Carlo Matos/Fiction

 
No Bones About It

Or the Case of the Too-Right Shoes

There was a word for it he was sure, but he had no head for trivia, and the more he tried to remember some small amusing or interesting factoid, the quicker he forgot it.  [What is aphasia, Alex?] His roommate, on the other hand (the largest Korean he had ever known personally), routinely squashed all three contestants on Jeopardy — routinely. He would’ve been a huge hit at parties since trivia excellence — like tournament spelling — is one of the few intellectual pursuits we all unabashedly aspire to.  Nam could’ve made millions, but why spoil it?  And it would be spoiled, he was sure of that.

It was a fact.  That was that and no bones about it.  Bones are for graveyards.  Bones are for stock.  Bones are for poison, for junkyard dogs.  You could love bones.  But bones were no good for feeding the grinder.  That’s how you cracked teeth and choked into your soup.

Maybe the mail would cheer him up.  He’d always loved getting the mail.  But email had ruined it all — nothing now in the box but bills and junk, an occasional pizza menu and pamphlets about getting into heaven.  Email had no meat to it.  It didn’t have a delivery time.  It didn’t come from anywhere; it didn’t go anywhere  —not really.

Opening the apartment door, he heard a thud as if he’d caught someone mid-knock and then scared them off.  Nothing was there but a small grocery bag tied to the doorknob.  He was pretty sure he hadn’t been in the apartment long enough to make enemies.  Maybe it was meant for another apartment?  What was it?  A bag of bones? A bag of dog shit?  It didn’t smell like dog shit, at least not from where he was standing.  After all, this was no small town; this was a big city.  People were busy here, had lives, had things to do and worry about.  That’s why he moved there.  No small town boredom turned to stoning: the smaller the town, the larger the stones.  It was some kind of inverse proportion thing.  [What are flux lines?]

It was just a bag of shoes, nice shoes too, designer brands appropriate for work and play.  They weren’t new but obviously not well worn either.  No note.  No name.  Just a bag of shoes.  It was one of his Watson moments.  He wasn’t skilled at deducing things.  Nam was probably like Holmes; he could probably deduce the hell out of this thing.  To Jim it was just a bag of shoes . . . size nine and a half.  This was his size.  Somehow he knew this would be the case.  He was tempted to try them on but was afraid he was missing something.  And, of course, he was.  They were all the same foot.  There wasn’t a matching pair in the whole bag — all right feet.  The proper thing to do was to leave the bag where it was and call the police, but before he could turn back to his apartment, he realized that this person had to know him.  They were the right shoes.  Only those closest to him knew that his right foot was in fact larger than his left, a lot larger.  If something happened to him, his parents could always identify him — assuming he still had his feet, that is.  If this were a movie, he would be the nameless guy who gets killed in the opening sequence — his mark the only thing left for the important characters to identify him with.  His left foot was always swimming in its shoe, but it was either that or crushed toes, and who wanted that?

Jim knew instinctively that email would have the answer.  Email was always so smug with answers.  He hated email even more than usual this morning.  There should be a word for that.  And, sure enough, in his inbox, nestled in among the junk, the porno solicitations and penis-increasing tonics and creams was a two-week old email for him.  He didn’t recognize the address, and there was no actual message.  It was all in the subject heading.

From: mmagoddess@yahoo.com

To: JimTick54@hotmail.com

Sent: Mon, September 27, 2010 5:05:58 PM

Subject: Jim Tickle, Tickle, Tickle.  Are you married, yet?  If not, come find me.

If only Nam were here. He wasn’t sure he could do this, and he hated it when people made fun of his name.  Everyone always made the same lame joke.  It was infuriating.

Clue 1: A mysterious package: the shoes.  A possible acquaintance.

Clue 2: An unknown address: “mmagoddess.”  A female.  Mixed Martial Arts.

Clue 3: A cryptic message.  This person was confident that Jim wouldn’t be married and that he would just drop everything and rush to her.

It had to be her.  Everyone has a her or him.  It was like a natural law or something.  She was always onto some damn new thing: parkour, roller derby . . . why not MMA?  She used to say she was preparing for the zombie apocalypse or some such thing.  He could never tell when she was being serious.  He could imagine her in tight spandex rolling around in some sweaty gym with a bunch of equally sweaty guys, wrapping her legs around them, pressing her body against their bodies, mounting them, being mounted.  His hypothesis was holding and nauseating.

She was always trying to make things more dramatic.  Two years, no contact.  There was never any doubt about it. When she left, he knew it was for good, and he knew not to wait for an explanation, so he didn’t wait for one or go looking.  He didn’t bother her mother or stalk her girlfriends.  That was what was expected.  He knew this, but he had no head for following directions.  He couldn’t even put together his cheap furniture; Nam did it.

But this time, the answer was obvious before the adventure even got started.  Holmes was always so enthusiastic, but Jim could never quite see why since Holmes had already solved the mystery while still sitting in his chair on Baker Street.  At most there was a detail or two left to be ironed out.  Jim decided it was way better to be Watson.  Not knowing was more fun; the answer was almost always disappointing.

She must have raided some poor massage parlor or karate studio or weekend carnival.  Those inflatable bouncing castles were easy targets.  Any place where it was customary for people to remove their shoes would not be safe.   The sad thing was that this was probably the best gift anyone had ever given him.  It was stupid, but she really knew him.  She saw to it that he would not be without the right shoes.  [What is a pun?]  He could see all those size nine and a halfs hopscotching home, an afternoon ruined.  So, she was in town!

*

Suddenly, someone grabbed him from behind, an arm across his throat and a pair of legs clamped steel around his waist.  As he began to lose his balance, he lunged for the couch so as not to smash face-long into the hardwood floor — standard in all Chicago apartments.  He was starting to blackout, and it was exactly like everyone said.  He tried in vain to break the grip.  Whoever was doing this was very strong and obviously skilled; the choke was being applied to the arteries running along both sides of his neck, and it was restricting the blood flow to his brain.  The living room began to phase out.  His ears buzzed.  Watson would never have found himself in such a position, never would have fallen for such an obvious trap.  Perhaps he wasn’t even a Watson.  Just as he was about to black out:

“I told you to come find me.”

That was a fact.  Jim could only gurgle a response.  She felt amazing.  At least his conclusion was correct, which was, he had to admit, a relief — not that it took a genius to figure this one out.  All of the curves were still there on her little frame as he remembered, but now she was also carved in long muscle that was hanging off a skeleton of rebar instead of bone.  Though he could barely breathe, he still felt the fit of her, felt her loosen her grip.  Her lips moved against his neck, nape, whatever, and then there was blackness — and the woman was gone.  [What is a rear-naked choke?]  The game was afoot, and he had his walking shoes, but the amount of meat needed to feed the bird of prey would surely leave him a bag of bones, and that was that!

About the author:

Carlo matos is a poet, essayist and fiction writer.  He is the author of two books: A School for Fishermen (BrickHouse Books) and Ibsen’s Foreign Contagion (forthcoming Academica Press, 2012).  His poems and stories have appeared in kill author, The Houston Literary Review, The MadHatters Review, DIAGRAM, and 63 Channels, among others.  He lives in Chicago, IL where he teaches writing at the City Colleges of Chicago by day and trains in mixed martial arts by night.