Jim Holtzman
Daniel Morrison
The streets feel raw, washed over by depressed gray; the homes look bitter, hopeless. I hear the groans of tired voices, as emotionless faces look on from their porches. They look like something you’d see out of a Soviet gulag. I keep walking. The silence is filled by the sounds of creaking floorboards and washed out air conditioners. Sidewalks are heavy, dampened by last night’s rain. I take a deep breath, but smells of musty carpeting and moldy vinyl clog the air. This is a place of horror– it wasn’t always. I skim the streets before getting tripped up. I glance back to find a vintage Ventièr lace up shoe from the 1860’s. It’s been through a lot, it seems, with cracks lining the lifeless leather as if it’s been decaying for years. Beside it stands an overflowing shoe-can; crusty, waterlogged shoes smashed in tight fill the can to its brim just like all the other cans along the road. That’s what happens when the garbage men stop picking up the shoes. They stopped working after the galosh shortage, just as everyone else did. I continue down the road.
The lifeless people continue to stare. I feel their disdaining gazes burn my skin; they can tell I still have a job, can’t they? Sections of the town are concentrated with the homeless–looking too depleted to be resentful. Millions were fired after the shortage. Without galoshes, rainy days meant you couldn’t get to work…. it rains a lot in Lindsham. Most left for drier climates a while ago, but I’ve been lucky enough to have a job I could work from home. I work for “Wesco Cinema” as a middle-level Sifter. We receive at least a hundred script proposals a day; it’s my division’s job to winnow down the list before sending ‘em off to the high-level Sifters. The latest movie proposals have mostly been aspersions on the wealthy. I’m careful to let a few through–otherwise my associates will become suspicious. I see a vendor up ahead; he’s selling plastic bags as makeshift galoshes–one hundred Yermen a bag; that’s bloody expensive, but it’s the cheapest in town. I’m surprised he hasn’t been robbed and shot like the rest of them.
The last man seen with galoshes in Lindsham didn’t enjoy a happy ending. His name was Gatsmen and he was a good man. The policeman said his face was smashed in like a jacked up car with his guts turned inside out; he said it was an entire group of people who killed him. Of course, the cop himself had bloodied knuckles, so he probably enjoyed beating Gatsmen just as much as the others did. The rest came forward the next day–three of Gatsmen’s neighbors and four random men off the street. I recognized most of them from church. They were proud of what they had done and so was the town. I remember seeing his body on the street shortly after the killing; they never even gave him the dignity of cleaning him up. His blood swam in the rain like a twisted cocktail with his left foot dangled off by the thread of a tendon. He was still wearing his Galoshes. They didn’t even care to take ‘em– just as long as no one could enjoy them; damn fool for walking out with them on! He should’ve known better. A few days later his wife killed herself along with her daughter, nine year old Ella. Her protective older brother Adam wasn’t home when it happened; ‘not sure where he was, but he’s disappeared since. Some of us went looking for him. He was scrawny, not the kind of guy you’d be afraid of. Even so, he’d rip your head off if you so much as thought about messing with Ella. I remember hiring him to wash my car. He did a good job, although he barely said a word to me; I couldn’t tell if he was shy or resentful, but I respected his space and stayed away. I’m glad we didn’t find him. I wouldn’t wanna see the expression on his face after telling him what happened to his family. It would’ve scarred my brain even more than it’s already been. What a tragedy that was. I couldn’t help but imagine that being my family instead of Gatsmen’s. In that moment, I’d never been more terrified of being one of the few remaining Galosh owners.
That’s enough; I’ve walked enough. It wasn’t very often I got out of the house. It rains a lot and I can’t wear ’em outside. I round the corner to my house and slowly twist the doorknob until I hear the excitement of my daughters’ voice slip through the crack–“Daddy!” I love it when she does that. As I peek through, she trucks, arms open, into my left leg and grabs ahold like a monkey on a tree–she can’t reach any higher for a hug. She’s only seven, and her name’s Geena.
“I mithed you daddy,” she says endearingly.
“I missed you too sweetie.”
She’s got a lisp after recently losing her first front tooth. You should’ve seen her giddy smile as she held up the tooth like it was a trophy to celebrate. Valerie dressed as the tooth fairy that night and slipped cinnamon shortbread under her pillow. Those are her favorite cookies–we bake them as a family after every test she gets over a ninety-five.
“Where’s mom, kiddo?”
“You mean Valerie,” she asks with a mischievous grin.
I chuckle. She must’ve heard me call her that by accident.
“That’s what daddy calls her. Are you daddy, wiseguy?”
Val walks out of the dining room and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Hi, sweetheart,” she says. I feel warm when she’s around; even after a long day, she’s still beautiful. We started dating in high school, but she didn’t like me at first–thought I was awkward. She wasn’t wrong. All we had in common was biblical studies class. I’d try to start up conversations in the lunchroom, but every time I’d turn bright red, lock up, and end up asking, “Hey valerie– how was class?” I must’ve asked her that stupid question a hundred times. I think she had pity on me at first, since she adopted me as her friend; joke’s on her because she ended up falling in love with me.
I noticed the time and got Geena’s attention. “Start getting washed up for bed and daddy will be up real soon to tuck you in.” She obliged and adorably ran up the stairs with her hands assisting like a cute, little puppy. At first it was strange being called “daddy.” My whole life I’ve been “Jim Holtzman,” not “daddy,” but I’ve gotten used to it. I hear the sounds of the shower. Val and I switch off tucking in Geena, and tonight’s my night. We know seven’s a bit early for her age, but Val and I need some alone time. I walk up the stairs to see Geena’s already tucked herself under the covers. She must be on her best behavior because there’s usually a fair bit of protesting before we can get her to go to bed. But there she lies, pretty as always with her wet hair resting wonderfully against the pillow.
“Hey, girly girl. How was your day?”
She tells me about her day in school– how one of her guy friends wiped a booger on her face and how she returned the favor; their problems seem so small. Geena’s noticed the changes to Lindsham. She’s barely old enough to compare it to a time before, but recognizes the shift in daily life. Val thinks we ought to shield her from the distressing situation; I’m not sure I agree. Either way, Geena’s a brave little rascal and loves to ask questions. She describes the packaged apple wedges they gave out for snack as her eyes begin to falter. I brush her hair to the side and give her a kiss on the cheek.
“Who loves you most?”
Half asleep, she stops to think, “Mom?”
I smile and softly say, “No, we’ve been over this. Remember? Daddy loves you most. Mommy loves you second most.”
Geena giggles and says, “Well, now I’ll know for next time you ask me.”
Of course she’ll say the same thing the next time, as she always does. I look at her face for a moment before giving her one last kiss on the forehead. “I love you sweetie.”
Flick
– I turn the light off and leave the room.
As I reach the bottom of the stairs, I see Val waiting for me on the right side of the couch. She pats the left cushion and waits for me to snuggle up beside her. She prefers lying down on her left side when we cuddle, which is why she always sits on the right. I’m happy either way.
“How was it tucking in Geena?”
I answer and Val’s delighted to hear how quickly she readied herself for bed.
“How was your day,” I ask. She begrudgingly tells me about the puzzle she put together with Geena; it’s a puzzle I was looking forward to and she knew that. The puzzle’s a cover of my favorite movie, “Vampire Yellowtail;” we watch it every Easter. There will be more puzzles to make, it’s not a big deal. Val goes on; apparently the neighbors tried breaking in again, but she took care of it–as usual. I can tell she’s stressed, though–her shoulders tight with knots like a boa constrictor dressing the inner part of her back. I begin massaging them out for her as she sinks further into my lap. Her back is so smooth; she slowly begins to turn until I feel the warmth of her breath wet on my neck. Her lips are plush with a layer of strawberry lipstick glazing the outside. I feel them compress on my neck as she slowly kisses me down towards my chest. I’m relaxed. Her leg pulls further up my body as her hand brushes along my inner thigh. I slowly slip my hands down her back before pulling her close and letting out a deflated breath. “I can’t tonight… I’m sorry hun.” We haven’t been intimate in a few months and it’s my fault. It’s like I can’t keep my mind straight. The slaughter’s gotten worse–more frequent, more brutal. There was another one yesterday. I didn’t even know Jeffrey well, but it’s still overwhelming to think about. What they did to him, his leg, his wife–it’s unspeakable. It’s not just Jeff, though, they’ve been exposing more of us. How can I have sex now?
I feel bad for Val. She’s living in the same demonic hell hole that I am, yet she’s always there for me– steadfast, unshakable– like a loving partner should be.
“I understand cutie; it’s okay,” she says while cradling my head against her chest.
She hasn’t called me “cutie” since high school.
We lie together on the couch, the warmth of our bodies comforting each other under the blanket. We’re in the middle of reading this book together, Alone at Night. It’s a romance novel. We’d thought we’d give it a shot–try to fill the void of intimacy via a book at the very least. She reads one page and then I read the next. We get lost in the words as I stroke her cheek. I wish romance was as easy as the book makes it seem.
Val lays her head heavy against my arm and begins to drift off.
I gently whisper into her ear, “Why don’t you go to bed?”
She nods her head as she pulls herself off my body.
“Are you coming,” Val asks.
“I’ll come up in a few. I need some time alone.”
“I’ll try and keep my eyes open until you get there. Love you, sweetie,” she says as she blows me a kiss.
The sound of her steps fade up the stairs. Now I’m alone, with the crackling of the fireplace and the chattering of the crickets. I used to feel safer here, like hell could never invade these walls.
Brrring brrring
It’s my boss. I’ve never gotten a call from him this late, but I pick up. He seems excited–something about a major movie director visiting the studio tomorrow. I can’t get a word in, he’s talking so fast.
“He’s coming at nine O’clock tomorrow; you hear me?”
He wants the entire team there for the session– says it’s important we make a good impression. I hang up; it’s been a while since going into the studio, but no more than a month or so. It’ll be nice to see the team again. I remember telling Val I’d be up in a few, so I head towards the room. I make my way up the wooden steps, one silent footstep at a time; wouldn’t wanna wake up Geena. The stairway’s thin with creamy undertones–like a velvety cheesecake. I glide open the door and find Val asleep on the bed–didn’t even make it into her pajamas again; one arm under her head, the other under the back of her knees. I pick her up. I lay her on her left side just the way she likes. She deserves a good night’s sleep. I switch into pj’s and snuggle up beside her, pulling the blanket over the both of us. I’ll brush my teeth tomorrow. The linens cuddle my skin while my hand slides across her waist. I pull her in close and rest my hand just below her belly button. Goodnight, Val.
8:00 AM
My eyes tinker open. The alarms are subtle enough to wake me, but light enough to leave Val to her sleep. The breeze from the window hollows in the background as the sound of Val’s snoring skips in to fill the gaps in the wind; it’s muted enough to be cute. The trees ruffle against the window as water trickles from leaf to leaf. I must be confused. Val shifts her hips, but I don’t think she’s awake yet. Drip drip. The covers are warm–I don’t wanna get out of bed, but I have to. I feel the air thick and muggy, as if it’s raining. Shit! It’s raining.
My eyes are still. This isn’t good.
The meeting’s in an hour and the storm’s unrelenting–I’ve gotta wear them. No one’s outside in the rain, I’ll be fine. They won’t see me. What if they do? I don’t wanna end up like Gatsmen or Jeffrey. I won’t. No one’s outside! I wash up and pick out my nicest clothes. It’s the suit from my wedding–buttery blue wool with golden buttons lining the edges of the jacket. I slide my pants up, one leg after the other, and adjust my tie until it’s choking me like a noose. My stomach’s churning. All it takes is one twisted mind to see me in the rain. For fuck’s sake, why today?
8:30 AM
I’ve gotta go. It’s about a twenty minute walk and I’d like some buffer time in between. I grab my raincoat and slither my hands into the bottom drawer glove compartment. My grip violently shakes as I pull them out. This might not be a good idea. My Plemońte Oxfords shine bright with a brogued cap toe at the end. I pull the galoshes over them while I hold my breath. Val’s still asleep and I glance back to whisper “love you,” but quiet enough not to wake her. I tiptoe down the hall and catch a peek through the crack in Geena’s door before making my way down the stairs. One step at a time, I undo my walk up from the night before and head for the door. The handle’s cold. A gust of wind sleds across my face as I open up and glance out; no one anywhere.
The rain is harrowing–sounds like hundreds of demons snapping at once. I try to walk normally but I’m dragging my feet– “like that’ll hide them from the people,” I say to myself in a mocking tone. Stop thinking about your walk. I can’t. This time, there are no people on their porches, just distressing spaces. The emptiness is potent enough to feel like it’s watching me. I continue walking before seeing drops of blood mixed with rain fly up into the air. This is the end, isn’t it? No it’s not. I just stepped into a puddle of blood, but it’s not mine. I’ve gotta keep moving. My pace is frantic–my legs moving fast enough to feel like they’re missing.
“Hey, Billman,” a man suddenly shouts out from his door, and I drop!
There’s a trash bin beside me and I crawl for cover. I look at the shoes in the can and wonder if he’s talking to me. I’m not Billman, though; who’s he talking to? My muscles lock up while my suit pants soak up water off the ground. It doesn’t matter now; he’ll see me if I move. “Yeah, I know, tough guy. I’m headed back inside,” another man shouts in return; he must be Billman. I tremble behind the trash. The smell of shoes is potent. I hear both doors slam shut and I think I’m in the clear. I continue walking–this time even faster than before. Back and forth, back and forth. My neck’s in agony from double checking; it was better when Val was kissing it. At this point I’m nearly running and I don’t care about looking natural anymore. As my left foot splashes a puddle into the air I hear a click in the corner of my ear and turn around. Oh my God.
“Jim?” His voice pierces my chest as I turn to face him. Dear God; he’s got it locked onto my skull. My thoughts scream inside. Run, just run for your life. You can’t, you fucking idiot, he’s got a gun pointed at your head! He looks at my feet in shock, as if he can’t believe what he’s about to do. Adam could never do something like this. Every bit of me is trembling in horror. My mouth is shaking too fast for me to talk and the tears are too much. I can’t see, I can’t breathe. I feel like a little boy and I just wanna go home. “Adam please. I’m sorry for what happened to your father, they shouldn’t have done that to him. I know you miss your mom and Ella too…” He seems nervous enough that his finger could slip and pull at any moment. It’s raining harder now. “You know my daughter Geena. She’s seven and she loves cinnamon shortbread and the color pink and she loves her mom and…” I can’t speak anymore; I’m choking on my own tears. “She just wants to see her daddy tonight. Adam please; put the gun down.” I can see how much pain he’s in. He looks just as bad as I do. He doesn’t say anything, just looks afraid and desperate. I can hear the rattling of the gun as his hand begins to slip across the metal. “Adam, I know you’re hurt. I’m sorry.
— — — — —
I can hear the thumping of my heart while I suck for air. It’s getting harder to see, and the salty sweat continues to pour into my eyes. I should slow down, but I can’t. I’m almost at their house–just keep running, damn it! Everything’s a blur and all I can see are the panicking thoughts in my head. I can’t believe they killed him. They just killed my parents a few days ago and now Mr. Holtzman. What the fuck! I remember seeing my father’s leg– it was terrible; I thought that was the end of it. I guess it wasn’t. Run run run!
I shouldn’t be running out on the street like this, but what choice do I have? What if the blank faces on the porches recognize me; what if they know I’m Jefferey’s son; what if they do the same thing to my leg? It feels like I’ve been running for hours but it’s only been minutes.
I get to the door and knock. Valerie comes to answer. She looks confused to see me. I see a little girl come up beneath Valerie’s left hand. She looks scared; she should be. I think her name’s Geena, but I can’t remember. Valerie’s eyes stare a dagger into mine. “What happened,” she asks nervously, but my look tells her everything she already knows. She’s stone faced. Her mouth drops open and tears stream down her face. The little girl pulls at her mom’s hand and asks, “Where’s daddy?”
Daniel Morrison was born in Passaic, New Jersey, and expects to graduate in 2026. He writes, “I’ve always had an inclination towards creative writing. Mostly it was an escape from the monotony of formal, expository writing, but it’s developed into a genuine joy. I have a sweet tooth for creative fields, so it’s no surprise that I fell in love with creative writing. I’m an artist. I seriously began pursuing it during my junior year of high school, and it’s recently evolved into a formalized business. Throughout that time, I’ve used creative writing–sometimes poems or simple musings– to express an idea into something imagistic and metaphorical. But honestly, forget about the beauty of it all; sometimes it’s just freaking fun to get lost in a good story!”