WOLF IN HIS HEAD

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Hyde Park, Chicago

Friday, February 17, 1984

He shook from the inside out, from that cold, unconscious terror dormant in everyday life that bursts into the open as a horrible surprise . . . He lit a cigarette. Clamped it between his lips like a dangling man desperate not to fall – this stranger, this Bulkington, this sullied Tom Bombadil. The apartment under siege and him the last living soldier.

The living room a mess: ketchup and condiments stained the beige carpet, empty cartons of microwave potato skins and pizza crusts spilled from dirty dishes; a fifth of Glenlivet, nearly spent, atop of the television, while other empties had been dropped about the room. TV on, as with every lamp. No place to hide. Front and back doors locked and reinforced with kitchen chairs. Nothing would get in without him knowing. And if in, he could escape . . . 

On the tube, The Ten O’clock News. He listened for cues in Walter Jacobsen’s voice. A code maybe and dared not look away, his eyes would play tricks: doorknobs turned, curtains rustled, faces in the jumbled bedding would stare.

A cut to commercial, a lit window on a darkened high rise and a silhouette of a frightened man pacing: “‘This is no ordinary night. This is eternity . . .’” 

“Not true.” He raced to the kitchen to pop a Depakote and chased it with whisky. 

“‘. . . If only you hadn’t started thinking . . .’” 

“Stupid! Stupid! When will I learn?” 

“‘. . . about that Burger King Breakfast Croissan’Wich you can’t have yet . . .’” 

Back into the living room to a built-in bookshelf to pluck a book and tear it to pieces. You are what you read – tearing up himself. He grabbed another. “There! There!” And when the last pages dropped, he looked at the ceiling. “See? Now protect me.” 

He snatched the Glenlivet. “I’m manic. I’m manic. I’m manic.” 

A lamp flickered (on cue) and popped. Shadows fell across the floor. 

“Just ‘cause you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean something’s not after you . . . Have pity,” he addressed the ceiling again. Then slumped and wrapped himself with the crumpled bedding. 

TV cut – Harry Volkner reporting the weather: “‘Temperatures around the country, rather ample I might say: 76 in Miami, we got it up to 60 degrees in Chicago. The hotspot was McAllen, Texas – 88 degrees. Satellite view of the country shows that massive clouds out to the west. That could bring us some rain by tomorrow night. And incidentally, if you’re interested in what the thirty-day outlook looks like for our part of the country – above normal temperatures expected from now until the middle of March. The National Radar shows precipitation out to the west and some heavy stuff and thunderstorms down here in the lower Mississippi Valley.  Temperatures around here: late this evening – ranging from 46 in Northbrook to 49 . . . 48 degrees in Hammond, 49 in Elmwood Park and 53 in St. Charles . . .’” 

“Got to sleep. God, let me sleep.” 

He closed his eyes.

It comes when he cannot see – sneaks in and up on him. Forever and ever sneaking up.

His eyes opened – the living room as it was. He closed them again. “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come---” And what’s that supposed to do? “Thy will be done---” This, thy will? “On earth as it is in heaven---” Such is done in heaven? “Give us this day our daily bread---” What? What? The Eucharist? Who believes in the Eucharist? “And forgive us of our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us---” His goddamn trespassers . . . He’s doomed. “Lead us not into temptation---” It’s all temptation, one continuous, bloody temptation . . . “But deliver us from evil . . ..” The joke. How cruel. He repeated it and repeated it until from exhaustion, he slumbered. 

A fever dream, creepy, clammy, poison on skin, leeching out his wits. It’s there. It waits. Out of cruelty. It must be cruel. It led. It chased. Into ever narrowing spaces. He cannot breathe. No end so chilling as suffocation. He cannot breathe---    

He shot awake. The blanket wrapped him like a giant snake and the television playing an infomercial for a 1-900 psychic helpline. His phone ringing. This too, the dream? 

“What?” he answered. When he heard the voice, he wept. “Walt. Oh, Walt. Thank

God . . . What? . . . Yes, but they’re not working . . . What? . . . But I picked it up now . . . When do you land? . . . I don’t want to go to the hospital . . . I don’t want to call the doctor . . . Just bring me home . . . What? . . . Yes, I’ll do what you tell me if you get me home . . . Yes. Yes, when do you get here? . . . How should I know why the meds aren’t working? . . . Some . . . I said some . . . All right, a lot. I don’t care if you can hear it in my voice . . . No . . . No! . . .” He hung his head and listened. Then a silence as if communicating by thought. “Yes,” he said and hung up. 

The phone rang again. “What?”

Eyes alarmed. Different caller. He listened.

“I’ll go to the police---”

An acknowledgement on the other end followed by officious prattle.

“I don’t believe in you anymore,” he interrupted and hung-up.

He pulled his jacket from the front-hall closet, in the pocket, a 32 cal. Saturday Night Special. He’d never fired a gun before. He’ll just take it out and wave it. Or better, put it to his head. He’ll find a way. A single, electric strike. Isn’t that what it wanted? By his own hand? When life is so murderous – better by your own hand? Reafference. Agency. Your hand on his as he pulls the trigger. You do it together. A light thing, Bulkington, then you’re gone. Hundreds and hundreds of Bulkingtons suddenly gone. A five-second name on the nightly news and forgotten. But he knew the psychiatrist was wrong. The meds didn’t work because it was no delusion.  

Goodbye Bulkington. Whatever out there is coming, on a mild February night with a cool wind off South Lake Shore Drive, in tony Hyde Park surrounded by ghetto. U of C – a fortress in the Hood. And under a full moon light you so lily-white, how can it not see you? . . .