SHORT STORY: Blowing Smoke

--------------------------------------------------

“I’m not sure how much help I can be, Mr. Hagerbaumer.”

“Charles.”

“Charles, right.”

“We’re like normal people, you know. Just a little smaller. Our minds work the same way.”

Catherine’s right eyebrow soared and her face filled with color, a rare reaction after so many years in the practice. “No! That’s not what I meant--sorry. It’s just that I’m trying to quit smoking myself. I feel a little guilty trying to be the expert on a vice I’ve yet to conquer.”

“God, I guess it’s me that should be embarrassed. I apologize, it’s just that I have to be on the defensive, considering ... ”

“Considering that you’re a dwarf?” Catherine felt uneasy saying the word, even though she was sure she’d used the right term; Charles did have comically awkward proportions. She was trained to scan him for subtle gestures but he remained still, stubby arms tucked beneath each other. His heels crossed and his legs were relaxed, despite ending several inches above the olive carpet. He's comfortable. Good.

“Yes, my height is the first thing people notice.”

“How much would you say I weigh, Charles?”

“Uh.”

“It’s fine. I know I’m heavy. No guesses?”

“Hah! Okay, I see what you’re doing. Fair enough.” Charles shifted his position, slightly embarrassed.

“Just trying to loosen you up a bit. We need to figure out why you smoke before we can work on a solution. You seem very composed. Usually people are at least a bit nervous when they have their first session.” Catherine believed she’d found a loose thread and began to tug at it.

“I think you’ll find I’m a very calm, rational person. Which is exactly why this cigarettes thing is kicking my ass. I don’t want to smoke and I don’t get any enjoyment out of it. Hell, I don’t even crave them most of the time. But here I am with a pack of smokes in my pocket.”

“Do you want one now?”

“Not in the slightest.” There was a hint of protest in his voice, as if the question was a jab at his integrity. “Do you?”

“I can’t say the temptation isn’t there. I’ve been clean for three weeks though.”

“Cold turkey?”

“More or less. My eight year old watches too much television. He was crying one night and when I asked him what was wrong, he told me the man on T.V. said I was going to die. I crushed the pack I was working on and let him throw it in the garbage himself. I’ll be honest, though. I do have a just-in-case pack tucked next to my bible on the bookshelf.”

Mirth crept across Charles’ face. Catherine chuckled.

“No, it’s not a religious experience or anything like that. It’s just that He was the only witness when I made the deal with myself, so its there as a reminder. It’s worked so far.”

“I’m not a religious man.”

“And I’m not a particularly religious woman. But if it works, it works, right?”

“That’s why I’m here.” Charles had returned to his relaxed posture.

She noted it was precisely the same position he had settled into before and she scribbled notes. “Do you have a lot of friends who smoke?” she asked.

“No, none of them.”

“Do they drink?”

“We go to bars sometimes, but none of us drink heavily.”

“How long have you been smoking?”

“It’s going to sound strange, but I can’t remember. I know I wasn’t smoking when I lived in Toronto, so it’s definitely been under a year. I couldn’t even tell you where I got my ashtray.”

“Was there a lot of stress during the move?”

“No, no more than usual. I mean, packing your whole life into a truck is always kind of bizarre, but nothing particularly unpleasant happened. In fact, I was excited because I got the job I wanted.”

“What job was that?”

“I’m a supervisor for Fenoware’s technical service department.”

“And you like it there?”

“Yeah. It’s stable. And I get paid more than I need to get by. I also like the midnight shift because I can avoid traffic.”

“And avoid people?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. It’s much more comfortable when I’m not trying to push through crowds to get there.”

“I understand. Do you ever consider another job, one that is less structured?” She was tugging again. Let this be easy for once.

“No, not really. I’m actually pretty happy where I am. I work with a great group of people. They’re a bunch of rascals sometimes, but worth the headache.”

“It sounds like you have some fun there.”

“More like they have fun at my expense, but yeah, I wouldn’t know what to do without them.”

“Mhmm.” Catherine circled a portion of her notes and rapidly clicked the mechanical end of her pen as she prepared her next question.

“Would you say that you’re the voice of reason there? You serve as their ceiling when they get too rambunctious?”

“Sure.”

“What about home? Are you married? Kids?”

“Nope, just me and my dog Bucky,” said Charles.

“Is Bucky a small breed?” She preempted his reaction with a gesture. “Don’t take offense, I’m only asking because small dogs are easier to control, and that’s relevant to what we’re discussing.”

“Yes, he’s a collie. So you think I’m a control freak?”

“Do you think you--“

“Do I think I’m a control freak? I knew that was coming.” They both smiled. “I guess in some ways I am, but I don’t see how that causes a smoking habit.

“I don’t think we’re ready to make that conclusion yet, but I’m throwing it out there for discussion. I think it’s possible that given your stature, you’ve spent most of your life struggling to be normal, and that’s fine for Charles Hagerbaumer the dwarf, but now Charles Hagerbaumer the typical man has surfaced. Cigarettes are cool, and although entirely too common, they’ve always been a sign of rebellion. What if subconsciously, you’re rebelling against your protected environment in small doses?”

“Wow. You’ve sold me.” There was no trace of sarcasm in his voice.

“Haha, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, it’s just one possible path and we’ll explore many if you choose to come back for more sessions. Do you know the first thing that came to my mind when I decided to stop smoking?”

“What?” asked Charles.

“What am I going to do with my hands? My cigarette was a device used for more than just consumption. I could emphasize my speech, use it as a pointing device, or the best part, pretend I had no lighter and use it as a way to meet new people.”

“I see your point.” She noted his right hand now rested on the square protrusion under his breast pocket. He noted she was using her pen to emphasize her anecdote. “Your ad says you are a trained hypnotherapist. Can you simply suggest that I don’t want cigarettes anymore while I’m under?”

“It’s not that easy, I’m afraid, or I’d be filthy rich. You can’t force the mind to stop doing something it wants to do. Extended sessions might help to change your outlook on smoking, but I suspect we need to rule out a bigger dilemma first. I’m not convinced, subconsciously speaking, that you want to quit smoking. If you’re amiable to the idea, though, I think we can find out a bit more through the hypnotherapy.”

“You promise you’ll just stick to the smoking, and not poke around in my closets?” Charles joked, but the concern was genuine.

“I promise. And most people believe they are an open book under hypnosis--it’s not true. Your defenses will still be up, just slightly less picky about what information is filtered.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that. I guess that’s the control freak talking again?” Charles’ protective, uncomfortable position was just as predictable as his relaxed one.

“We won’t proceed if you have any hesitations.”

“No, it’s fine. I want to do this. Are you going to swing a watch in front of me?”

“Nope. I can do this without tools, that’s how skilled I am.” She aimed her pen at him, then read his expression quickly and glanced down at the tiny psychological crutch resting in her hand. “Not even this one.”

“So what do I do?”

“First I need you to close your eyes.”

He was hesitant, and even braved a couple of peeks before finally forcing his eyes closed. Catherine noticed a lot of movement behind his stretched lids. He’s nervous. He’s got an impressive amount of control, but he’s definitely nervous.

“Now I need you to breathe deeply, imagine you’re not in an office with me. You’re at home, sitting in bed alone. There’s not a worry in the world right now. You’re completely calm and safe. Now, raise one of your hands in front of your face, fingers lightly touching each other.”

Catherine was fascinated by the size of his hands. She wondered about his daily life and how clumsy simple tasks must feel to someone using instruments designed for much larger grips. She realized it was probably no different than a growing child; he had probably adapted to the limitations of his body just as everyone else did, dexterity replacing size and strength.

“Without opening your eyes, focus on a point in your palm. It’s going to be very hard to open your eyes because you’re so relaxed, but I need you to do it now. Open them and see the point become a reality.”

Charles’ lids fought the request, but he managed to open them just wide enough to find the point he had envisioned. His lips danced softly as they sang some nonsensical, silent song.

“You’re going to spread your fingers open and as they slowly move further and further apart, you will have to strain more and more to keep your eyes open. You’re becoming more relaxed than you ever imagined possible. Now, spread your fingers.”

Charles did as instructed. She wasn’t sure if his eyes were completely closed or if he was still processing some tiny amount of light. Catherine began the usual “deepening” methods to prepare for her conversation with his subconscious. She had him raise his stunted arm and focus on slowly lowering it. The science of it, or some might say the trick, was to keep him focused on the outcome of each task while the difficulty in getting there would deepen his trance. Simple gestures such as lifting a limb became exhausting exercises for the mind. She began the final deepening routine, but to her shock, Charles leapt up into a lopsided position, eyes completely focused. One of his eyes grudgingly followed its twin as they analyzed their environment.

“Awww, damn. He went to a shrink? What for? Isn’t he shrunken enough?”

“Charles?”

“What’s he complaining about? Can’t get it up? Can’t find the perfect little woman? Hears voices in his head just before he falls asleep?” Charles popped the pack of cigarettes from his pocket with a solid tap and had one in his mouth before Catherine could react. A click-swish-click of his lighter preceded a great puff of smoke and a satisfied grunt.

“That’s a fancy lighter for someone who doesn’t smoke regularly.”

“Hey, I would smoke regularly but we don’t get smokes out here.”

“Out where?”

“So how much is he paying you for this, anyway?” His face contorted and shadows crawled across new geography. He appeared many years older.

“That’s not important, are you going to answer my question Charles?”

“Are you going to answer mine?”

Such bite in his voice. This is Charles’ subconscious, stirred by years of denied wants, now ready to burst open.

“Very well. This session will cost you forty-five dollars since it’s our first meeting, with later sessions costing sixty-five. But you already knew that.”

“Maybe he is crazy, then.” Charles snorted. “Whatever he’s told you is probably true, but I promise you--you’re not going to be able to fix it, so stop taking his money.”

“Well you told me you smoke. And here you are, smoking.”

“You’re shitting me. He’s here because of that?”

“You’re the one who-“

“Let’s stop with that. I’m not Charles.”

“I understand that sometimes it gets hard to express yoursel-“

“I’m not Charles, bitch!”

Catherine diverted her eyes into her notepad, unable to look directly at her patient. The man had much greater problems than an unhealthy habit. She typically dealt with social anxiety and self esteem issues. This was out of her league. She’d bring him out of trance and recommend someone more qualified. The repetition of her pen clicks sped to match her furious pulse. But first, she had to know.

“Who are you?”

Short bursts of spindly smoke pushed through the corners of his mouth as he laughed. “Not that you’ll believe me. They never do. I’m a dead man.”

“A ghost?” She made no attempt to hide her disbelief.

“Don’t be stupid. Do I sound like a ghost to you? I died, yes, but I’m still alive. In two places actually.”

“Two places. In Charles, and in ... ”

"Hell. Bavos. Hades. I guess it depends on your religion."

The idea was absurd, of course, but nevertheless, every one of Catherine’s muscles felt like it was flexing in one sudden ripple.

“So you’re a demon, then? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, woman! No! Psh, Demons. There are no demons. Just us. My name is Jarrod Keele.”

“So you believe you’re being punished for your actions while you ... while you were alive?”

“It’s not a matter of believing, it’s a reality."

"How do you believe you died?"

"I don't know. I was alive, and then I was here. It must have been something quick. Maybe I got hit by a bus. Aren't you curious to ask me what my days are like?”

“What are your days like?”

“I don’t have any. It’s night here, always night, and endlessly cold. There are other people here, I know because I can hear them crying out for warmth. I try to answer them, but I can’t speak English here. My words come out as fucking nonsense, just like everybody else’s. Some of the others have gone mad with laughter despite their misery. And we don’t die. We can’t die. I can’t even tell you what my body looks like because I can’t see it, but I can feel my skin peeling away. Christ, I don’t think there’s even any skin left on my legs.” He was weeping.

“So you seek out Charles as an escape?” This was exciting new ground for Catherine. She’d had plenty of neurosis pass through her office, but this was something extraordinary. This man’s subconscious was speaking with her coherently, showing graphic, elaborate signs of self punishment. For what?

“I enter him for warmth. For the taste of a cigarette. They let me smoke when I was in prison. That was paradise compared to my new home. Charles is different, no question there. His body takes some getting used to.” Charles’ hand sought out his crotch.

“So you possess him. Would Charles be better off speaking with a priest?” She longed for a cigarette of her own.

“I don’t know exactly how it happens. I stare hard into the darkness, straining so much my eyes burn, and then something ... slides. My focus bleeds into his focus and I’m here. Not for long, but I’ll take what I can get. I didn’t pick the shrimp; it just works out that way every time. I’ve got other abilities once I’m here. If I were you, I wouldn’t let Charles go to a priest or bad shit may happen to you. Really bad. That’s a promise.”

“What are these abilities? How would you stop him?”

“You really wouldn’t want to see them. Trust me.” He wagged a plump finger at her.

“Charles, I’m going to clap my hands and when I do, you’re going to wake up.”

“You filthy bitch! I’m warning you!” He lunged from the couch but Catherine brought her hands together before he could complete the motion. Charles tumbled to the floor and opened his eyes in shock. Flames sputtered forth from the carpet beneath him and he rolled to safety. Catherine assaulted the newborn conflagration with her coffee before it had time to grow.

“What the hell was that?”

“Oh, Charles ... I’m sorry. I can explain all this.”

“To cure me of smoking you made me smoke a cigarette? I don’t understand.”

“You lit it on your own. I tried to bring you back before you could, but I was too late. Are you okay?” She was helping him to his feet, feeling immensely guilty both for potentially harming him and lying about the session.

“I’m fine. But I’m not paying for the carpet.”

“Neither am I, the insurance will cover it.” They were both smiling.

“So what did you find out? Can I quit?”

“I’m going to refer you to a colleague of mine who specializes in cases like yours. Not the smoking, we could work on that. But I think you first need to work on your sense of identity. I have some concerns that I will share with her and she’ll be much better at explaining them to you.”

“Wow, it’s that bad, huh?”

“No, not at all, Charles. It’s good that you’re here. Perhaps your subconscious was using the smoking to make you seek help. And you’ve found it. I just want you to have the best therapy possible, so I’m going to get it for you. We’ll meet next week at the same time, in this office. I’ll introduce you to her and make the transition easy. She’ll charge you the same fees I would.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. In the meantime, try to cut back on the frequency of your smoking. Fight that subconscious urge. It really is a matter of will.”

“Alright. Thanks. I’ll be here. You have me more than a little worried, but I’ll be here.”

Catherine tried her best to keep a smile on her face and to at least appear optimistic even though she dreaded the amount of therapy the poor man would probably commit himself to. She would call Samantha and beg for a favor, an owed favor, as soon as she got home. She crept over to her blue tinted third-story window and peered over the sidewalk. Charles moved towards the subway station at an impressively brisk pace despite the turbulent sea of people pushing past him.

#

“Mom?” asked Anthony.

Catherine hesitated a moment, unsure if she had woken to her son’s voice or something conjured by her sleep. She rubbed her eyes into focus.

“Mom.” he insisted.

“What is it, hon? It’s ... It’s three-thirty in the morning.”

“I think there’s a kid downstairs.”

“What?” She was out of bed and fumbling with her nightgown.

Half of Anthony’s face peered through the door's gap.

“Why do you think someone is in the house?” she asked.

“I saw him.”

“You saw who?” she whispered, terrified.

“He’s little. He was in my room and then he went downstairs. I heard him in the kitchen.”

“Are you sure you weren’t just having a nightmare? You stayed up pretty la--“ Catherine was interrupted by a distinct thump downstairs. “Crawl under my bed right now and don’t come out until I tell you to. Do you understand?”

“What is he--“

“Right now. Hurry.”

Catherine spun towards her nightstand and her stomach tightened at the sight of an empty phone cradle. Shit. He was in here too. She watched her son as the draping comforter swallowed him whole and, satisfied that he was out of view, began desperately assessing the knickknacks of her room for weapon potential. She couldn't find a single object with defensive value. Her bedroom only boasted two neighbors--the bathroom and Anthony’s room.

A rapidly expanding plastic universe thrived in Anthony's bedroom, but unfortunately he wasn't the least bit interested in sporting equipment. She considered arming herself with one of his toy guns but only found "Alien Attack Blasters" and "Robot Rays," a legacy left behind by her ex-husband and his sci-fi tendencies.

Catherine made a mental inventory of the bathroom: tweezers, nail file, toilet brush, plunger, or chemicals. Catherine decided that hydrogen peroxide hurled into the trespasser’s eyes would produce spectacular results, but she’d never been able to throw accurately (not the least bit interested in sports either). Panic rode her, demanding her retreat to the bedroom with Anthony, its tone cruel and condescending. This is pointless. You don't have the courage for violence. Wait it out. Wait it out and he'll leave on his own.

She turned to flee but was promptly anchored when she noticed a weapon masquerading as a harmless piece of porcelain. Catherine carefully lifted the rectangular top from the back of the toilet. Her face pinched as the lid clumsily scraped loose. The piece was much denser than it appeared and its unpolished underside bit the soft meat of her fingers. She hefted it upward as if preparing to strike and, neither satisfied nor disappointed, headed into the hallway to begin her descent.

Catherine felt ridiculous perched at the top of the stairs, toilet lid lofted high above her like Moses receiving the Commandments. Her bare toes curled silently into the carpeted steps as she forced her shaking body downward. Each breath escaped stunted and hard as a nervous tremor reached her lungs. She reached the bottom step and scanned the main floor of the house. The harsh kitchen light revealed open drawers. A dozen flies spun in drunken circles around the kitchen's bulb. A burglar? He must have left the patio door open.

"You can put that down, Cat." The voice rose from the black of the living room.

"Charles?" She kept her weapon.

"In the flesh ... but not in the spirit I'm afraid."

"Jarrod?"

"Yeah Charles is pretty trashed right now and I'm his designated driver."

"You ... uh, Charles, told me he wasn't a heavy drinker." Catherine attempted to keep him talking. This is a sick man. He needs your help.

"This is a sick man. He needs your help." Charles mocked her with her own internal voice.

"Jesus Christ, how did you--"

"I told you I could do things."

"What do you want? Why the fuck are you here?"

"Thought I'd have a smoke." Charles, Jarrod, flicked open his lighter and produced a brilliant little flame. With new illumination, Catherine saw him sinking into the recliner, his stunted body overwhelmed by the girth of the furniture. While the fire still sputtered light, she watched him inhale the smoke and then exhale it from a good couple of feet higher than his head.

"Your cigarettes taste terrible. I've had this brand before--it doesn't taste like this. As stupid as it sounds, it may be because they've been rotting next to your bible. Isn't that funny? Turns out I've got a lot to learn still."

"What are you?" Catherine's analytical brain was caught in an irrational loop.

"Haven't we been over this already?"

"Get out of my house!"

"But you haven't introduced me to Anthony yet. Where are your manners? Where is the little guy? Anthony!"

"Mom?"

Catherine responded with a terrifying, guttural shriek. Jarrod spat out his cigarette as she charged him. His stubby arms did little to fend off the porcelain lid as she repeatedly hammered it down upon him. Moaning, Jarrod collapsed to the floor.

He rolled onto his knees and Catherine noticed he had tucked one of her kitchen knives beneath his belt. Oh God. He's here to kill us. She continued her assault before he could regain his balance. Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! Her stomach picked up the violent sound before her ears and she nearly retched. Soon the crimson spatter soiled the lid's pristine surface.

The wounded man managed to reach the dividing line between the living room's teal carpet and the kitchen's linoleum squares. Bloodied, shaking fingers pulled him towards the light. Now completely engulfed in flies, the bulb fought for its own life. Staccato illumination splashed across the room and in the split-second eye adjustment between flickers, in the unlight, Catherine could see Jarrod's hell.

Her unkempt kitchen was gone. In its place, a bleak cavernous landscape extended far enough to fade into fog. Iron cages sat upon the jagged floor, each one spaced from its neighbors and each one containing a battered human figure. Most were lying prostrate, all of them suffering. Some cried out while others cackled with tortured madness. Many spat foreign words like curses.

Jarrod rolled in place, his hands grasping at his mauled skull. One of the caged people nearby imitated the gesture. This man was full-sized. Infested with flies, his legs were exposed to the bone. He kept repeating a word she didn't know.

"Elichnar! Elichnar!"

In unison, Jarrod said, "Bitch! Bitch!"

"What is this?" She trembled. All faces turned towards Catherine, their eyes long since devoured by insects. Some began to reach out to her with mangled limbs.

"Is that a midget? What's wrong with him, mom?"

"Anthony! Don't look!" She dropped the toilet lid and quickly turned her son away from both scenes of carnage. She ushered him towards the front door.

"Where are we going?"

"To Grandma's. We're going to spend the night there. Hurry." She grabbed her keys on the way out and the two of them, pajama-clad, were soon on the road.


#

Catherine returned to her house the following morning with her father (and her father's pistol). Her toilet lid rested cleanly on the carpeted floor without a drop of blood on it. The kitchen bulb blazed brilliantly, perhaps stronger than ever. Her emergency pack of cigarettes was gone, but the rest of the house seemed undisturbed.

Her father urged her to file a police report, but she refused.

"Well at least move in with us, at least until you feel safe enough to move back. We never use the basement and it's practically an apartment by itself. You'll have to go outside to smoke, though."

"Dad--I quit!"

#

Catherine suspected she'd never see Jarrod or Charles again, but she kept her father's gun in her purse just in case. Charles' second appointment neared. Distracted, she knew she was providing inadequate help to her other clients. It's fine. He won't show up.

But he did. Charles showed up for his appointment five minutes early, exactly as he had for the first session. Catherine studied him closely for any sign of Jarrod Keele, but found none. His face was heavily bruised and several parts of his head were stitched into place. Bandages covered his fingers. He sat before her in his controlled posture, his eyes even and focused. She had shoved a hand into her purse (which she hid below the desk on her lap) as soon as her secretary had announced his arrival.

"Well, aren't you going to ask?" His tone wasn't malicious.

"Ask what?"

"Why I look like I was hit by a bus?"

"Come on ... I think we both know the answer to that." Her fingers tightened around the pistol's grip.

"You caught me. I'm a little embarrassed. I told you I didn't drink heavily, but you knew the truth. You were hinting at it."

"So you got drunk?"

"That's an understatement."

"And what do you think happened to you?" She pointed at his stitches with her free hand.

"I have no idea. It would seem I got into a fight. I don't think I won."

"How bad is it?"

"Lots of stitches, obviously. A slight concussion. One bitch of a headache. The guy who did this must have been huge. Well, I mean, even more so than usual for me."

"I'm glad to hear you'll recover. I'm not going to lecture you on the drinking."

"I guess I'm your colleague's problem now. Is she here?" he asked.

This is it. The big lie. Get him out of your life. More importantly, get him out of your son's life.

"I spoke with Samantha and proposed some theories. She concurred. You won't need any future sessions."

"What? But I'm still smoking--and drinking. Just look at me, I'm a total wreck. I don't understand."

"You're going to have to keep smoking. Charles, I'm going to be brutally honest here. We determined that your subconscious is desperately, actively seeking escape from its prison--your structured and controlled life. You came here to try to conquer that urge, and look where it led you. Somewhere very, very dangerous. It's a small vice, and far less damaging to you in the long run than what may come about if you try to stop it. Eventually, you may not feel the need for them anymore."

"Your solution to help me stop smoking is to continue smoking?" Charles' tone had changed. He was letting emotion slip through his perfect composure.

"For now I think it's best, yes. And Samantha agrees. You're welcome to see another therapist if you like, but I'm afraid I can't help you."

"And you expect me to pay you for nothing?"

"Of course not, I won't charge you for either session. I'm only being honest. I can't help you."

The anger subsided and Charles gave her a quick nod. He slid from the couch and landed lopsided on his feet before marching towards the door.

"Charles, wait. Can I ask you a favor?"

"What?"

"Can I bum a smoke?" she asked.

He looked up at her beneath a folded brow. "I don't understand."

"Oh, no ... it has nothing to do with you. I just need one now."

Charles unbuttoned his shirt pocket and slid out the pack. He freed one of the paper sticks and handed it to his ex-therapist. It was from her own emergency stash.

"Thanks," she said.

"No problem."

"Good luck, Charles."

"Um. Good luck to you too."

She watched from the window again as he wove his way back into the crowd below. She noticed scores of people outside with cigarettes firmly pinched between either lips or fingers.


Is Jarrod the only one? It's not my problem. Christ, it's certainly not Anthony's problem. There is a game going on here and I was not invited. They can sort out the rules.