How to Dispose of Dead Elephants by Andrew Gretes

Author:Andrew Gretes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sandstone Press Ltd
Published: 2014-02-09T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 4

Underneath my bed is the sound of pulleys.

Stretching.

Sliding.

Ticking.

Panting.

Climbing.

I sit up. I look for a weapon. I grab my pillow.

I don’t remember having a fit. Maybe I didn’t. Or maybe it was just a staring spell: me spacing out, looking like an idiot.

Underneath my bed is the sound of a snap—the echo of a severed cable.

I see a hand.

An arm.

A shoulder.

A man.

Rolling out from underneath my bed is a middle-aged boogeyman. He lies prostrate on my carpet, chest heaving in exhalation—sapped respiration. He has a sharp protruding forehead and a mammoth brown mustache. He wears a gray suit that glistens with rock-dust and snowflakes. Slowly, painstakingly, he rises to his knees and leans against my bed-frame, clutching my mattress like a much-needed summit, a quilted peak.

He whispers, “I can accept this . . .”

I’ve always been a vivid dreamer.

I’ve always felt awake during dreams.

Especially on nights after fits.

I peer down from my bed and ask the stranger if he wants a glass of water or something like that.

He says, “Stubb, you don’t offer a beverage to someone who’s in the middle of accepting a moment for all of eternity.”

“Sorry . . .”

The man lets go of my mattress and leans back on the carpet, his hands holding up his body as his legs extend into an outstretched position. Pulling out a metal flask from his blazer, he says, “I accept your apology.”

The contents of his flask are chloral hydrate with a teaspoon of Veronal. It’s for his migraines and insomnia.

I welcome the day something normal emerges from under my bed. Like a repugnant troll. Or a shaggy brown yeti. Or a tall lanky humanoid with sharp claws, a scorched face, a striped sweater, and a knack for macabre puns. A breath of fresh nightmare.

“Whatever you do,” the man says, his eyes pale-blue ions charged to implode, “don’t call me Friedrich. I like to avoid any unnecessary Teutonic allusions, if able. Don’t you?”

I know this man. He’s on my bookshelf. I remember buying three of his works from a used bookstore. Dad viewed my purchase with suspicion. It was someone he had never read before—a name he had thought it best not to enter, like a door at the end of a long winding hallway whose threshold was graffitied with circle-A’s and swastikas. But if one had the nerve to disregard these signs and open the door, they were transported to the land of the soap-maker, where those who don’t fall learn how to dance—an alien atmosphere of emphatic oxymorons: Healthy danger! Devout skepticism! Blithe pessimism! Fruitful destruction!

“What should I call you then?” I ask.

The man lifts up his mustache so he can take a swig from his flask. A small tattoo adorns his upper lip. It reads: Amor Fati.

“Fred,” he says, “I can accept Fred . . .”

Staggering to his feet, he stands up and brushes the dirt off his suit. He then peruses my room, inspecting my belongings with gumshoe scrutiny. Pausing at my dresser, he peeks under the green bath towel and examines Mark’s box.

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