Mark Alejos
STORIES

AMERICA'S BEST
The phone rings—
“Hello, Mr. Tony?” asks the woman.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Tony, I return your calls.”
“Huh?”
“I return your calls, Mr. Tony. You call me five minutes ago, and two time before. I return all call within twenty-four hour.”
“Oh sorry. I thought I only called the one time. Anyway, it was a mistake. They were all mistakes. How many times did you say I called?”
“Three time.”
“Hmmm . . . there’s something going on with my phone and I can’t seem to stop it. It just calls random people on its own. Sorry to bug you.”
“It’s not a bug.”
“Oh . . . okay then. Have a nice day.”
“So you don’t need anything?”
“No.”
“You don’t need your house clean?”
“Um, no, I don’t. Thanks.”
“You not happy with how we clean your house, Mr. Tony?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You don’t call in four year. Were you unhappy with the job?”
“Oh! Oh I know who you are now. I still have a lot of old numbers in this phone. Maybe that’s the problem—too many numbers. Wow, has it been four years?”
“Yes, Mr. Tony. This is Bella, from America’s Best HomeCleaning. Your home must be very dirty now, Mr. Tony. Did you hire different service?”
“Hello Bella. Look, I’m driving now so I really can’t talk.”
“You hire different company, Mr. Tony?”
“No. And listen, please, I don’t need my house cleaned, I haven’t hired anyone else, the call was a mistake, and I’ll delete you so it won’t happen again. I’m really sorr—”
“You delete me, Mr. Tony?”
“Yes. I mean no. I’m going to erase your number.”
“When can we schedule appointment, Mr. Tony? We do deep clean since we have to start over, then return weekly. It’s been four year.”
“Bella? I don’t need my house cleaned. Okay? Do you understand?”
“We can be there on Thursday.”
He hangs up.
Tony lets the exchange soak in. He pulls up his wife’s number to share the story but an incoming call interrupts. The name “Bella Tolla” appears. Placing the phone on the passenger’s seat, he lets it ring out. There’s a story on the radio about the mayor having an affair with a former employee. Shaking his head, Tony changes the station. The phone begins again.
Annoyed now, “Bella. I don’t need my house cleaned. You can stop call—”
“What you need then?”
“Excuse me?”
“You must need something, Mr. Tony. We are full-service organization. Satisfaction guarantee.You know what I mean?”
“Oh my god. Is this a joke? Are you for real?”
“Jokes are waste of time, Mr. Tony. Time is money. Now what you need? We meet to . . . discuss?”
“Who put you up to this? Am I on the radio?”
“I have opening this afternoon, Mr. Tony. Is good for you?”
He hangs up.
Pulling into a parking garage, the ringing phone interrupts again.
He silences it.
The phone continues to vibrate.
He parks, gathers his things, and walks toward the garage elevator. Before pressing the button, he gives up and answers—he’s cut off immediately.
“I won’t take no for answer, Mr. Tony,” says Bella. “We meet at Marquee Hotel in ninth and Arnold?
Breathing—
“Two o’clock?” she presses.
He stammers, and abruptly hangs up. He considers blocking the number, then decides not to. It rings again . . . he’s anxious.
He wants to answer . . . He wants to answer . . . He wants to answer.
He answers.
“You call me, Mr. Tony. Please do not be rude.”
“I know I did. It was a mista—”
“You call three time, Mr. Tony. No mistake.”
His breathing becomes choppy.
Imagining her appearance, he quickly runs through his schedule. Sweating now, he clumsily tries to buy time, “Where are you from?” he asks.
“I already tell you; America’s Best HomeCleaning.”
“No, I mean, you have an accent. Where is your family from?”
“Oh . . . I see . . . Two o’clock . . . Marquee Hotel . . . This afternoon. I put where I am from on the agenda.”
“Two o’clock,” he repeats, more to himself than to her.
She hangs up.
Tony plods through his morning at work. He sits in two meetings but uncharacteristically has nothing to contribute. A colleague asks if he’s all right and Tony dismisses his behavior as “maybe a bug—whatever’s been going around.” He eats his lunch alone outside, fidgeting. The temperature was mild in the morning but clouds have creeped in. He feels a chill. Searching on his phone, he finds the America’s Best HomeCleaning website. On the homepage is a woman with flawless olive skin, striking green eyes, and thick black hair that frames her face to perfection. Oh my god, he thinks.“It has to be a stock photo,” he says to himself. “But what if it isn’t?” He thinks of calling her . . . the woman in the photo . . . Bella.
He cancels all afternoon appointments.
At 1:40 he’s back in the car. His workday cut short. Tony plays out his arrival at the Marquee. The hotel sits between where he lives, and where he works. What if someone sees me . . ? What’ll she be wearing . . ? Don’t use a credit card . . . Will she be in a room . . ? There will be cameras . . . I should’ve brushed my teeth . . . This is crazy . . . Will it be the woman in the photo . . ? What if my wife calls . . ? Bella . . . such a beautiful name . . . Bella . . .
At 1:50, Tony is sitting at a stoplight half a block from the hotel. A car honks behind him. The light turns green but he remains stopped. Fantasy and reality are at war.
Pressure builds at his temples as his heart races. What if—
The honking becomes louder. More cars join in. He steps on the accelerator, recklessly making a right turn, catching a glimpse of the Marquee Hotel to his left. He’s not sure where he’s going, but he knows he’s headed in the right direction. He watches the hotel fade in his rearview mirror. Six blocks south, the phone begins to ring. Tony pulls to the curb. The name on the screen: Bella Tolla.
It’s 2:01.
He lets it ring out, then blocks the number—careful not to delete.

DOG DAYS
The barking begins as soon as she parks the car. Anxious, she turns off the engine and gets out. She opens the back door and unbuckles her daughter slowly, trying to ignore the dog. They walk to the front door of the house while she thinks about what to say, and what not to say. After stepping onto the porch, she takes a deep breath, then knocks. An old woman answers.
Before the old woman can speak, the visitor begins, “Hi, my name’s Ariel. I used to live in this house when I was little . . . about thirty-five years ago.”
She takes the hand of her four-year-old daughter as the old woman glares through a security door. “I was wondering if we could walk around . . . hopefully stir up some memories.”
​
The old woman eyes the daughter, then unlocks and cracks the heavy door. “You lived here when you was her age,” she says.
“That’s right,” says Ariel. “I haven’t been back since, and I don’t really remember much, but I still think it’d be fun to see the place.”
“You ‘member anythin’ at all?” asks the old woman.
Ariel smiles.
“Sure you got the right house?”
“I’m sure,” says Ariel. “Mind if we look around, maybe check out the backyard? That’s what sticks out the most.”
“Gate’s unlocked,” says the old woman. “Lemme bring the dog in ‘fore you go back though.” She closes the door.
Ariel and her daughter walk to the driveway and look over the front yard. She sees an overgrown flower bed next to the cracked concrete porch steps. Random sections of ankle-high metal fencing border the bed.
That’s right, Honey. Break up the dirt so Mommy can plant the daisies. Tommy, go play somewhere else now. Mommy and Ariel are working here. Ouch! Mommy! Mommy! Dammit, Ariel what have you done?! Mother quickly grabbed a garden hose and turned on the spigot. Cold water washed over and soothed Tommy’s bare foot—just accidentally stabbed with the screwdriver his sister was using to break up dirt. Blood ran between his toes as Ariel realized what she’d done. Mother swore loudly while spraying her crying daughter in the face. Tommy wailed.
Ariel watches her daughter circle twice around a large palm tree by the garage. “That’s the tree we used to tie Momo to,” she says. “Such a good dog . . . always in trouble though.”
They make their way around the side of the house, where she opens the gate to the backyard. As they enter, Ariel sees the old woman standing inside a sliding glass door off the patio. The patio is large, covered by weather-beaten yellowed fiberglass. Her father had painted the concrete dark red. She remembers pressing on the screen door while they watched him roll paint onto the hot gray surface, Tommy licking the screen. Her little brother liked to rub his face on the screen when he couldn’t go outside. It always gave the tip of his nose a strawberry. Most of the paint had faded or chipped away completely, but there were still traces around the edge closest to the house. Her father was so proud when he’d finished. His mood didn’t last long.
Momo no! I’ll kill that dog! The Dachshund ran off the patio, all four paws slipping and sliding, Dad threw the paint roller and gave chase. Paw and shoe prints tracked from one side to the other, and into the grass.
He never repainted.
Ariel follows her daughter to the swing set. Its metal, a faded red, white, and blue. Rusted. Grass stands tall around the four main posts. No swings hang, and one of the horizontal braces that steadies the structure is missing. It’s been like that for over thirty-five years.
Mitch will you just finish putting that thing together? Ariel’s birthday was two weeks ago. I’ll finish it when I’m good and ready, now shut up and go back inside! I’ll do this, I’ll do that. You never finish anything! I said go inside! Get your hands off me! Get your hands off me!
She hears the dog barking wildly from somewhere in the house. Her daughter wanders to the barely-standing wooden fence that was painted to match the patio. But Ariel can’t remember when. She breathes in the strong scent of a neighbor’s cut grass.
“Can you bring ‘er away from there?” calls the old woman, stepping out onto the patio.
“This is the same fence that was here when my family lived in the house,” says Ariel. “I remember it because I used to tease the dog next door by poking my finger through the knotholes.” She takes her daughter’s hand and walks toward the old woman. “This one time I was a little too slow getting my finger back out and the dog bit me.”
“Uh huh,” says the old woman.
“I still have a little scar,” says Ariel, holding up her right hand.
“They don’t have a dog,” the old woman offers. “Never did.”
“Oh,” says Ariel, confused by the response.
The dog’s barking is a constant rumble from inside. She can hear its paws tracking back and forth from room to room, seeming to shake the entire house with unrest. The old woman watches Ariel watching for the animal. “He doesn’t like strangers,” she grins. “And he likes to be outside.”
“Would you mind if we took a quick look inside?” asks Ariel.
The old woman scans the yard, searching for nothing in particular. She puckers, then moves her lips from one side of her face to the other.
“You could let the dog out,” says Ariel. “Just a short walkthrough. We won’t touch anything.”
“No, I don’t thi—”
“Please.”
The old woman continues her empty gaze.
“Please.”
“Quickly,” says the old woman. “And keep an eye on the little one. Nothin’s childproofed.”
Ariel and her daughter walk around to the front door so the old woman can let the dog out back. When the old woman arrives, she unlocks the security door and waves them in without making eye contact. Mother and daughter step carefully into the cluttered home. Daughter crinkles her nose at the strong odor of overheated dog. Newspapers and magazines are piled along every wall. The TV blares. Unopened and half-opened boxes of trinkets, teacups, jewelry, dolls, and stuffed animals are everywhere, in no specific arrangement. It’s obvious the old woman does a lot of shopping. Her television is tuned to a home shopping network. Ariel drifts to the kitchen, immediately drawn to the cast iron sink—stained with rust. It’s where her mother used to bathe Tommy.
That’s a good boy. You like the bubbles, don’t you, baby. Mitch you’re late again, I told you I needed the car. You never said that and I been at work so that’s that. Well I missed work again because I had no way to get there! I don’t care abou—. Mommy, Tommy’s standing up! Oh no!
The cabinet door is still chipped below the sink where Tommy fell. Her father painted over where the piece broke off, but he never put on a second coat.
Brother, motionless on the kitchen floor, Mother screamed uncontrollably, not knowing what else to do, Father frantically patted his pants’ pockets in search of car keys.
Ariel opens the door to the garage and peeks in. A dusty car sits surrounded by more newspapers and more TV shopping spree items: an empty golf bag covered in clear plastic, a blow-up kiddie pool still in the box, an electric keyboard. Nothing about the old woman says she’s ever needed any of the merchandise.
The bedroom doors are closed, so Ariel leaves them alone, not wanting to know what lies behind. In the living room, the old woman watches her show, sitting on a well-worn green loveseat that glides back and forth. Next to her is a metal tray holding a plate with a half-eaten meal: meatloaf, fried egg, chocolate pudding, a sweaty glass of sun tea closeby. Ariel goes to her daughter, who stands at the front window, looking out. The windowsill is marked up from dog paws. But there are a few faded scratches that Ariel recognizes. The sill is set at the height of her daughter’s mouth. When Ariel was her age, she used to look out that same window and rub her top front teeth on the sill. She loved the marks they made on the wood—two perfect stripes, side by side.
Ariel moves to a cluttered bookshelf, noticing something that clearly didn’t come from a home shopping network—an assembled animal skeleton, wearing a dusty headband with cloth antlers, green and red. Unlit Christmas lights hang from the bones. “What’s with this?” she asks.
“It’s a dog,” replies the old woman, not looking away from her program.
“An old pet?”
“No. Years ago my husband went to bury one of our dogs and the hole he started diggin’ already had one in it. He took out the bones—there was a million ‘em—put the thing together, then had a heart attack and died right where you’re standin’. Dog’s been sittin’ there ever since.”
“Oh, I’m sorry . . . What kind of dog do you think it is, was?” asks Ariel.
“His guess, a wiener dog—think they call it a Dachshund,” says the old woman.
Daddy I can’t find Momo anywhere . . .
“You want it?” asks the old woman.
“No,” Ariel answers.
“You can take the antlers and lights, too,” says the old woman. “Kids like that kinda stuff.”
“No thank you,” she says. “I’ve seen enough.”
“Maybe too much,” says the old woman, not looking up as Ariel walks her daughter to the front door.
“Maybe too much,” Ariel repeats quietly, turning the deadbolt.
The old woman locks eyes with Ariel before they step out. “When you go,” she says, “make sure you close the door all the way this time.”
Ariel squeezes the girl’s hand.
The old woman takes a sip of tea and smiles.

A HUMAN CONDITION
“How much to stuff a human being?”
The man waited patiently for her to digest the inquiry. He studied her workspace; an enormous newly constructed metal barn, housing a walk-in freezer, incinerator, two large tables, and giant drying racks in oversized prep and staging areas.
“Are you joking?” she answered. “I would never do such a thing.”
“I would never joke about such a thing,” he countered. “I want someone stuffed. How much money would it take to convince you to do it?” He moved closer to her then turned outward as if to let someone else in on the exchange.
She moved away. “Fifty thousand dollars,” she declared, thinking the number would end his foolishness.
“Done,” he snapped. “I’ll take two. And I’ll throw in an extra twenty-five thousand for absolute silence. This is between you, me, and whomever I send with the bodies.”
Her breathing became heavier as she noticed a crumb on the floor.
“Listen . . . I wasn’t serious. I don’t work on people. If you ha—”
“Let’s make it one hundred thousand for each,” he interrupted. “And fifty thousand to keep it our little secret.”
His piercing silver eyes captured hers. She felt cornered.
“Do we have a deal?”
“Why don’t you talk to an undertaker?” she asked, wanting to pick up the crumb.
“An undertaker’s job is to make people look at peace, to preserve death. A taxidermist preserves life . . . a moment in time . . . an experience. I’ve done my homework on you—seen your work in markets, motels, and museums. You work alone, and you’re not sloppy.”
“Yes but—”
“I detest sloppiness.”
“Okay but—”
“And, from the looks of this brand new beautiful barn, I’m thinking you may be a little stretched financially. I’m offering to help—to pay you a quarter million dollars to do what you’re good at. Now, do we have a deal?”
She turned away, feeling the weight of the loan payment on the new barn, wondering if she had a choice . . .
“Do we have a deal?”
“It’s called mounting,” she said.
He looked at the light fixture above them, cocked his head, then smiled a half-smile.
“Mounting, not stuffing. I’m not a pillow maker.”
He turned to her. “Noted,” he replied.
The silver-eyed man shook the taxidermist’s hand on his way out, then she focused on the crumb again, and decided to leave it be.
Forty-eight hours later, a driver delivered two frozen bodies in the back of a pickup. They weren’t submerged in dirty ice like animal carcasses. Instead the bodies, one female, one male, were frozen in styrofoam-insulated fiberglass cases. There was also a separate briefcase, which contained seventy-five thousand dollars—the silver-eyed man planned to pay her in thirds.
The taxidermist agreed to create a dramatic set in which the two bodies would be displayed—one side of a card game, the female cheating, the male standing behind her—in on the deception. The delivery driver unloaded the rest of the truck’s contents: outfits, a deck of cards—including one extra ace, a felt-covered table, two walnut armchairs—one to remain empty, and drinking glasses—the taxidermist would stain one with lipstick. The driver was intimidating in strength but not appearance. The ease with which everything was unloaded showed that much heavier cargo could be handled if necessary. Through it all, the driver stayed composed, able to keep a tailored black suit unwrinkled and dust-free. The driver was shorter than her, stout, hair cropped, no obvious gender traits, expressionless.
“Will you be needing anything else?” asked the driver, calmly.
The taxidermist shook her head, keeping a safe distance.
“Per the agreement, I will deliver the second seventy-five thousand dollars once you reach the halfway point in the project.”
“How will you know when I’m halfway? Who do I call?”
“I will know,” said the driver.
“What, you’ll be like, staking the place out or something?”
“Or something,” the driver agreed, then left the barn.
When preparing her work, it was important to keep a kill as close to its last breath as possible. If multiple game were delivered at the same time, she froze all but one. She never agreed to deadlines. The process took as long as it took. The taxidermist only used the skin-mount method, which required skinning an entire body from head to toe. For this project, she would keep the skull and leg bones, and incinerate everything else. It made more sense to form most appendages artificially—wood and wire were much easier to manipulate than bone, but bone could serve as a good base. She liked to use original skulls for accuracy. She considered the male, then started with the female.
The taxidermist hung the carcass over a floor drain in the prep area. As the female thawed, dark and sometimes thick, fluid pooled around the drain. The entire barn floor was concrete so everything could easily be hosed away. A large shutter fan rested in the peak of the barn’s north wall to eliminate smells. She draped a blue tarp over the remains in case any customers dropped by, which rarely happened because she kept the gate locked at the end of a long gravel path, and rarely answered the intercom. But she wasn’t free of the occasional surprise—one month earlier, she’d been out hunting and returned to find signs of a break-in. Strangely, nothing was taken. But still . . . The taxidermist locked the barn doors and covered all ground-level windows. She liked her privacy, although the lifestyle left her feeling lonely at times.
While the trophy softened over the next twenty-four hours, the taxidermist took measurements, located her starting point, and made preliminary incisions with the precision of a surgeon. She took photos and studied the female from top to bottom. She noticed thick and unbalanced eyebrows. I’ll fix those, she thought, always the perfectionist. She spotted an appendectomy scar and a smaller broadly-healed scar on the female’s right shoulder blade where a mole had been hastily removed. The taxidermist had no idea who the female was, but for a quarter million dollars, I’ll make you whoever that silver-eyed snake wants you to be.
The next morning the taxidermist began to separate skin from muscle, tendon, and bone. The more she loosened, the more an unfamiliar stench was released. She couldn’t place the odor but it was definitely not something from the wild.
The taxidermist had always been curious about the complexities of mounting a human. That’s all it ever was though—curiosity. Her grandfather, who taught her the art, used to joke about mounting anyone who crossed him. Once a woman cut him off in traffic and he ranted how he should run her down and display her over a stone fireplace in a fancy hotel. He never took it beyond jokes or the occasional empty threat. When her grandfather died, she was left with his old taxidermy knives along with a set of eight throwing knives in various sizes—tools from his livelihood, and his favorite hobby. The taxidermist was comfortable with the tools, but had only recently taken an interest in the knives.
She removed the final bit of hide from the female and smiled in triumph. She’d wanted to release it all in one piece, comparing the experience to peeling an orange without breaking the rind . . . success . . . She laid the large pelt over a four-by-eight butcher block table and immediately began the preservation process—applying a thick layer of non-iodized salt to the flesh side, then rolling the table to a cool, dark corner, and letting it sit overnight. The taxidermist went back to the skinned figure—a large mass of blood, muscle, and bone. Beautiful . . .
Then she cut off its head.
Over the next three weeks she brought the body to completion by building wood forms for internal stability, shaping galvanized wire to secure the cavity, then packing and patching with wool, clay, and plaster for details. When mounting animals, pre-made molds and forms could be purchased to speed up the process. There were no molds for human taxidermy, not that she’d ever checked. The body was flawless from her perspective. She felt it was a shame to cover, but that was the agreement. To add clothing, the taxidermist cut the garments, dressed the figure in pieces, then re-sewed. She’d stitched some of her own clothes in the past, but was far from a skilled tailor. The unfamiliarity slowed her down. When fully clothed, the taxidermist added jewelry and glass eyeballs—which surprisingly, gave her the feeling of being watched.
On a cool spring evening, the taxidermist admired the completed female—confidently seated at the felt-covered table, cards held closely to left breast, the corner of a game-changing Ace poking out from the long sleeve of her black dress. In control.
The taxidermist heard knocking at the door and quickly turned out the light over the female. She wondered if she’d forgotten to lock the gate earlier in the day. When she answered the door the delivery driver stood holding a briefcase.
“I have the second installment,” said the driver.
“How did you know?” she asked. “And how the hell did you get through my gate?”
“Upon completion, I will deliver the remainder, and remove everything. Do you have any needs at this time?”
“How’d you know I finished?”
“You have more work to do,” said the driver, motioning past her to the blue tarp, which covered the thawing male.
She gave a startled look, then the driver turned and walked back to the car.
“I don’t appreciate being watched,” she said loudly, as the driver opened the car door and got in.
“You hear me?” She stepped outside.
The driver revved the car’s engine again and again until she gave up and returned inside. The driver pulled away and guided the car slowly back down the gravel path, saluted a man at the gate, who was parked in a moving truck, then disappeared into the blackness.
Unable to sleep that night, the taxidermist got to work on the male. In contrast to the female, the hide separated more cleanly—almost with ease. The skin was unblemished and hairless. Every square inch was smooth, a similar texture to uncooked chicken—childlike. She completed a third of the skinning by mid-morning, then finished the work late the following evening.
She examined the body when it was free of epidermis. It had more muscle than the female. The surface layer had very few trouble spots, which appeared rough and splotchy from where the taxidermist had to work harder for detachment. There was less blood. The body was thick, without much fat. Athletic—like the classic representations displayed on doctor’s office posters. The body smelled more like metal than death.
She spent the next week tanning the skin into leather. She applied salt, removed it, then reapplied, making sure the skin didn’t harden—it had to remain resilient and workable. In some areas she filleted excess layers for pliability. The taxidermist hydrated the work with cool water as she checked and rechecked for bits of fat that clung to the hide. She soaked the skin for hours on and off over a two-day period, then rinsed it several times to make sure it was free of salt. She hung the hide to let it drip almost dry before it was patted out with a chamois and rolled smooth. The taxidermist let the skin rest in the cool dry air of the barn. She heated a small amount of tanning oil then rubbed it into the male’s skin with her calloused steady hands. She continued the process for hours . . . heating oil . . . working the hide. I should’ve been a masseuse, she joked to herself. But then I’d have to talk to people.
It was the most time the taxidermist had ever spent with the opposite sex—dead or alive. She was out of touch, but took comfort in the memory of the silver-eyed man’s voice, “A taxidermist preserves life . . . a moment in time . . . an experience.” She thought about the two lives she was preserving, their moment in time, their experience . . . It was the first time she’d considered either of them as people—man and woman. She realized she’d spent most of her life with dead animals. She studied the pair closely. And felt a tinge of jealousy. The taxidermist decided she didn’t like the woman. But she liked the man. She felt alone.
The taxidermist worked ‘round the clock to complete the work. She was intrigued, but anxious to finish so she could sleep. When she closed her eyes, the taxidermist saw them—the man, the woman, the delivery driver, and those silver eyes looking through her. The closer she got to the couple’s moment, the more of a struggle it became to think of the assignment as just another project. She took no other work during the time spent mounting the pair. She knew she risked everything by taking on such a gruesome request, but the money . . . She thought of what she could do with a quarter million dollars, and entered unfamiliar territory—dreams . . . fantasy.
Four weeks later, after another all-night effort, the taxidermist stood in the middle of the barn and admired her creation—the man stood behind the woman, hand placed gently on her shoulder. Her painted nails reflected the morning light . . . a toothpick rested in the corner of his mouth . . . her poker face in place . . . his posture stately. It took two months to complete the entire scene. The taxidermist felt proud, but the loneliness returned sporadically. She snuffed it out with a fantasy of spending time with the man when he was full of life, not wire and wool.
All was interrupted by the diesel engine of a moving truck as it backed up to the barn’s south side, where larger doors were located. The delivery driver parked, stepped down from the truck, then walked around and entered the barn through the main door the taxidermist had opened.
“Who are they?” she yelled. “Why did he do this to them?”
The driver looked up, as if trying to find something in the barn’s vaulted ceiling, then faced the taxidermist.
“I want to know their story,” she said angrily. “I feel horrible about this.”
“You did it for the money,” offered the driver, matter of factly.
“Is that supposed to make it okay?”
The driver shrugged and raised both hands, acknowledging an obvious yes.
“Who are they?!”
The driver sighed. “She, was the love of his life, and the man with her is the one who ruined everything.”
“The love of whose life? Your boss?”
“My boss?” the driver said mockingly.
“They had an affair?”
“A one-night stand. She made a mistake.”
“They didn’t deserve this.”
“No. She did not. But him?”
“You knew them?”
“I loved her also. It’s heartbreaking to see her like this.”
“But she was your boss’s wife.”
“My boss? I take his money, like you. Like she used to.”
The taxidermist stared at the couple.
“A high price to pay for everyone involved,” said the driver.
The taxidermist remained silent, motionless.
“Consequences,” said the driver.
“What will happen now?” she asked.
“I’ve already been paid,” said the driver. “So now I disappear, but first I call the authorities and tell them what he’s done.”
She stiffened. “You can't do that.”
“I can. And I will. Besides, with this . . .” the driver picked up and opened a briefcase—inside was the final payment. “. . . you can disappear also.”
“People don't just vanish,” she said, raising her voice.
“Those two did,” said the driver, motioning toward the mounted couple. “I’ve given you fair warning. Do whatever you like. But he's going to pay for this with more than money. She treated me like a human being. He treats me like a servant, as if my only purpose is to clean up his messes.”
“Isn’t it?” she asked.
The driver’s eyes closed, then opened after a deep breath. “I’ll leave you out of it, but this is the evidence I’ve been waiting for.”
Panicked, “Why put me through this?” she asked. “Why didn’t you just report him when it happened? You had the bodies!”
For the first time, she saw a trace of expression on the driver’s face—a smirk. “I will admit,” said the driver, studying a spider web in a window pane, “I wanted to see how things turned out. It’s not every day one sees a stuffed, I mean mounted . . . human. Let alone two.”
“You’re as sick as he is!”
“Do you know what he’s going to do with them?” asked the driver. “He plans to put them on display in a private gallery for his eyes only—where he keeps others who’ve crossed him.”
“Others?”
“Not entire bodies, but pieces. She told me about it,” said the driver, nodding toward the cheating woman. “He has the hands of a man who stole from him—pickled in mason jars. He has the head of someone who outsmarted him in a legitimate business deal—frozen in a block of ice. He has all of the teeth of a child who lied to him once—sitting in a bowl he used to eat pistachios out of. He ha—”
“Stop,” she said. “Just . . . stop talking.”
The driver assessed the scene, then moved toward the card table. The taxidermist picked up one of her grandfather’s throwing knives—stainless steel, ten inches in length, and weighing close to eight ounces.
“You can’t call the police,” she said, nervously.
When the driver turned to face her again, the taxidermist flung the knife with the force of all her fear, loneliness, and greed behind it. As the blade penetrated, the delivery driver stumbled backward but didn’t fall. The driver wheezed in pain, doubling over. “THE END!,” the driver growled between clenched teeth. “Roll credits!” Then the driver dropped dead by the drain.
She dragged the delivery driver to the freezer, not knowing what else to do. She spent the day running through her dilemma. And as night fell, the taxidermist hadn’t settled on a plan. A liter of bourbon and her feather bed called. She drank straight from the bottle and searched for calm. She stayed in bed through the night, nodding off occasionally but waking panicked minutes later. Her heart and mind raced uncontrollably. The silver-eyed man would soon figure out something had gone wrong. She imagined the consequences, and saw herself spending eternity in his gallery. She had no idea how it was going to play out, but when the sun rose the next morning, the answer arrived with the sound of gravel being crushed beneath car tires, a slammed car door, a knowing knock—the silver-eyed man.
He entered the barn as soon as she opened the door, intent on seeing the work. He stepped close to both mountings, squinting to check for accuracy and subtleties. Immediately, he noticed the woman’s eyebrows had been altered. He turned to the taxidermist and raised his eyebrows alternately, letting her know the alteration didn’t escape him.
“Beautiful,” he said, stepping back to admire.
“You’re sick,” said the taxidermist.
“I’m sick.” repeated the silver-eyed man. He continued to examine the scene. “I’m sick.” He patted his chest. “You just sliced up two strangers and filled their skin like bags of garbage. Not only that, you drove a steel blade through the heart of a defenseless human being. And I’m the sick one,” he winked.
Confused about how he was already aware of the driver, she pressed on. “I know about your gallery,” she continued, “the things you’ve done.”
“Why did you do this?” he barked, frightening her. “Why did you agree to take this on?”
She gathered herself. “For the money. I did it for the money.”
“Yes,” he said. “You did it for the money. Have you ever wondered who the empty chair at the card table was for? Who was actually being played? The mark?”
“I assumed it was for you, so you could square off with your cheating wife and her one-night stand.”
“Aaah, my wife,” he said. “My wife and the one that didn’t get away . . . together forever . . . no . . . no the chair isn’t for me, dear. The chair is for you.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“So innocent,” he said, smugly.
“What are you talking about?”
He pointed up to one of the barn’s corners. “There,” he said. He pointed to the opposite corner. “There.” He continued to point to various locations throughout the barn . . . “there . . . there . . . over there . . . there . . . and there . . . cameras, microphones, surveillance equipment.” He opened his eyes wide and broke character. “Smiiiile,” he said, sarcastically.
“You’ve been watching me this whole time?”
Without a word, the silver-eyed man walked to the barn’s larger doors and opened them to reveal the moving truck the delivery driver had parked the day before. He walked out to his car, opened its trunk, and retrieved bolt cutters. He then walked to the truck, cut the padlock that had been put there by the driver, then unclasped the handle and raised the truck’s door. Inside were two men, relieved to be freed. The silver-eyed man put up his hand before they could speak. They were surrounded by monitors, a control board, headsets, cables, receivers, random audio visual production gear. The younger man opened and closed his eyes repeatedly, while the other stretched like a cat waking from a nap. Both slowly adapted to the natural light.
“Still rolling?” he asked the stretching man.
The stretching man nodded.
Then the silver-eyed man turned around to look at her, both arms spread in a welcoming gesture. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve been watching you. Yes, I’ve been recording your every move.”
Horrified, the taxidermist looked at the men in the truck. Then she turned to the silver-eyed man. “Why?” she asked, voice cracking.
“For the same reason you did what you did,” he said. “Do you know how much money this will go for underground?” He got excited. “Snuff films are no longer the thing—that’s how I made my fortune. But they’ve become passé. Viewers always know how the story ends. They’ve gotten bored. In most cases there’s no story at all, just senseless killing. It’s lazy . . . amateurish. This however, is going to break new ground. I’ve created a whole new genre.”
Overwhelmed, the taxidermist moved closer to look inside the truck. She stared at the monitors. Each one showed a different part of the barn’s interior. On one screen, she saw the pegboard where her tools were kept, the mounted couple on another, the freezer door, the incinerator, the tables and drying racks. She even saw the bed she slept in every night. Alone.
“You’ve ruined my life,” she said, struggling for breath.
He smiled his half-smile. “You’ll be fine. The industry’s very discreet. Faces of the guilty are always blurred in post production. Of course my copy will be unedited.”
“You’re a maniac!”
“And you can keep the money,” he said, calmly. “We’ll get everything out of here now so you can get on with your life like none of this ever happened.”
She sat down in the empty chair at the card table, across from the mounted woman. The two men exited the moving truck, the younger one with an ten-foot step ladder—he removed electronic devices from corners, beams, and light fixtures while the other loaded the furniture and taxidermy.
“Be careful,” they were instructed. “I have a special place for these two.” He rubbed his hands together. “A masterpiece,” he reassured her. “You’ve earned a seat at the table with the great ones.”
She stood slowly and walked to her bed as the three finished loading the truck. She laid down—empty.
“You have all traces?” she heard the silver-eyed man ask the others.
She didn’t hear a response.
He yelled to her, “Like it never happened!” Then he slammed the barn doors shut.
She stayed in bed for three days. During that time she thought about how she’d spent the last two months. She imagined what the couple was like when they were living. She felt guilty about what she’d done, but willingly fantasized about the man . . . his athletic build . . . his smooth skin . . . his gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder, wishing it were on hers . . . she did not like the woman.
When the taxidermist was finally able to rise, the first thing she did was search the barn half-heartedly for cameras and anything out of the ordinary. She knew she wouldn’t find any equipment even if it was there. She felt more alone than ever. She looked at the money he’d given her—just faces, unable to keep her company. So in an attempt to regain a feeling of normalcy, she did what came natural. The taxidermist went to the freezer to thaw out a deer she’d killed during her last hunt.
And there was the delivery driver.
The taxidermist stared blankly, too numb to panic. She decided to incinerate the driver and be done with all of it. “Like it never happened!” she imitated the silver-eyed man. She found the buck and ran her right hand across the frozen carcass, leaving it lay. She visualized the mounting as she stood over the animal. She’d done hundreds of them over the years. I can do this in my sleep, she thought, no longer fulfilled by what she saw. She placed her left hand on the deer, then turned to the frozen driver. How much to stuff a human being?, the silver-eyed man’s voice played back in her head. The taxidermist removed her hands from the animal, then walked over and placed them on the human being.
“I’ll do this one for free,” she said, no longer feeling alone.

AND THEN WHAT HAPPENED?
I come to places like this to get ideas. At least that’s what I tell myself. Always the same characters—no matter the time of day. Some come for the background noise. It drowns out the woulda coulda shouldas inside their heads. Others come to hear themselves talk, unfazed by the disinterest from those around them. There’s company, but participation is not required. Same jokes, same smells, same darkness—to be continued—same time tomorrow. These players haven’t given up, they’re just not trying very hard. Most want something different but the pull of routine is too strong, too familiar. My notebook sits open, waiting for something original to happen . . .
​
This one . . . she knows I’m empty, yet ignores me. Just stares at her phone laughing smugly. She sits across from an old codger at the end of the bar, tucked against a filthy wood paneled wall. A safe place. A place where she can avoid paying customers and stay on the clock. The old man holds an unlit cigarette and minds his own business. She keeps a bottle within his reach so he can serve himself. The less she has to do, the better for all of us.
​
I’ll go another! I say.
She rolls her eyes at the interruption, takes a couple steps my way, but pauses for a hipster sliding up to the unwiped bar. He flirts while she happily mixes him another stiff trendy drink, smiling ear-to-ear, playfully hiding behind her jagged platinum bangs. The hipster’s left arm is covered in a colorful tattoo sleeve that appears newly worked on—shiny, puffy—too recently conceived for the “been there done that” image he tries to portray. He wears three-hundred dollar boots, tattered in just the right places. The footwear goes perfectly with a paint-spattered sleeveless rock T-shirt, and tight jeans bought for their unwashed appearance. Cheap neon trade show sunglasses rest on his slick jet-black hair. He’s groomed just well enough to look ungroomed. The hipster gives her a $3 tip for a $5 drink. She plays it cool, stuffing the bills into the frayed back pocket of her cutoff jeans, while calmly returning to the old man’s shadow.
​
I clear my throat loud and deliberate before she settles in. Narrowed eyes remind me that I’m forgettable. I repeatedly click and unclick a ballpoint pen. She doesn’t know . . . she doesn’t know that one day she’s going to be telling lies to tourists about how I used to “hang out” here. She’ll point to a plaque on the bar and tell them where I sat, what I drank, what we talked about—all the laughs we shared. My success, will make her the storyteller.
​
She fills my smudged glass with ice—too much—and pours the scotch—too little—without concern. If the owner knew how much she spilled with each pour there’d be someone else swatting barflies tomorrow. The codger eyes the spill as if he’s considering stumbling over to lick it up. My beer glass is filled with even less artistry. Look at all that foam . . . she runs some off but gives up early, placing the half-assed effort in front of me.
Thanks for the head, I say.
She flips me off with a chipped black nail. “Watch your mouth, smartass, or I’m gonna get Jimmy in here to eighty-six you,” she warns.
The old man raises an eyebrow but doesn’t look over, while rustling yesterday’s newspaper.
I wave her off. Jimmy must be the “bouncer” I saw out front. Tried to sell me meth on the way in.
​
Hipster’s girlfriend, I’ll call her Joyce, comes over from their crooked table for a couple shots. She gives Joyce a smile, then spills liquor into the glasses. Joyce returns the smile, just as phony, only more refined.
“He’ll pay for it in a minute,” Joyce says, turning back toward the table.
“Oh . . . okay . . . I guess,” she says, smile replaced with a smirk.
She walks back to the warmth of her cell phone. The old man is hunched over a crossword now. Before sitting, she fills his glass to perfection. No money is exchanged—the perks of being a regular.
​
It’s getting loud in the hipster’s corner. He and Joyce are no longer lovey-dovey. The giggling and petting have turned into accusations and name-calling.
“Hey!” hipster yells. “Barkeep!”
Joyce is glaring at him—second guessing her choices in men.
“Barkeep?” she says, offended.
“Yeah you! Blondie! Another round over here . . . I know you’re busy but . . .” he laughs, turning over empty glasses on the table.
​
She makes two weak drinks and pours two shots, topping them off with attitude and animosity, then delivers. After placing everything on the table, the hipster drops a wadded up bill on her tray. He immediately does a shot, winds up, then throws the glass against the wall next to the old man.
“Fuck yeaaahh!” hipster howls.
​
She is still. The old man continues with his puzzle.
Joyce imitates the spectacle and follows with a throaty cackle. The couple has made up.
Rattled, but composed just enough, she throws up her arms and storms out the front door.
Jimmy the bouncer hustles in, fidgeting. She stands behind him—pissed.
“All right all right, you guys gotta go,” Jimmy says, swallowing and licking his lips uncontrollably.
But the good time continues as the hipster gulps both drinks before standing. Joyce is laughing too hard to move at all.
“Come on let’s go,” urges the bouncer, “Now dammit!”
“Baby doll, you heard the man,” says the hipster to Joyce. “On to the next black hole!” They laugh even harder while Joyce staggers to her feet.
“On to the next black hole!” shouts Joyce, slower, louder, slurred. “Aye aye Cap'n!”
​
They move to the exit as if being photographed—well-rehearsed. Jimmy follows—the bodyguard.
​
She goes to the wall to clean up the mess. Only one glass is broken. She walks over next to me and reaches out to place the tray of broken glass on the bar. When she does this, the sleeve of her shirt pulls up just enough to reveal a wrist marked with healing scars. I stare.
“What’re you lookin’ at?” she says, as she walks around the bar with the unbroken glasses, noticing my empties. “You need another one right fuckin’ now, huh.” She grabs a new glass and pulls the tap. “This place brings in nothin’ but tweakers, tools, and turds I swear,” she snarls, putting a full one on the bar, spilling some, leaving the dirty. “There you go! You good now?!”
Scotch, too, I nod.
“Fuck you!” she explodes.
“I’m gonna go smoke a cigarette. Don’t steal anything,” she says lighting up while heading for the door. “I should just leave. Always gettin’ treated like shit. I don’t nee—” her voice trails off as the door closes behind.
I raise my glass toward the old man, who lights a crooked cigarette on the third try. The TV flickers, its sound being drowned out by a humming beer cooler. He smokes, pours himself another, and coughs his throat clear, eyeing my notebook.
“You a writer?” he chokes.
Huh?
“A writer,” he says, louder. “A . . . raconteur. Is that,” cough, “what you do?”
Flattered, I sit up straight and silently toast myself . . . letting the acknowledgment soak in.
I am, I answer with newfound confidence. I’m a writer.
​
She’s laughing from somewhere in the background. I didn’t hear her come in. She slinks behind the bar and pours three shots, still amused while putting one in front of the old man, and then me. She throws her head back and takes the liquor in. Eyes closed. Savoring . . . enjoying the burn.
Opening her eyes, “Now ask ‘im what he is,” she says motioning toward the codger.
What? I say, my guard back up.
Laughing again, she spits out, “Go ahead ask ‘im! Ask the ol’ fart!” She pours herself another and motions toward the old man as he swallows the shot. “He’s just here between book signing tours,” she mocks.
The old man stares into his drink, as if telling my fortune.
I lay a twenty on the bar, passing up the free booze. Suddenly the stench of bleach and bug killer are getting to me.
​
Her laughter booms with each step I take.
“There goes another one!” she roars. “The next Beer Faulkner . . . Thirsty Hemingway. . . Hunter S. Gonzo!”
I pass Jimmy the bouncer on the sidewalk out front, still able to hear her laughing at me. Jimmy’s words feel like broken glass being rubbed into my ears: “See you tomorrow,” he says.
I say nothing, knowing the bouncer is right.