Post by Craig Lassiter on Jul 12, 2007 17:06:47 GMT -5
A faint whirring. The muffled clunk of something colliding with a foam-covered microphone.
Darkness.
A voice, deep and clear. "Is that thing working?"
A second voice, slow and more gravelly. "I don't know. This thing's been sitting here for months."
There was another muffled clunk, and then light exploded. The image of a man with a reddish-brown beard appeared, a hand-rolled cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth. He tapped the camera lens lightly, leaving behind a dusty index fingerprint. He pursed one furry cheek as he continued to stare at the camera.
"Battery still works, and I think there's an old tape in there. Let me swap the battery out."
Another clunk, and then silence.
---
The quiet whir of the camera returned as the visuals came into focus. A young man sat on a giant overturned cable spindle that doubled as a chair, poring over a dog-eared notebook. He had short, blonde hair, and wore glasses. A large sweater-vest hung loose over his already large frame. A look of concern appeared on his face, which seemed to get worse as he scanned the pages.
"I don't know, Zeke," he said. I've read a few disjointed blogs in my day, but this journal is all over the place. "This entry from February 18th starts off railing about Paris Hilton, then segues into how the Chili Peppers went downhill after Mother's Milk."
The other man walked into the room, kicking over a pile of old pizza boxes as he did so. A coil of smoke trailed behind him. "You're doing better than I did. The stuff just gave me a headache. Can't argue with the Chili Peppers thing, though."
The man reading the journal was Sean Lassiter, nephew of Craig Lassiter. He took a drink from a bottle of water then sat it back down on the ancient coffee table that was awash with papers, fast food napkins, condiment packets, and empty beer cans. He shook his head as he turned another page in the so-called journal.
"So, when was the last time you spoke with him?"
Zeke scratched his neck-beard and took another drag from his cigarette. "We kinda left on bad terms. The phone was already disconnected when I left, and Craig never could hang onto a cellphone."
Sean slammed the journal closed, sending a mini-tornado of dust across the table, then stood up and began pacing. "Ok, Zeke. Let's go over what we know."
"Ok." Zeke picked up a full beer can from the floor and cracked it open. Warm foam poured down the side, covering the image of a red-circled black horse. "No one's heard from Craig since his last appearance for FCW. His clothes and wrestling gear are still here in his apartment."
Sean picked up where Zeke left off. "We've got a journal that has no mention of where he might have gone. The last entry is some jibberish comparing the Smurfs to the Snorks. We found a Fog City royalty check for $3.74 dated early March. Nothing else of note amongst flyers and overdue utility bills in the mail. Why hasn't this apartment been rented out to someone else?"
"The boss had a direct deposit set up for the rent. If he didn't cancel it, and he still has money in his account, the rent is still being paid."
"How well do you know this area, Zeke?
"I know where the nearest stripclub is, if that's what you're asking."
Sean nodded, folded his glasses, grabbed his water, and headed for the door. Zeke stubbed out his cigarette and began dumping loose videotapes into his camera bag. He paused for a second on one, examining the label.
"Come on, Zeke!"
He tossed the tape in with the others, zipped the bag, and grabbed the video camera at the last second.
---
Shadows moved about in the darkness. The figures were barely recognisable in the dim light of the club. Sean stood at the bar, talking to the bartender. In the background, a suggestive shape grinded on another, seated, shape. The music was dull and lifeless. As Zeke and the camera moved closer to the bar, the light from a large Molson Canadian bar-light brought some detail to the scene.
"So when was the last time he was here?" asked Sean.
The bartender, a woman in her mid-forties, took a swig from a bottle of beer. "Jeez, had to be better part've a year. He used'ta come in 'ere pretty regular. Coupla times a week."
"Did he have a favorite girl?"
The bartender just shrugged.
"Did anyone know he was a wrestler?"
"A wuh?"
"A wrestler," Sean repeated. "He wrestled for Fog City Wrestling."
"Never 'eard of it."
Sean and Zeke went into a huddle. Just then, a short man with a deep tan and a thin moustache walked behind the bar. He looked Sean up and down suspiciously.
"Who's dis?"
"They're looking for Craig," the bartender said, without turning around. There were a few seconds of awkward silence before she continued. "They're not cops."
"Craig's my uncle," Sean said. "He's been missing for months, and we're worried about him."
"Oh, hang on, den." The small man disappeared under the bar, then came up with a cellphone and slid it across so that it came to rest in front of Sean. "Dat's Craig's. He left it in the champagne room last time he was 'ere."
Sean hesitated, staring at the phone, then finally picked it up. "Thanks."
A few minutes and an awkward goodbye later, Zeke and Sean were walking down the sidewalk outside. Sean had Craig's phone up to his ear. Sean shook his head and began hitting buttons on the phone.
"Anything?" asked Zeke.
"A couple messages from some FCW admin that hadn't been read, and a couple from a collection agency. All from months ago. I think his voicemail was full, so he wouldn't have been getting any more messages after that."
Zeke hefted the camera on his shoulder and continued walking as Sean brought the phone back up to his ear. After a few seconds, he began to speak.
"Yes, I'd like to talk to someone about a missing person. Yes, I'll hold." He turned to Zeke. "Police. I should've done this first."
Zeke laughed. "It wouldn't be the first time Craig's spent a few months inside."
"Yes," said Sean, into the phone. "Sean Lassiter. Yes, I'm looking for my uncle, Craig Lassiter. He's in his mid-to-late thirties. Um, probably six to eight months. Well, he has gone missing before, but never for this long."
Sean navigated around a drunk then checked his watch and expressed his confusion toward Zeke.
"Hey, it's almost noon, man. These fishermen start early."
"A description?" said Sean, his attention back on the phone. "Well, he's just under six feet tall. Between 230 and 250 pounds. Long brownish-grey hair." He stopped when he saw Zeke shaking his head furiously.
"Last I saw, he had short, blonde hair. And he was wearing all gold-colored clothes. Long story, man."
"Sorry about that, officer. The last time he was seen, he had short, blonde hair. No, no tattoos that I know of. A few facial scars and a pretty dinged up forehead, but nothing you'd notice from a distance. Oh, his nose has been broken a few times. No, sorry, I don't know what he could have been wearing. He usually wore jeans and a t-shirt, but it could be anything really. Yes, I'll hold again."
The two of them stopped at a crosswalk and checked both directions before heading across to the lot where Sean had parked his rental car. When they got to it, Zeke pulled out a cigarette and lit it as Sean leaned against the blue sedan.
"I think it's Yanni," Sean said, conspiratorially. Zeke just snickered.
"Yes, I'm still here," he said, after a few more minutes of waiting. "Yes, I'm here in the city. Yes. Yes, I see. Oh."
Zeke snubbed the cigarette out against a nearby lamppost and placed it back into the packet as he looked on.
"Yeah, I can be there in 20 minutes. Ok. Yes, I appreciate it, thanks."
Sean hung up the phone and absent-mindedly fumbled for his keys as he stared off at the nearby docks of downtown St. John's.
"What?" said Zeke.
"They've got a John Doe that meets Craig's description."
"That's good, right?" Zeke said, the color slowly draining out of his face.
A seagull drifted lazily above them before coming to rest on the lamppost.
"They want me to come down and identify the body."
---
Pudding again. He liked pudding.
"Pudding's a sometimes food," he called out, to no one in particular. Someone across the cafeteria shouted out a string of expletives in response. Nobody paid much attention to either of them.
He turned over the plastic bowl and spooned the pudding onto the table in front of him. He spread it out with the flat of his palm. Then, using the handle of the plastic spoon, he began to draw in the pudding, humming to himself. He started with a house, then scrubbed it out with his sleeve and began drawing a face.
A large black orderly walked into the cafeteria and looked down at his artwork.
"Keeping your nose clean, Tony?" he asked.
"You know it," replied the man as he began scraping rudimentary lines in the pudding to represent hair.
---
Zeke took a sip from his coffee, grimaced, and dumped the remainder into a potted plant beside him. Sean was staring at a deformed apple fritter.
"That poor man." Zeke pulled out his cigarette packet, noticed the no-smoking sign, and then put it back.
Sean was lost in thought. After a minute of silence, he took a sip from his own coffee. "For a second there, Zeke, I thought it was him. I mean, when they slid that slab out, just for a second, I saw Craig."
"What did the officer say? They found him curled up in a dumpster?"
"Yeah. He almost ended up at the city dump. I can't believe they don't know who he is. I mean, isn't anyone looking for him?"
"Not everyone has family, or friends that would look."
"I'm worried, Zeke. I mean, this guy dropped dead in the Spring. Craig's been missing since before the winter. They get a lot of snow here in St. John's.
"Maybe he got out, man. Knowing him, he could be in Bermuda by now."
"You said he didn't have a car, right?"
"Right."
"And have you ever known Craig to book his own flights?"
Zeke's gaze dropped to the coffee-stained table. "No. If the fed didn't cover the flights, then I ended up booking them. Craig hated the airlines and everybody who worked there. He used to grind his teeth so much travelling, that he started wearing a mouthpiece."
"Have you still got the bank statement? I want to double-check the date of the last withdrawal."
"Yeah, I got it here somewhere." Zeke began fishing through his camera bag, dumping tapes onto the table. He had a half-dozen piled up before he found the bank statement.
One of the tapes caught Sean's eye, and he picked it up. "Listen to Me. What's this?"
Zeke looked up, and after a second, slapped himself across the forehead. "Dude! I totally forgot about that. That was with the tapes that I grabbed from Craig's apartment."
Sean leaned forward. "Well, what's on it?"
Zeke leaned forward, their faces just inches apart, and whispered, "I have no idea."
---
"Hey, Laura," he said with a smile.
"Hey, Tony." She returned the smile. "Did you get a chance to read my story yet?"
Tony walked past the woman as he spoke. She was wearing loose-fitting pyjamas, and would have been more attractive if not for the small bald patches that scattered over her head.
"Still on my to-do list, sorry."
"Well, get to it. I've got a new one about the greys who visited me last week. If I close my eyes, I can still feel it running down my leg."
"Looking forward to it, Laura, but nature calls." He jerked a thumb toward the hall window.
She nodded, knowingly. Tony walked into the recreation room and picked up his favorite red plastic chair and pulled it up to his favorite window.
He sat back and stared at the rain cascading down the window. On the inside was a sheet of chickenwire, but the gaps were big enough that he could pretend it didn't exist and just focus on the rivulets of water beading and rolling down the outside glass.
Tony loved the rain, and it rained a lot. With his right hand, he played with a strand of hair that came just down below his temple. He inserted his left index finger into his mouth, and sucked on the dried pudding.
The food was good, the view was amazing, and he even had Laura's amateur alien erotica to look forward to later. As far as Tony was concerned, life didn't get much better than this.
---
"Hey, I found a case of beer!" Zeke's voice could be heard from the other room.
"I thought you were looking for cables?"
Sean had draped newspaper over the tattered couch and was now taking a much deserved rest. Things had been going by way too fast. Two weeks ago, he had gotten a paranoid call from Zeke, who said he'd dreamed that something terrible had happened to Craig. After Zeke had 'chilled out', they got to talking, and that's when Sean found out just how long Craig had been missing.
Sean was happy with his life, but he often admitted that, for the most part, it was boring. He could handle that, because he got his fill of drama whenever his outspoken uncle drifted into his life. They would go for months travelling and working together, then Sean wouldn't hear from Craig for half a year or more. It was a strange relationship, but still stronger than the one between Sean and his own father.
He never had to bail his father out of jail, or back him up in a fight that he started. He never had to apologise to a woman after something his father had said, or put his credit rating on the line whenever his father needed to rent an apartment. He had never had to clean up his father's vomit, or stitch up open wounds. Sean had done all of that and more for his uncle. But, by the same token, he had never really hugged his father, or shared a beer with him. Or really laughed with him.
Johnny Lassiter called Sean every month, and they had the same polite conversation. They talked a lot, but never really said anything. A dark part of Sean's mind asked himself if he would be hurt more if he lost his father or his uncle.
Before he could entertain the question, Zeke came bounding into the room, a six-pack in each hand and a mess of audio/video cables in his mouth.
"Showtime!"
Five minutes and two beers later, Zeke was seated next to Sean on the couch and navigating the controls for the video camera that was connected to the floor-model TV.
The TV flickered to life in grainy black and white. The color appeared a few seconds later and the picture clarity got gradually better as it warmed up. There, on the screen, was Craig Lassiter. His hair was cut short and dyed peroxide-blonde, in sharp contrast with his dark eyebrows and stubbled face. His eyes were wide open, where usually they were sleepy.
"So that much is common sense, right?" Craig said, holding his hands palm-upwards. "But then this stupid bitch had to go and investigate. The boss-man told her not to, but she did anyway, cause that's what women do. So, then when the rescue squad shows up to save her, she's got the nerve to ask them what took them so long. And then they drop a cauldron on Gargamel's foot. I ask you, what did he do to deserve that? The poor man's just trying to feed his cat, fer chrissakes."
Sean and Zeke exchange confused glances.
"But enough of the damn Smurfs," Craig continued. "I'm making this tape to tell the world that I'm sick of it. I'm sick of all the damn complications. I'm sick of how stuff never fuckin' works. The world ain't getting better, it's getting worse, and I've had it. I started out pretty strong and fast. But it's beginning to get to me. If I were a smarter or less apathetic man, I might get off my ass to do something about it.
"Instead, I'm handing in my notice as a member of the human race. I've already burned the wallet I've been carrying for the last 20-odd years. Yes, I quit. You beat me, you hear that?" Craig's voice raised as he shook a fist at an imaginary antagonist. "I tried to play by your rules, I tried to break the rules, and I even tried to make up my own damn rules, but the result was the same. The game is rigged, and nobody wins. You hear me? Nobody!"
Craig stepped forward, his eyes even wider than before, and stared into the camera. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, but just shook his head in disgust instead. Craig staggered out of shot, and the room went silent.
After a few seconds, the tape clicked off, and the two men were bathed in blue light from the TV. Zeke took a sip of beer.
"Well, what the hell did that tell us?"
Sean was still staring at the blank screen. "I've never seen him like that, Zeke. Never. It sounded like a suicide note. He burned his wallet. He had no ID, no money, no nothing."
Zeke just stared at him. "Well, what now?"
Sean closed his eyes and sighed. "I've got to get back home. I've got exams coming up that I can't miss."
"But..." Zeke trailed off, then went back to his beer.
The two of them sat and drank in silence.
---
The haze was settling over downtown St. John's, and it looked as if the city was due for another miserable, wet day. Sean Lassiter was standing on the steps of the apartment building speaking with the landlord as Zeke trudged out toward the rental car, his camera gear in bulging bags over each shoulder.
"So, you've got my number in case he turns up or anyone comes looking for him, right?"
The landlord nodded to Sean.
"Tunderin' Jesus, man!"
Sean whirled just in time to see Zeke knock the baseball cap off a man's head with his bag as he tried to navigate through the front gate. The victim, a bushy-haired man with a lifelong saltwater tan, glared at him.
"Sorry, dude. Didn't see you there."
"Didn' see me? Fer fucksake, ye stupid sonova-bitch, how couldn'ya 'ave seen me?"
"Dude, chill." Zeke tried to raise his hands in mock surrender, but the man continued to vent as he picked up his now muddy baseball hat.
The man began to flail his arms and continued to curse as he began walk away. "You belongs in the fuckin' Waterford, you do. Fuckin' mental case, you is."
Sean came down as the man turned the corner. His cursing could still be heard as he walked away.
"What was all that about?"
"Dude, these Newfies don't like it when someone touches their caps, I guess."
"Here, let me help." Sean took one of the bags from Zeke and popped the trunk of the rental car. The two of them began to reorganise the contents to fit Zeke's bags.
"What the hell was he saying anyway," said Zeke. "The Waterford, is that like some kind of detention centre, or something?"
"I think it's the home for the mentally handicapped or something. It's used as a bit of a perjorative. around here."
Before Zeke could ask what perjorative meant, Sean grabbed him by the shoulders.
"The Waterford! Zeke, the Waterford!"
"Um, ok?" Zeke ventured.
---
Over an hour later, Zeke and Sean were seated in cheap plastic chairs in front of a meticulously clean desk. A man sat behind the it. Despite a badge that read Dr. Lemuel Keane, the man wore jeans and a tartan shirt. His black hair was side-parted and the bang was currently slipping into his eyes. He continued to brush it away with a finger while he held a phone with the other hand.
"Yes, thank-you."
Dr. Keane hung up the phone. "Sorry about that gentlemen. I'm trying to plan a sabbatical to work on my thesis, but there's just so much to organise before I dare leave."
"Thanks for seeing us, doctor. We're looking for someone, and I was hoping you could help us."
"I see."
"It's my uncle. He's been missing for some time, and I just wanted to know if he'd been in here for any reason. The name is Craig Lassiter."
Keane shook his head. "I'm sorry, we don't have anyone here by that name."
"Dude," Zeke cut in, "aren't you even gonna check?"
Dr. Keene smiled patiently, despite Zeke's harsh tone. "This may be a large facility, but I know every patient who's come through here in the last four years, I assure you."
Zeke looked frustrated, but Sean just looked deflated.
"Thanks for your time, Dr. Keane," Sean said as he shook the man's hand. He handed the doctor a homemade eight-by-ten card with his contact information. "I'd really appreciate it if you could let me know if you hear anything."
"Of course. I'll make sure my replacement has all the details."
Sean turned to leave and Zeke got up to follow. Before he reached the door, Sean paused and reached into his jacket. He turned back to Dr. Keane. "Here, you might as well take this picture too. Put it in the file or something."
He handed the photo--an unflattering one of Craig Lassiter sitting on a couch looking as he was about to throw up--to the doctor.
Sean had just reached the door when Dr. Keane uttered an inarticulate yelp. Sean and Zeke turned, in unison.
Keane looked up from the photo with a smile on his face. "Why, Mr. Lassiter" he said, "this is a picture of Tony!"
Darkness.
A voice, deep and clear. "Is that thing working?"
A second voice, slow and more gravelly. "I don't know. This thing's been sitting here for months."
There was another muffled clunk, and then light exploded. The image of a man with a reddish-brown beard appeared, a hand-rolled cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth. He tapped the camera lens lightly, leaving behind a dusty index fingerprint. He pursed one furry cheek as he continued to stare at the camera.
"Battery still works, and I think there's an old tape in there. Let me swap the battery out."
Another clunk, and then silence.
---
The quiet whir of the camera returned as the visuals came into focus. A young man sat on a giant overturned cable spindle that doubled as a chair, poring over a dog-eared notebook. He had short, blonde hair, and wore glasses. A large sweater-vest hung loose over his already large frame. A look of concern appeared on his face, which seemed to get worse as he scanned the pages.
"I don't know, Zeke," he said. I've read a few disjointed blogs in my day, but this journal is all over the place. "This entry from February 18th starts off railing about Paris Hilton, then segues into how the Chili Peppers went downhill after Mother's Milk."
The other man walked into the room, kicking over a pile of old pizza boxes as he did so. A coil of smoke trailed behind him. "You're doing better than I did. The stuff just gave me a headache. Can't argue with the Chili Peppers thing, though."
The man reading the journal was Sean Lassiter, nephew of Craig Lassiter. He took a drink from a bottle of water then sat it back down on the ancient coffee table that was awash with papers, fast food napkins, condiment packets, and empty beer cans. He shook his head as he turned another page in the so-called journal.
"So, when was the last time you spoke with him?"
Zeke scratched his neck-beard and took another drag from his cigarette. "We kinda left on bad terms. The phone was already disconnected when I left, and Craig never could hang onto a cellphone."
Sean slammed the journal closed, sending a mini-tornado of dust across the table, then stood up and began pacing. "Ok, Zeke. Let's go over what we know."
"Ok." Zeke picked up a full beer can from the floor and cracked it open. Warm foam poured down the side, covering the image of a red-circled black horse. "No one's heard from Craig since his last appearance for FCW. His clothes and wrestling gear are still here in his apartment."
Sean picked up where Zeke left off. "We've got a journal that has no mention of where he might have gone. The last entry is some jibberish comparing the Smurfs to the Snorks. We found a Fog City royalty check for $3.74 dated early March. Nothing else of note amongst flyers and overdue utility bills in the mail. Why hasn't this apartment been rented out to someone else?"
"The boss had a direct deposit set up for the rent. If he didn't cancel it, and he still has money in his account, the rent is still being paid."
"How well do you know this area, Zeke?
"I know where the nearest stripclub is, if that's what you're asking."
Sean nodded, folded his glasses, grabbed his water, and headed for the door. Zeke stubbed out his cigarette and began dumping loose videotapes into his camera bag. He paused for a second on one, examining the label.
"Come on, Zeke!"
He tossed the tape in with the others, zipped the bag, and grabbed the video camera at the last second.
---
Shadows moved about in the darkness. The figures were barely recognisable in the dim light of the club. Sean stood at the bar, talking to the bartender. In the background, a suggestive shape grinded on another, seated, shape. The music was dull and lifeless. As Zeke and the camera moved closer to the bar, the light from a large Molson Canadian bar-light brought some detail to the scene.
"So when was the last time he was here?" asked Sean.
The bartender, a woman in her mid-forties, took a swig from a bottle of beer. "Jeez, had to be better part've a year. He used'ta come in 'ere pretty regular. Coupla times a week."
"Did he have a favorite girl?"
The bartender just shrugged.
"Did anyone know he was a wrestler?"
"A wuh?"
"A wrestler," Sean repeated. "He wrestled for Fog City Wrestling."
"Never 'eard of it."
Sean and Zeke went into a huddle. Just then, a short man with a deep tan and a thin moustache walked behind the bar. He looked Sean up and down suspiciously.
"Who's dis?"
"They're looking for Craig," the bartender said, without turning around. There were a few seconds of awkward silence before she continued. "They're not cops."
"Craig's my uncle," Sean said. "He's been missing for months, and we're worried about him."
"Oh, hang on, den." The small man disappeared under the bar, then came up with a cellphone and slid it across so that it came to rest in front of Sean. "Dat's Craig's. He left it in the champagne room last time he was 'ere."
Sean hesitated, staring at the phone, then finally picked it up. "Thanks."
A few minutes and an awkward goodbye later, Zeke and Sean were walking down the sidewalk outside. Sean had Craig's phone up to his ear. Sean shook his head and began hitting buttons on the phone.
"Anything?" asked Zeke.
"A couple messages from some FCW admin that hadn't been read, and a couple from a collection agency. All from months ago. I think his voicemail was full, so he wouldn't have been getting any more messages after that."
Zeke hefted the camera on his shoulder and continued walking as Sean brought the phone back up to his ear. After a few seconds, he began to speak.
"Yes, I'd like to talk to someone about a missing person. Yes, I'll hold." He turned to Zeke. "Police. I should've done this first."
Zeke laughed. "It wouldn't be the first time Craig's spent a few months inside."
"Yes," said Sean, into the phone. "Sean Lassiter. Yes, I'm looking for my uncle, Craig Lassiter. He's in his mid-to-late thirties. Um, probably six to eight months. Well, he has gone missing before, but never for this long."
Sean navigated around a drunk then checked his watch and expressed his confusion toward Zeke.
"Hey, it's almost noon, man. These fishermen start early."
"A description?" said Sean, his attention back on the phone. "Well, he's just under six feet tall. Between 230 and 250 pounds. Long brownish-grey hair." He stopped when he saw Zeke shaking his head furiously.
"Last I saw, he had short, blonde hair. And he was wearing all gold-colored clothes. Long story, man."
"Sorry about that, officer. The last time he was seen, he had short, blonde hair. No, no tattoos that I know of. A few facial scars and a pretty dinged up forehead, but nothing you'd notice from a distance. Oh, his nose has been broken a few times. No, sorry, I don't know what he could have been wearing. He usually wore jeans and a t-shirt, but it could be anything really. Yes, I'll hold again."
The two of them stopped at a crosswalk and checked both directions before heading across to the lot where Sean had parked his rental car. When they got to it, Zeke pulled out a cigarette and lit it as Sean leaned against the blue sedan.
"I think it's Yanni," Sean said, conspiratorially. Zeke just snickered.
"Yes, I'm still here," he said, after a few more minutes of waiting. "Yes, I'm here in the city. Yes. Yes, I see. Oh."
Zeke snubbed the cigarette out against a nearby lamppost and placed it back into the packet as he looked on.
"Yeah, I can be there in 20 minutes. Ok. Yes, I appreciate it, thanks."
Sean hung up the phone and absent-mindedly fumbled for his keys as he stared off at the nearby docks of downtown St. John's.
"What?" said Zeke.
"They've got a John Doe that meets Craig's description."
"That's good, right?" Zeke said, the color slowly draining out of his face.
A seagull drifted lazily above them before coming to rest on the lamppost.
"They want me to come down and identify the body."
---
Pudding again. He liked pudding.
"Pudding's a sometimes food," he called out, to no one in particular. Someone across the cafeteria shouted out a string of expletives in response. Nobody paid much attention to either of them.
He turned over the plastic bowl and spooned the pudding onto the table in front of him. He spread it out with the flat of his palm. Then, using the handle of the plastic spoon, he began to draw in the pudding, humming to himself. He started with a house, then scrubbed it out with his sleeve and began drawing a face.
A large black orderly walked into the cafeteria and looked down at his artwork.
"Keeping your nose clean, Tony?" he asked.
"You know it," replied the man as he began scraping rudimentary lines in the pudding to represent hair.
---
Zeke took a sip from his coffee, grimaced, and dumped the remainder into a potted plant beside him. Sean was staring at a deformed apple fritter.
"That poor man." Zeke pulled out his cigarette packet, noticed the no-smoking sign, and then put it back.
Sean was lost in thought. After a minute of silence, he took a sip from his own coffee. "For a second there, Zeke, I thought it was him. I mean, when they slid that slab out, just for a second, I saw Craig."
"What did the officer say? They found him curled up in a dumpster?"
"Yeah. He almost ended up at the city dump. I can't believe they don't know who he is. I mean, isn't anyone looking for him?"
"Not everyone has family, or friends that would look."
"I'm worried, Zeke. I mean, this guy dropped dead in the Spring. Craig's been missing since before the winter. They get a lot of snow here in St. John's.
"Maybe he got out, man. Knowing him, he could be in Bermuda by now."
"You said he didn't have a car, right?"
"Right."
"And have you ever known Craig to book his own flights?"
Zeke's gaze dropped to the coffee-stained table. "No. If the fed didn't cover the flights, then I ended up booking them. Craig hated the airlines and everybody who worked there. He used to grind his teeth so much travelling, that he started wearing a mouthpiece."
"Have you still got the bank statement? I want to double-check the date of the last withdrawal."
"Yeah, I got it here somewhere." Zeke began fishing through his camera bag, dumping tapes onto the table. He had a half-dozen piled up before he found the bank statement.
One of the tapes caught Sean's eye, and he picked it up. "Listen to Me. What's this?"
Zeke looked up, and after a second, slapped himself across the forehead. "Dude! I totally forgot about that. That was with the tapes that I grabbed from Craig's apartment."
Sean leaned forward. "Well, what's on it?"
Zeke leaned forward, their faces just inches apart, and whispered, "I have no idea."
---
"Hey, Laura," he said with a smile.
"Hey, Tony." She returned the smile. "Did you get a chance to read my story yet?"
Tony walked past the woman as he spoke. She was wearing loose-fitting pyjamas, and would have been more attractive if not for the small bald patches that scattered over her head.
"Still on my to-do list, sorry."
"Well, get to it. I've got a new one about the greys who visited me last week. If I close my eyes, I can still feel it running down my leg."
"Looking forward to it, Laura, but nature calls." He jerked a thumb toward the hall window.
She nodded, knowingly. Tony walked into the recreation room and picked up his favorite red plastic chair and pulled it up to his favorite window.
He sat back and stared at the rain cascading down the window. On the inside was a sheet of chickenwire, but the gaps were big enough that he could pretend it didn't exist and just focus on the rivulets of water beading and rolling down the outside glass.
Tony loved the rain, and it rained a lot. With his right hand, he played with a strand of hair that came just down below his temple. He inserted his left index finger into his mouth, and sucked on the dried pudding.
The food was good, the view was amazing, and he even had Laura's amateur alien erotica to look forward to later. As far as Tony was concerned, life didn't get much better than this.
---
"Hey, I found a case of beer!" Zeke's voice could be heard from the other room.
"I thought you were looking for cables?"
Sean had draped newspaper over the tattered couch and was now taking a much deserved rest. Things had been going by way too fast. Two weeks ago, he had gotten a paranoid call from Zeke, who said he'd dreamed that something terrible had happened to Craig. After Zeke had 'chilled out', they got to talking, and that's when Sean found out just how long Craig had been missing.
Sean was happy with his life, but he often admitted that, for the most part, it was boring. He could handle that, because he got his fill of drama whenever his outspoken uncle drifted into his life. They would go for months travelling and working together, then Sean wouldn't hear from Craig for half a year or more. It was a strange relationship, but still stronger than the one between Sean and his own father.
He never had to bail his father out of jail, or back him up in a fight that he started. He never had to apologise to a woman after something his father had said, or put his credit rating on the line whenever his father needed to rent an apartment. He had never had to clean up his father's vomit, or stitch up open wounds. Sean had done all of that and more for his uncle. But, by the same token, he had never really hugged his father, or shared a beer with him. Or really laughed with him.
Johnny Lassiter called Sean every month, and they had the same polite conversation. They talked a lot, but never really said anything. A dark part of Sean's mind asked himself if he would be hurt more if he lost his father or his uncle.
Before he could entertain the question, Zeke came bounding into the room, a six-pack in each hand and a mess of audio/video cables in his mouth.
"Showtime!"
Five minutes and two beers later, Zeke was seated next to Sean on the couch and navigating the controls for the video camera that was connected to the floor-model TV.
The TV flickered to life in grainy black and white. The color appeared a few seconds later and the picture clarity got gradually better as it warmed up. There, on the screen, was Craig Lassiter. His hair was cut short and dyed peroxide-blonde, in sharp contrast with his dark eyebrows and stubbled face. His eyes were wide open, where usually they were sleepy.
"So that much is common sense, right?" Craig said, holding his hands palm-upwards. "But then this stupid bitch had to go and investigate. The boss-man told her not to, but she did anyway, cause that's what women do. So, then when the rescue squad shows up to save her, she's got the nerve to ask them what took them so long. And then they drop a cauldron on Gargamel's foot. I ask you, what did he do to deserve that? The poor man's just trying to feed his cat, fer chrissakes."
Sean and Zeke exchange confused glances.
"But enough of the damn Smurfs," Craig continued. "I'm making this tape to tell the world that I'm sick of it. I'm sick of all the damn complications. I'm sick of how stuff never fuckin' works. The world ain't getting better, it's getting worse, and I've had it. I started out pretty strong and fast. But it's beginning to get to me. If I were a smarter or less apathetic man, I might get off my ass to do something about it.
"Instead, I'm handing in my notice as a member of the human race. I've already burned the wallet I've been carrying for the last 20-odd years. Yes, I quit. You beat me, you hear that?" Craig's voice raised as he shook a fist at an imaginary antagonist. "I tried to play by your rules, I tried to break the rules, and I even tried to make up my own damn rules, but the result was the same. The game is rigged, and nobody wins. You hear me? Nobody!"
Craig stepped forward, his eyes even wider than before, and stared into the camera. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, but just shook his head in disgust instead. Craig staggered out of shot, and the room went silent.
After a few seconds, the tape clicked off, and the two men were bathed in blue light from the TV. Zeke took a sip of beer.
"Well, what the hell did that tell us?"
Sean was still staring at the blank screen. "I've never seen him like that, Zeke. Never. It sounded like a suicide note. He burned his wallet. He had no ID, no money, no nothing."
Zeke just stared at him. "Well, what now?"
Sean closed his eyes and sighed. "I've got to get back home. I've got exams coming up that I can't miss."
"But..." Zeke trailed off, then went back to his beer.
The two of them sat and drank in silence.
---
The haze was settling over downtown St. John's, and it looked as if the city was due for another miserable, wet day. Sean Lassiter was standing on the steps of the apartment building speaking with the landlord as Zeke trudged out toward the rental car, his camera gear in bulging bags over each shoulder.
"So, you've got my number in case he turns up or anyone comes looking for him, right?"
The landlord nodded to Sean.
"Tunderin' Jesus, man!"
Sean whirled just in time to see Zeke knock the baseball cap off a man's head with his bag as he tried to navigate through the front gate. The victim, a bushy-haired man with a lifelong saltwater tan, glared at him.
"Sorry, dude. Didn't see you there."
"Didn' see me? Fer fucksake, ye stupid sonova-bitch, how couldn'ya 'ave seen me?"
"Dude, chill." Zeke tried to raise his hands in mock surrender, but the man continued to vent as he picked up his now muddy baseball hat.
The man began to flail his arms and continued to curse as he began walk away. "You belongs in the fuckin' Waterford, you do. Fuckin' mental case, you is."
Sean came down as the man turned the corner. His cursing could still be heard as he walked away.
"What was all that about?"
"Dude, these Newfies don't like it when someone touches their caps, I guess."
"Here, let me help." Sean took one of the bags from Zeke and popped the trunk of the rental car. The two of them began to reorganise the contents to fit Zeke's bags.
"What the hell was he saying anyway," said Zeke. "The Waterford, is that like some kind of detention centre, or something?"
"I think it's the home for the mentally handicapped or something. It's used as a bit of a perjorative. around here."
Before Zeke could ask what perjorative meant, Sean grabbed him by the shoulders.
"The Waterford! Zeke, the Waterford!"
"Um, ok?" Zeke ventured.
---
Over an hour later, Zeke and Sean were seated in cheap plastic chairs in front of a meticulously clean desk. A man sat behind the it. Despite a badge that read Dr. Lemuel Keane, the man wore jeans and a tartan shirt. His black hair was side-parted and the bang was currently slipping into his eyes. He continued to brush it away with a finger while he held a phone with the other hand.
"Yes, thank-you."
Dr. Keane hung up the phone. "Sorry about that gentlemen. I'm trying to plan a sabbatical to work on my thesis, but there's just so much to organise before I dare leave."
"Thanks for seeing us, doctor. We're looking for someone, and I was hoping you could help us."
"I see."
"It's my uncle. He's been missing for some time, and I just wanted to know if he'd been in here for any reason. The name is Craig Lassiter."
Keane shook his head. "I'm sorry, we don't have anyone here by that name."
"Dude," Zeke cut in, "aren't you even gonna check?"
Dr. Keene smiled patiently, despite Zeke's harsh tone. "This may be a large facility, but I know every patient who's come through here in the last four years, I assure you."
Zeke looked frustrated, but Sean just looked deflated.
"Thanks for your time, Dr. Keane," Sean said as he shook the man's hand. He handed the doctor a homemade eight-by-ten card with his contact information. "I'd really appreciate it if you could let me know if you hear anything."
"Of course. I'll make sure my replacement has all the details."
Sean turned to leave and Zeke got up to follow. Before he reached the door, Sean paused and reached into his jacket. He turned back to Dr. Keane. "Here, you might as well take this picture too. Put it in the file or something."
He handed the photo--an unflattering one of Craig Lassiter sitting on a couch looking as he was about to throw up--to the doctor.
Sean had just reached the door when Dr. Keane uttered an inarticulate yelp. Sean and Zeke turned, in unison.
Keane looked up from the photo with a smile on his face. "Why, Mr. Lassiter" he said, "this is a picture of Tony!"
