when he realized he couldn’t move.  A foot slid under his shoulder and rolled him onto his back.  A white boy stood over him, his smile as wide as the moon above his head.  The boy patted an aluminum baseball bat against his left hand.    

“Surprise,” said Phil in a thick Jamaican accent. 

“Wh—?” Semi struggled to speak.  He couldn’t identify his attacker.  “I got no business with you,” he grunted. 

“But you do with Darnell—same as your spic friend.”

“What you care?” said Semi, too pained to form a complete sentence.

“Don’t I sound familiar?” said Phil, the soft island patois emanating from the front of his throat.

Semi furrowed his brow.  He did sound familiar, but the only man he knew that talked like that was dead.  

“You keel me.  Now I keel you,” said Phil, pointing the end of the bat at Semi, “and everythin’ be irie, mon.”

Semi’s eyes widened.  He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  The white boy was speaking with Darnell’s voice!  Before he could consider the phenomenon further, Phil brought the bat down hard on his head.  Semi cried out in pain.  Phil hit him again and again until he was silent. 

Phil heard a man cry out in pain.  His voice echoed through the crystalline sky like distant thunder heralding a storm. 

Phil walked up the stoop of a neighboring apartment building and opened the front door.  A staircase lead to the floors above—not the unfinished space he had uncovered in Epcot Germany.

What don’t I remember?  He said to himself.  What can’t I imagine?  Mundane details wouldn’t do.  Even if he didn’t know what was behind the door of a specific apartment building, his mind could cobble together a similitude of reality based on memories of the thousands of apartment buildings he’d visited throughout his life.  He needed something completely unfamiliar. 

Phil plodded down the stoop.  He walked north on Union Ave.  The intersection of Union and Grand should have been bustling, as it was at all hours of the day, but it looked evacuated. 

As he crossed the street, Phil scuffed his sneaker on a manhole cover.  Suddenly he got an idea.  Phil squatted and sank his fingers into the holes of the metal disc.  He pulled, but the manhole wouldn’t budge.  The difficulty was a good sign, he determined.  Phil pulled again with all his strength.  He let out a long grunt as the manhole cover slowly gave in to his strength.  It flipped over, spinning around like a jar lid, slowly then faster, before coming to a rest.  

Beneath the manhole (what an absurdly base name, thought Phil, a hole for a man) was blackness.  Not the blank white he had hoped for.  But then, he thought, wouldn’t he have imagined a void beneath a manhole cover?   What was beneath the darkness? 

Phil looked up and down the empty street.  He let out a long sigh and then pin-dropped into the Brooklyn sewer system. 

As he fell, the blackness gradually brightened into the white infinity he had found behind the mystery door in Epcot.  An odd wave of relief washed over him as a black dot appeared far below.  As Phil sailed headfirst through the portal, an unseen force cushioned his momentum like the arresting cable on an aircraft carrier catching a plane’s tail-hook.  He snapped into his consciousness.

As before, the flicker of reality was confusing.   A young girl lay beneath him, his knees pinning her shoulders to a bed.  Her eyes fluttered, and her brown skin turned blue as his hands tightened around her neck. 

Shocked, Phil released the girl.  She gasped for air.  Phil recoiled, frightened by what he had found himself doing. 

“I’m sorry!  It wasn’t me!” He said.

The girl coughed.  She looked at him from the corner of her eye, unable to speak. 

“It wasn’t me!  Something was in me—someone.” 

The girl continued coughing.

Phil got up and found his way to the kitchen.  After rifling through the cabinets for a cup, he filled a glass with tap water and returned to the girl. 

He handed her the glass.  “Drink this.  It will help.”

“You damn fool!” said the girl punching Phil in the shoulder.  Her cough began to subside.

“Ow!  I swear it wasn’t me!”

“I know it wasn’t you!” She said.  “But you’s stupid enough to drink the whiskey I left for Darnell!”

A look of confusion crossed Phil’s face.  “How did you know that?"

“Because he told me, you idiot!”  She rubbed her throat.  “Darnell’s too cocky to kill me without letting me it was him.”

“Do you need me to take you to the hospital, miss—uh?”

“Shakia,” she said.  “And, no, I don’t need you to take me to the hospital.”  Shakia looked away.  “Couldn’t afford it if I wanted to,” she muttered.

“So you’re ok now.  I should probably leave, huh?”  Phil feared she might call the police.

Her eyes widened.  “Oh, no you’re not!” she said.

“I’ve got it under control now, really,” he said, trying to reassure her. 

“Right,” said Shakia sarcastically.  “I’m not letting you out of my sight until Darnell’s outta you.”

Phil shifted uncomfortably.  “How the hell is that going to happen?” 

“I don’t know,” she replied.  “But I know someone who might.”

It turned out that Shakia’s apartment was not far from Phil’s.  They headed down Union Avenue to the corner of Grand Street.  She stopped at the fortune teller’s storefront.

“A fortune teller?”  Said Phil incredulous.  “They’re frauds.”

“Ma Obelique is not a fraud.”   

“Well, she’s not open,” said Phil pointing at the neon sign—an eyeball in the center of a hand.  It was turned off.  “We should go,” he said, eager to leave. 

“Ma will open for me,” said Shakia.  She rang the door-buzzer. 

After a moment a groggy voice sounded overhead.  “Who’s there?”

Shakia and Phil stepped back from the door and looked above the awning.  Ma Obelique was leaning out the window squinting at whoever had disturbed her sleep.  Ma’s hair was tucked beneath a brown bandana.  Her huge breasts drooped low under her billowing nightgown. 

“It’s me, Ma Obelique,” Shakia whispered as loudly as she could. 

“Shakia?” said Ma bewildered.  “It’s late, child.  Come back in the mornin’.”

“Ma, this is serious.  It can’t wait ‘til morn.” 

She sighed and hesitated.  “Alright, alright,” she conceded.  “Give me a minute.”

A moment later the door opened.

“You,” she said, recognizing Phil. 

Damn, thought Phil. 

Shakia crossed her arms and glowered at him.  “What did you do?” She said.

“Boy pissed on my shop.”

“That was here?” Phil said genuinely surprised.  “Look, I’m sorry,” he stammered.  “I was drunk and stupid.”

Shakia smacked Phil on the back of the head.

“Ow!”

“Drunk and stupid seems to be your M.O.” 

“Fine!   You’re right!  I’m a stupid drunk!  Ok?  I’m sorry,” he said.  He turned to entreat Ma Obelique. “Could you please just help me?” he said desperately.

Ma Obelique stood silently with her arms crossed.  Living in the neighborhood for over forty years she had seen her share of immigrant groups—Polish, Spanish, Hassidic Jews—they had moved in and carved their community into the bedrock of the neighborhood.  But this latest group, the rich white kids, was the worst yet.  They were self-absorbed and entitled.  They had no respect for the people who had been there for years or for their communities.  They came in riding on a tide of their parents’ money.  They raised rents and prices—displaced life-long residents and businesses and tore down their homes to make room for outrageously priced condos.  Locals used to come to her for advice and wisdom.  Now the few people that came for a reading did so merely to laugh at her and her odd rituals.  An apology from one of the white boys who was destroying community and ruining her livelihood?  It wasn’t enough.

Ma looked at Phil skeptically.  “If I came to you, would you help me?”

“Sure,” said Phil, shrugging his shoulders.

Ma shook her head.

                Phil grimaced.  “Come on, Shakia,” he said.  “She doesn’t want to help me.”

                “I need your help, Ma.  Darnell got in this boy, and he’s using him to kill me.”

                She looked at Phil with intrigue.  “You’s possessed?” She said. 

                Possessed, Phil mused.  He hadn’t thought to describe his condition using that word, but it seemed to fit.  He shrugged. “I guess.”  

                Ma pursed her lips.  “I’ll help you,” she said pointing at Shakia.  “But it’ll cost you.”  Her finger swung toward phil.  “Come.”  Ma Obelique stepped inside and the two followed.

                Ma Obelique listened with great interest as Shakia explained how Phil had come to be a surrogate body for Darnell’s soul.  When the story caught up to the present, the fortune teller delivered her verdict.

                “You don’t take offerings for the dead,” she said, her wagging finger emphasizing each word. 

                Phil stared at her blankly.  His brain was churning out sarcastic remarks at assembly line-pace, but he decided to hold his tongue.  Disrespect had landed him here, he realized.  Maybe it was time to retire that approach.

                “How do I get him out?” said Phil.

                “It’s a battle of wills,” she replied. 

                “I need to will him out?”  He looked to Shakia in hopes of an interpretation, but her expression was as confounded as his.  “Ok,” he said and stood up.  He took a deep breath.  “I want you out.”  Phil tensed his whole body until it shook.  Nothing happened.

                “It’s not dat simple,” said Ma.  “You need a symbol of your will—a sacrifice.”

                “What the hell does that mean?”

                “That’s for you to decide.”

                Phil huffed.  “Thanks a lot, lady,” he said hollowly.  He turned to leave.  Ma cleared her throat.  Phil turned around.

                “A tithe,” she said holding her hand out.

                Phil took out his wallet.  When he opened the billfold he was shocked to find it was stuffed with cash.  “Holy!  I have a shit-ton of money!” He said with a smile.

                Shakia stood up.  “Darnell probably stole it from his victims.”

                Phil grimaced.  “Oh.  Right.”  He emptied his entire wallet onto the fortune teller’s card table.  “You take it.  I don’t want it.”

                She issued a stiff nod.

                The sun began to rise as Phil walked Shakia to her apartment.  It was one of the few hours during the day when no one was around.  Even the hardest late-night drunks didn’t make it that far. 

                “What are you going to do?” said Shakia.

                “I don’t know.  I have to think of something.”

                “Well, you better do it quick.” 

                Phil yawned and rubbed his eyes.  He was about to reassure her, when he was startled by something from deep in the pit of his mind.  Something was rising to the surface, like a piece of flotsam broken free from an underwater snag. 

                “Run.”

                “Run?” said Shakia, her head cocked to the side.

                “He’s coming back,” Phil said through gritted teeth, his fists pressed against his temples.  “Run.”  He staggered in the opposite direction.  “Don’t go home.”  He grunted.  “We’ll find you.”

                Shakia took off like a bullet. 

Phil stumbled down the street while struggling to keep Darnell at bay.  He needed a private place to sit and battle the thug until, he assumed, Darnell grew tired and gave up.  Phil came upon a fenced-off construction site.  He squeezed through a gap in the gate. 

Behind the plywood fence were the remains of a demolished building— recently leveled to make room for high-end apartments.  As Phil wove his way through a grove of naked rebar, rats darted in and out of the mounds of crushed concrete and brick.   A stray mutt approached him.  It whined for food. 

                “Get away!” said Phil shoving the mangy dog aside.   The dog yelped and then disappeared behind a mound of rubble. 

                Darnell’s assault was getting harder to fend off.  Phil sank to his knees and hugged his chest. 

                “Sacrifice,” he whispered.  The dog? He thought looking at the piled debris.  No.  It has to come from me. 

At that moment Darnell pushed hard.  Phil tensed his body until he felt Darnell’s will subside.  Phil relaxed.  The fight was exhausting.

Phil broke the problem down to its rudiments.  A part of Darnell had gotten into the whiskey.  He had drunk the whiskey.  The whiskey went into his blood, and Darnell went into him.   His eyes widened with an epiphany.

There wasn’t much time.  Darnell was preparing for another coup—he could feel it.  Phil surveyed the rubble.  He spied a claw-footed porcelain bathtub that had broken in half over a steel girder.  Phil limped over to it.  He bent down to pick up a shard of porcelain.  Phil took a deep breath and then dragged the sharp edge across his wrist.  Hot blood poured from his radial artery and pooled in one end of the broken tub.

“Get out,” Phil repeated.  He envisioned Darnell’s spirit rushing out of his body in a white vapor, comingling with the blood in the tub.  As the blood streamed from his body he felt alleviated, like a clog forced through a pipe.

After a pint and a half of blood had been let, Phil took off his plaid over-shirt and wrapped it around his wrist.  He applied pressure to the wound, but it continued to bleed.  As the crimson stain on the button-up continued to spread Phil grew nervous.  He sat on a mangled water-heater, hoping to calm his heartrate. 

Eventually the blood slowed.  Phil hobbled toward the break in the fence feeling dizzy and weak, but also victorious.  Darnell was gone.

Before he reached the gate a low growl sounded behind him.  Phil turned slowly to find the stray mutt had returned.  The dog’s hair stood up straight on its hunched back, and there was blood on its maw and in its bared teeth.  Behind the dog Phil could see streaks of his blood splashed onto the side of the bathtub.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” said Phil.  

He made for the fence, but the dog lunged, sinking its teeth into his ankle.  Phil cried out in pain.  He kicked and caught the dog’s nose with the heel of his sneaker.   The dog squealed and backed off. 

Phil hurried to a pile of rubble and picked up a cinderblock.  As he hoisted the stone overhead the blood rushed to his brain and he grew even dizzier.  He dropped the block and reeled backward. 

He was tired and disoriented.  If only I hadn’t lost so much blood, he thought.

The dog jumped.  Phil ducked and it sailed over him, crashing into a pile of hard fill.  The dog howled in pain. 

The only chance Phil had was to get to the street.  Phil headed toward the opening in the fence.  More growls sounded from close behind him.  He wasn’t going to make it. 

Phil turned around, and as he did the dog leapt toward him.  It was too quick to dodge.  Instead Phil caught the mutt as if it were an excited child jumping into a parent’s arms. 

They whirled around like drunken dance partners as the dog snapped at Phil’s face and neck.  In the midst of their chaotic cyclone Phil spotted an opportunity.  He whisked to dog toward the forest of protruding rebar where he slammed the mutt onto its side, forcing a metal rod through the dog’s torso.  The dog wailed like nothing Phil had ever heard, and then it abruptly died.

Philip left the construction site dirty, bloodied, and pale.  Passerby’s heading to work crossed to the other side of the street when they saw him coming.  No one offered help.  Phil was reminded of Ma Obelique’s words, If I came to you, would you help me?  Had he always been so callous?  He wondered

Phil rang the fortune teller’s doorbell.  When Ma opened the door she found him passed out in the stairwell.

Phil awoke in a hospital bed.  Shakia sat in a chair beside him reading a magazine.  She smiled when she noticed he had regained consciousness. 

“Did you get rid of him?” she asked nervously.

Phil smiled weakly.  “I did.  It almost killed me, but he’s gone.”

“That’s all I needed to know.”  She stood up and headed toward the door.  “Feel better.”

“Wait.”  Phil pursed his lips.  “Would you maybe want to get a beer sometime?”

Shakia smiled and shook her head.  “You’re crazy.  You know that?

“I think attempted murder deserves at least an apology drink.  No?”

“Maybe,” she said.  “Let’s see how we feel in a few days.”

Phil smiled.  “Well, I know where to find you.”

The smile fell off Shakia’s face.  “That’s what scares me.”

“You know what I mean.”

Her smile returned. 

After Shakia left Phil picked up the patient telephone and dialed home.  His mother was surprised to hear from him.  Phil explained to her that he had been admitted to the hospital after being bitten by a stray dog.  It took ten minutes to convince her that the dog wasn’t rabid and that he was going to be fine. 

“Mom,” he said.  “I wanted to apologize for the way I treated you and Robert….”

After a lengthy conversation Phil hung up the phone.  He then closed his eyes and quickly fell asleep, where he dreamed dreams that were his and his alone.