Real Food by Siewleng Torossian
Infection at last!!! CU at the club. Trixie sent the same text to another friend, grinning so wide her cheeks hurt. Then she re-read the Disease Center’s message. Confirmed active. LV-170. Not that she had worried the global pandemic would overlook her. In the first year, everyone was already infected. Two years into the viral contagion, scientists and doctors had come to the same and only conclusion about the Longevity Virus. Dormancy was the first phase. Activation of the virus needed no catalyst and was inevitable.
She left the kitchen and hurried to the bedroom. Before she could put away the phone, an ad had popped up on the screen. Data Plan For Life - DP170. She itched to check the pricing but her friends were waiting. Besides, she celebrated her 30th birthday last month. And she had what, 140 years left to do whatever she wanted?
Dressed in her favorite red frock with the slits, she took one last look at outfits hanging in the closet. Seriously, without a vaccine in sight, she should shop for more party clothes. Work shirts and pants too. Regular clients rarely asked to meet online anymore. But with LV, she could see her remote graphic design business booming. Finally, she could think about buying a home. Or not. Why restrict herself to living within the same four walls?
With the moon up high, she drove to the club in downtown Los Angeles, ideas spinning in her head. People said one could live twice over with LV. Do more, work or play. Try new hobbies. Change careers. Life had become an abyss of possibilities. The singsong chant came to her mind. One she had waited to belt out like the rest of the world. Lots of time for the rest of her infected years.
Inside the club, Lauper’s Time After Time was aptly welcoming. She navigated the dance crowd, twirling and skipping under hanging baubles of glitter and across the illuminated floor. The shine of lights seemed especially festive tonight. Her friends cheered and waved from a corner booth. They hugged and kissed her, welcomed her to club hopping away an extra lifetime.
Someone chirped, bottomless list, no more of that bucket stuff. Between rounds of the club special of Endless Wings, everyone tapped their phones. See the pyramids, hike the Great Wall and so on. Of course, volunteer more, but why rush? Phones and well-intended goals slipped back into pockets and purses. At three in the morning, she kissed her friends goodbye and left the club.
The sour reek of urine from the dimly lit street hardly bothered her. Not tonight. Life had begun all over again six hours ago. Keys jiggling, she strode to her car humming no particular tune. Tomorrow was Saturday. One of many more to come. She would sleep in. Why not? She had so much time to spare now.
Billboards in the distance shone new meaning. Neverending Subscription Special. Super Long-Term Financial Planning. The messages rang necessary truths, but she wanted to take it easy. Savor the diagnosis a little longer. She paused at the lamp post, lips open, tune lost in her gasp. Something was shuffling in the dark alley. She lifted her foot. An odor charged at her - unwashed socks. A glint swung high. The attack lasted...like forever. She remembered his t-shirt. Smell The Roses.
Detective Kimble closed a file, one of many that crowded his desk and the shelves behind. “No one like that in our system, but you did fight him off.”
She bit her lip. Bolt? Or scream at law enforcement officers more interested eating lunch and answering phones at their desks - Do something! On the wall, one poster stood out: Time’s On Our Side. Exactly. Longevity gave criminals equal opportunity to live to their fullest miscreant potential. Kimble had answered and hung up on a call. He eyed his half-eaten burger and said, “Like I tell everyone, I’m 48, and you say he’s fortyish.” He glanced at her bandaged neck. “170 is an estimate, give or take. Whether he’s sick with cancer or whatnot,” he winked, “he’s cured or living like a dying man for a long time. We’d catch him.”
The next six months dragged. Half-eaten frozen dinners piled on the kitchen table. Laundry was done when she ran out of clean sweat tops and pants. Her friends checked on her but so what? They could not understand. 140 haunted like a life sentence. Clients’ logos and websites managed to distract temporarily. But no phone call from the detective added to her sleepless nights.
“Nothing yet, I’m afraid,” Kimble said, looking up from the ragged scar on her neck. The poster on the wall behind him was new: They Can’t Hide For Long. “Now, don’t think that gives you the right…”
She let the man spew his righteous nonsense. That night stalked her like a shadow. One abrupt glint from a window or car door would freeze her to the spot. The knife had twisted in her face. Don't scream.
Kimble was droning on and on. “...none of that eye for an eye sort of thing…”
Back on the street, she hurried past two women. Under the orange and red leaves of a sunlit maple tree, they gushed about shopping at the mall as if new clothes and shoes were all that mattered. The redhead giggled and recited, for the rest of our—
She sped home, windows down. Musky-sweet September air swished into the car. Her favorite season would soon chill into winter. Next fall would arrive, so would the next one. She skidded the car into the driveway in one quick slide. Braked, parked. Only one way to ease the pain. Tit for tat. Online research did not prepare her for the sprawling basement shop. Fully stocked racks, shelves, locked glass cabinets. Theft prevention tools, self-defense gear, martial arts paraphernalia. The infinite selection confused her, made her second-guess herself. Could she hurt a person? Even him. Grasp the knife. Cut him up. She shuddered. He was the criminal. Not her. She helped seniors across the street and she brought injured dogs to the shelters. At the next cabinet, the woman hounded the salesclerk. What about non-standard civilian models? How did the LV virus affect refund policies? What about test dummies?
When Trixie pushed her cart to the cashier, she smiled, ready to embark on her mission. Her new friend Alice had encouraged her with a whisper: “Think of it as a different kind of partying.”
Finding him was next. Talking about that night and reliving the horror choked her up but Alice had advised her - she was taking back her life, doing something to remove him from her future. Armed with the police report, she asked the club for help. Her friends spread the word and the sketch a kind artist stranger had rendered.
Five months later, she hid in Sam Tucker’s moonlit backyard. The forty-three year old construction worker had no idea what was coming to him. She and her arsenal, tucked between a brick wall and bushes. The house nestled into a deep corner at the end of the street away from the main row of homes. Half a mile and thick woods separated him from his neighbors. He lived alone. Today was Wednesday. His poker buddies came over every Saturday. If he cried out, not that she would let him, no one would hear him. Not unlike her despair in the alley. Staring at the blade of his knife inches from her eyes had locked up her voice inside her throat.
She pushed into the wall. Suddenly, she was tossed back to that night. His other hand and his body had pinned her. Hand shaking, she patted her pockets, as Alice had taught her. Take back control, reduce him to the prey. She relaxed, fingers busily groping the different shapes. Taser, knife, syringes, tape. Under the bush sat her backpack filled with more toys. Ball-gag, extra syringes, hammer and nails, zip-ties, rope. And of course, Alice’s favorite, the cordless heavy-duty stapler gun. She flattened her palm over the keys in her pocket. The duplicate set she had made from the bunch he hid in the shed.
“That’s better,” she muttered, and peeked around the bush.
The kitchen remained dark except for a glow in the hallway. He was still eating in front of the tv watching wrestling. When she last checked, the time was half past eight. Two weeks of stalking him had tattooed his schedule and habits into her memory. She no longer referred to the notes in her phone. At nine, he would bring his dishes to the kitchen. Her cue to get ready. Mad giggles pressed against her lips. His dietary staples varied between fried chicken and triple cheese pizza. In the old days, his early demise would have been eminent. Cancer, cardiac arrest. If he knew what she had planned for him, he would wish for a vaccine.
Light flashed inside the house.
Inching forward, careful not to rustle the leaves, she put her eye to the gap in the bushes. The moon cast enough light over the back door. She would see him clearly if he dragged out a bag of trash. At the moment, he stood at the sink with his phone clasped between ear and shoulder. He was planning for Saturday.
“...barbecue, everyone likes that,” he was saying, tone friendly and engaging through the open window. The average man chatting with a friend. She stayed rooted on her feet. Calm as can be. Remarkable. Even last night, his gravelly voice had jolted her. Every instinct told her to run, flee, get away from him.
“...we can grill or get takeout…” He fell silent for a moment, then laughed, a rough cackle she could almost feel grating her skin. Alice’s advice had echoed in her mind. Feeling trapped, she should see her knife dripping red, his face bloodied and the eyes begging her. She smirked at a thought. He had given her an idea. Mentally, she added blowtorch to her list in the phone. She leaned away to take a look as dishes clattered. He was stacking them on the rack. His next routine would be beer, hitting the lights, then settling in front of the tv. Not realizing he was at her mercy. Three syringes waited for him in her pocket. An overkill perhaps, but he was twice her size. He had to be kept under long enough for her to tie him up. After that, showtime - zip ties, ropes, ball gag.
Her lips curled, as she imagined him flinching from the serrated blade in her hand. She would start with his cheeks, slicing, carving. His ears would be next, then his neck and arms. A thousand slashes to repay him for that night. He must suffer. Ten minutes had inflicted upon her an eternity of terror. A car engine rumbled on the street. 9:15. The man three doors down was leaving for his overnight shift.
Quickly, she peeked across the yard at the hallway glow. He should be finishing his beer, already half asleep. She could creep up to the side door now. By 9:30, his snoring would signal her to sneak into the hallway. Her feet tingled. She was ready. Alice had said she should live through every step of her devious plot. Watch him beg, or try to. With the ball-gag, he would understand desperation, helplessness. Feel hope shrinking. Cringe. Every moment might be his last, as she had feared, her arms and legs fighting him off. Staples were Alice’s contribution. Clamp them into his skin all over. Then remove each metal crimp one by one. Enjoy seeing him writhe under spasms of agony.
Her belly growled and she found herself smiling as she dug her pocket for a stick of gum. This was a first in months since that night. Craving a greasy burger. Grilled meat patty, melted slices of cheese, whole grilled onions, the works. Coming here tonight, she had dreaded going home to another mushy microwaved dinner. She sucked the gum, chuckling at Alice’s wisdom. Go for counseling. Talk it out with a friend. Use customized self-care. Her returning appetite proved Alice’s unorthodox method worked. A burger? She could chomp into one right now.
The breeze blew over her. She breathed the earthy scent, slid down the wall and folded her legs, bushes hiding her from the spill of moonlight. Okay, where was she? Right. Staples. After ripping him to shreds, she would mock him. Call the police. They would laugh. A hulking hardhat bound and sadistically ridiculed in his own home? More like a twisted game with his shady friends. People were devising creative ideas to enjoy LV. She took out her phone, opened her Options list. If only everyone put time to good use like Alice. The twice divorced boutique owner had cleverly devised inventive therapy to cope with her own recovery.
…judo, relocate, work law enforcement...
Each option was sensible, tame, nothing tugging Trixie to pursue. The last one, role-play, had jumped like a lifeline being tossed at her. Make him pay. Her way.
Two weeks ago when she tracked him to this house, her whole being had cried for visceral payback. She wanted to see his flesh split raw and bleeding, carve his eyes out, burn away his horrid smells. Now, she could not wait to delete him completely from her life. As she swiped the screen, prepared to erase every piece of information about him, Alice’s gentle nag returned. Consider other women. She hovered her finger over the screen. He was an opportunistic monster. Who knew how many women he had assaulted. One more day then, before she let go of him. Her notes of Tucker could be used to match similar cases reported. She swiped Calender open and typed Kimble.
As the knot in her chest loosened, she said, “Yesss.” Even the night air seemed to soothe with fresh energy.
Something creaked from the far side of the street and she lifted her head. The two-beat scraping of hinges was the green painted house. A white-haired woman lived there with her three-legged dog. Every night, she filled a large plate with cans of tuna for stray cats. Cat Lady was a good citizen. She used LV to care for furry ones. Another person to emulate.
She leaned into the wall and texted Alice. Late night snack? Burger, pizza, meatballs. I want to eat. Yeah, got better things to do. Women’s shelter still looking for help?
