Please Ignore Vera Dietz(52)
Author: A.S. King

DRIVE CAR, DELIVER PIZZA—TUESDAY—FOUR TO EIGHT

I walk out the back door and stand in the fading, dusky sunlight. Larry joins me and lights a cigarette. The Charlies can’t get ahold of me here like they can when I’m in a small space. I don’t want any more drama. I just want to finish my shift, get home, and read the rest of Charlie’s note.

The dinner rush begins. Larry takes the town runs. Charlie stays with me all night as I deliver to the nice parts of town. He continues to try and steer the car to Overlook Road, but I keep telling him that I get off work at eight and that he’ll have to wait. In protest, he makes me endure an AC/DC song on his favorite heavy-metal station.

It slows down, like only a Tuesday can, and Larry and I are standing around in the back, talking and folding boxes. He tells me that he used to be a computer programmer, but hated it. So he’s working here and taking a few courses at the community college while he figures out what to do with his life. He wants to make movies. Says he’s written a bunch of scripts. I don’t tell him anything personal except that I’m a senior, and that I think he’s smart for going to community college.

He folds boxes tonight as if he’s been doing it for years.

“What classes are you taking?” I ask.

“The easy ones, for now. Catching up on math. Comp. What about you? You have a favorite class in school?”

I nod and reach for another box. “I love Vocab. It’s like spelunking in a cave you’ve been in your whole life and discovering a thousand new tunnels.”

When I stand up, Larry’s next to me, whispering Charlie’s voice into my ear. “Being dead is like that, too.” Then he adds, “Don’t open the envelope. You don’t want to see what’s inside.”

When I turn away from Larry and look toward the front of the store, the room is jam-packed with Charlies again. Fat ones. Skinny ones. Tall, short. Over by the bathroom, there’s even a black Charlie with an Afro and a 1970s pick stuck in it. There is a Charlie with a gray parrot on his shoulder, and a Charlie in a sad-clown costume, juggling limp puppies. I want to scream at him, “Jesus, Charlie! Will you just wait until I’m done with what I’m doing?” And as frustrated and freaked out as I am, I’m laughing a little. I’m laughing because Charlie is as hysterically impatient in death as he was in real life. I must be truly ready if I’m laughing at this.

Larry folds boxes next to the back door with an unlit Marlboro Red hanging out of his mouth, oblivious to the room full of Charlie molecules. I hear Marie up front, slapping fresh hot pies into boxes and slicing them, and I claim the order, even though it’s not my turn.

I know the road and vaguely know the address, so I grab four Cokes from the cooler and get into my car before anyone notices I’ve taken the wrong run. In the car, I hear the voices of a thousand Charlies, all of them at once. So I say, “Shut up, Charlie! Go away!” but they will not quiet. I think about what my father would do. The Zen master. Mr. Cool. He would relax his muscles. He would concentrate on his diaphragm, breathing. He would transcend. Breathe in. Breathe out. We have a wooden sign in the downstairs powder room that says: CHOP WOOD, CARRY WATER.

I think Zen-like, and whisper, “Drive car, deliver pizza.”

My delivery is in a Hispanic neighborhood. I pop in Santana to block out the loud whispers of Charlie. It’s a warm night, so the old Caribbean men are sitting on the sidewalks in dinner chairs, breathing. They don’t make eye contact. When I get back to the store, I sit there for a second and search for Charlie molecules, but he is gone. Marie is already cashing me out. I go into the bathroom to change, and have a quick look at myself in the mirror. There are no ghosts crowded in here with me, making me scribble things on toilet paper and eat them or trying to steal the air out of my lungs. I breathe on the mirror and fog it up, which proves I am alive—which, in turn, reminds me how lucky I am to be alive.

As I load my shirt into the washer for the night, I daydream about making a sign and hanging it around my neck. I could wear it to school tomorrow. It could read, I MISS CHARLIE KAHN.

As I drive home, I picture other signs—one for everyone who has a secret. Bill Corso’s would say, I CAN’T READ, BUT I CAN THROW A FOOTBALL. Mr. Shunk’s would read, I WISH I COULD TOSS YOU ALL ON AN ISLAND BY YOURSELVES. Dad’s would read, I HATE MYSELF FOR NO GOOD REASON.

My idea grows.

I imagine signs on every house on Overlook Road. I pass Tim Miller’s house at the bottom. PROUD HATERS. Up the hill past Charlie’s. WIFE BEATER. Past the Ungers’ house. WE BUY SHIT TO MAKE OURSELVES BIGGER THAN YOU. And up to the pagoda, where I’d stick the biggest sign of all. USELESS BEACON OF DELUSIONAL OPTIMISM AND FOLLY.

I park in the lot next to the glowing red beacon and look out over the city, and I feel like I belong here, even though I hate it here. We are one, the pagoda and me. Because when I think about it, I was also built from delusional optimism and folly.

A BRIEF WORD FROM THE PAGODA

Hey—the whole freaking world was built from delusional optimism and folly. What makes you so special? We’re all just making it up as we go along. No one really knows what they’re doing. Anyone who tells you otherwise is talking out of their butt.

WHAT REALLY HAPPENED TO CHARLIE KAHN—PART 1

I get home and shower the grease off myself, and before I’m even dressed, I pull Charlie’s cigar box from behind the bed and open it. I finger the yellow sealed envelope and still can’t bear to think about what’s in it. I open the next napkin, which he’d unfolded and printed on, in small block letters.

VALENTINE’S DAY, JENNY WAS WAITING OUTSIDE JOHN’S HOUSE WHEN I CAME OUT. SHE TOLD ME THAT SHE WANTED TO GO OUT WITH ME BEHIND CORSO’S BACK. I TRIED TO STAY FRIENDS WITH BOTH OF YOU, BUT JENNY HATED YOU. I DON’T KNOW WHY, BUT SHE JUST HATED YOU.
I say to myself, “No! You think?” The next napkin is written in a spiral, in tiny letters. The writing is becoming sloppy.

Okay.

I am completely grossed out.

I look at the clock and wonder what cop at the Mount Pitts police station would be willing to sit down and deal with this. Would they believe my side of the story, nearly nine months later? Would they pay attention because I had something to back it up, or blow it off to avoid the paperwork? Either way, I want Dad with me. I need him to help me do this, because even though earlier today I gave birth to myself, I am still a kid who needs his help.

I read on. The next napkin is written in all block letters again.