The Solitude of Passion (16 page)

Everything about Lee is the same in my mind’s eye. She doesn’t age, her hair never changes, those beautiful eyes still smile at me without trying.

The surprise of electricity goes off overhead—looks like it’s back to the grind for me.

Lights, camera, action.

The walls of the sweatshop drip with oil. The floors are dusted with sand from a spill on the manufacturing line last week. A string of bulbs dangle from bare wires, dotting the facility with the not-so-thinly veiled threat of turning the place into an incinerator. I’m sure this rat hole has more than its fair share of electrical and architectural felonies taking place. At home I couldn’t install a window without five different building inspectors breathing down my neck, and here they’ve jerry-rigged an entire infrastructure.

Gao finds a seat next to me on the production line today—the lentil assassin. Although, technically he didn’t assassinate anyone, he was trying to save them—
feed
them. This place is rife with irony.

Rows and rows of worktables line the dank, humid room which smells of rancid urine. Two boys, ages twelve and fifteen, occupy the table in front of us, and I flick a couple of paper roses across the floor toward them. I’ve been to isolation over a hundred times since they pushed me in and threw away the key. It works out to be about every other week. It’s dark, but it offers more quality time with God and Lee. Nothing like some time with the fam so I’m not too spooked by the consequences.

The young boys stoop down and slip the folded roses into their shoes before looking up with their dead expressions. I’ve spent months with them and never once seen them crack a smile. It’s weird seeing kids here. Although, they’re not kids anymore. This place sucks the soul right out of you, crucifies you for sins you’ve never really committed.

“Mitch,” Gao whispers while trying to master the art of ventriloquism. He stares down with great intensity at the pool of beads before him as if he were mapping out the cure for cancer. This week’s mind numbing task consists of landing multicolored bits of plastic into what looks like a tackle box.

My fingers beg to fall off as I fumble to keep up with my unreasonable quota of fourteen chests per hour. Not sure how many hours, but I don’t stop until it’s good and dark outside that window. I’m not certain what exactly lies beyond the boundaries of these walls. When I first arrived someone got up and tried to sneak a peek, but they shot him with a dart. He fell to the floor like a stone, haven’t seen him since. Mostly I sit on my ass and shut the hell up. I prefer to break the rules on my own terms.

“I got paper book,” Gao hisses it out like a sneeze. “Small paper book of your God.”

I pump out a smile at him. I’m not that enthused. Half the people I give my work to can’t read English.

“Master work,” he assures.

We sit, still as stone, as a patrol guard makes his way down the aisle.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

Water comes to the desert. I haven’t laid eyes on anything that remotely resembles the English alphabet other than what streams from my own hand.

Slow methodical footsteps retract and stop just shy of my shoulder. I don’t turn around just keep at my work as though sorting the blue beads were the defining axiom of my existence. At this point it probably is.

A sharp blow strikes the back of my head. Blinding white-pain sears through my skull. The room sways, and for a brief moment I think I might pass out. Turns out I’m not that lucky today.

Two men in uniform charge in my direction and escort me out by way of the ever so popular push-shove method. It doesn’t take long for me to see blood dripping over my shoulder. Looks like I get to clock out early.

“Bandage for you today.”

Mei is on duty, so I’m feeling pretty comfortable. We sit in her small eight by ten depository that doubles as surgical quarters with mouse feces and dried blood scattered freely across the laminate flooring. She wipes the blood away from my temple and gives me another brown work shirt fresh from the laundry. I take it in and smash it against my nose. It reeks of bleach, and that alone feels pretty damn extravagant. Everything else around here, including my fellow inmates, smells like ass crack and that’s a scent I can never get used to.

“You stupid.” She slaps the back of my neck for good measure. “Keep you mouth shut. They going lock you up in dark room for good one day. We forget about people in there sometime. Bad smell come. We wait until it finish before we open door again.”

“Nice.” My mind splinters for a minute. That’s exactly what happened. The whole world forgot about Mitch Townsend. They shut the door and are trying to ignore the stench. I never could figure out why they didn’t move mountains trying to find me. I’d like to believe they’re still looking, but reality begs to differ.

The phone rings, and Mei picks up without the courtesy of anything that resembles a hello. Her moon-shaped face doesn’t flinch as she rattles off a series of singsong phrases. It sounds jagged, like a saw trying to hack through the trunk of an oak—wind chimes—some ancient vocal exercise. I take a seat by the door and close my eyes as I wait for the cattle prod to tell me what to do next.

The faint sound of laughter lights up the hall, and my eyes spring wide.
Laughing
. That’s something just this side of illegal in this shithole. A strong male voice speaks in perfect English. I lean my head out the door with curiosity as he rattles on about travel arrangements. People actually leave this place? Doubtful.

A sharp dressed man in a navy suit, blood red tie notched just below his neck, speeds in this direction. I haven’t seen anybody dressed like that since I was back in the states.

“Hey,” I shout after him as he passes me by. “Excuse me?”

He turns, still moving in the opposite direction, glances at me, and reverts over. “Yes?” His eyes run over me in my sorry state of disrepair.

“Are you a lawyer or something?” God, let him be a lawyer.

“Kyle Wong,” he barks it out. “What’s your story?”

My body seizes with hope, and my vocal cords weld together. My chest reverberates like a time bomb. Kyla Wong lit the fuse, and now I’m probably going to blow to pieces with the prospect of seeing Lee again. I glance over at Mei. If this is a trap, I’m falling in hook, line, and sinker.

“Mitch Townsend,” I say, extending my hand, but he doesn’t take it. “I came here to do some work a while back,” it speeds out of me. “Can you help me get in touch with my wife—my brother? They’ll hire an attorney.
You
, if you want.”

“An attorney from the states has no jurisdiction here. Nobody does.” He takes a few steps back. “Mitch Townsend, you say?”

I nod eagerly.

“Nice to meet you.” He lifts his hand before speeding down the hall.

He takes all of my hope with him.

Max

I give a series of hard blows against Hudson’s door. I have to take a piss, and it’s a hundred and twelve fucking degrees out here, literally.

Indian summer. Two weeks into fall and you’d never know it. Hotter than hell. It says so on the gnome thermometer flashing his bare ass at me. Apparently Candi has a thing for miniature elflike creatures as evidenced by the fact she has them splayed all over the property. I don’t know which is worse, her collection of miniature mutants mooning the houseguests or the steering wheel graveyard of my brother’s that continues to thrive. Not to mention the fact Hudson has managed to add a tire monument to his long list of automotive offenses—a stack of necrotic oversized donuts that rival the pyramids in girth and stature.

The door cracks open, and I push my way through.

“What the hell took so long?” I ask, ditching into the bathroom. It occurs to me as I’m relieving myself that the mane of blonde hair blown up like a beehive didn’t belong to my bonehead brother.

“Sorry, about that,” I apologize to Candi as soon as I get out.

Her arms are folded against her waist semi-pissed at my not-so-neighborly entrance. She’s wearing four-inch heels, one long tank top stretched over the Himalayas with no sign of any kind of bottom, and it registers she’s dressed to greet the Shepherd she’s a little more intimately fond of. I avert my gaze like pulling out of a fire, but she leans in on my shoulder and purrs a strangled hello.

“Whoa.” I hold my hands up and stride over to the kitchen.

Lately it feels like whenever I’m around she’s hitting on me. Then again, she probably hits on everyone—no reason to think I’m special. Like I’d pay her any attention. I’ve got Lee. No time for three dollar whores. No offense to Candi. It just so happens that a “three dollar whore” is the garden-variety girlfriend for my brother.

Hudson struts in through the back door and nods over to me. “What’s going on, little bro?”

“You tell me.” He called while I was lying prone in Townsend field. There’s a leak in the irrigation line that’s turned the earth into soup and has already cost Lee and me a quarter acre.

“You fix the line? Hey, you want a beer?” Hudson’s face softens.

Asking about the line? Plying me with liquor? I smell a financial burden brewing. Hudson’s kindness always comes with a price tag.

“No thanks. Line’s all right for now. Think I torqued my shoulder though.” I rotate it clockwise a couple times before following him into the dining room and grabbing a seat at the table. Candi clicks her heels in the opposite direction, taking her hormonal self upstairs, and suddenly it becomes too quiet.

“Spill,” I say. “I need to get home.” It’s baby-making night. Lee’s ovulating—she called me twice to remind me, which is sort of ironic since I end almost every day making love to Lee anyway. It’s a pleasure, a
treasure
, anything but a chore.

He scratches at his scruffy hair, long and matted as a lion’s mane. “I need some cash, dude.”

“What’s new?” I pull his beer over and take a swig before sliding it back. “There’s no way in hell I’m lending you anything that even remotely resembles currency.”

His features darken as if there were more to the story, but he’s not laying down all his cards just yet. “I’ll pay you back.” His eyes bulge unnaturally revealing an entire network of crimson railroad tracks. I’d like to believe those were hard won, from tears, but thanks to the jars of weed he has stored out back, I know better. “
Twice
what I owe you.”

“No, you won’t. What happened?” I don’t need to ask. I already know. He lost another bet, but I want him to verbalize what a loser he is. I want him to squirm like the sack of shit he’s panning out to be.

“It was rigged.” He shakes his head. “I swear. I’m not messing with those bastards anymore.” He swipes his fingers over his eyes. Good God, he’s actually harnessed the ability to manufacture tears. Who knew I’d be treated to a performance piece? “You gotta do this for me. Just one more time, I mean it.”

“What’s the damage?”

“Seventy-five.”

“Shit!” I slam my palms over the table, and the walls rattle like thunder. “It took a whole lot of convincing to get Lee to dip into our personal savings to bail your ass out of hock just three weeks ago—
fifty
grand
I just gave you. Are you some kind of fucking moron?”

He slinks back with an infuriating look. “They threatened the fields.”

My mind goes blank. It’s like his words chaffed my brain and took all my rational thoughts with them. I bunch his shirt up by the neck and shake the holy shit out of him. “You stupid little prick.”

Candi races in screaming. She tries to break up the love fest by digging her press-on nails into my neck. I give a hard shove and knock Hudson backward onto the floor.

“Last fucking time!” I bark.

Hudson pulls his lips in a line and doesn’t respond to my rage. He knows he won.

I don’t say anything else, just walk out the door.