Rare Lansdale

  "That floored me, and I knew I was invisible again. I went upstairs and looked in the bathroom mirror. Sure enough. Nothing there. So I waited until I faded back and I called your secretary. It took me five tries before she finally wrote my name down, gave me an appointment. It was worse than when I tried to get the meat from the butcher. So I hurried right over. I had to get this out. I swear I’m not going crazy, it’s a disease, and it’s getting worse and worse and worse.

  "So what can I do, Doc? How can I handle this? I know it’s not in my head, and I’ve got to have some advice. Please, Doc. Say something. Tell me what to do. I’ve never been this desperate in my entire life. I might fade out again and not come back."

  The psychiatrist took his hand from his chin where it had been resting.

  "Wha... ? Sorry. I must have dozed. What was it again, Mr.... uh?"

  Merguson dove across the desk, clawing for the psychiatrist’s throat.

  Later when the law came and found the psychiatrist strangled and slumped across his desk, his secretary said, "Funny, I don’t remember anyone coming in or leaving. Couldn’t have come in while I was here. He had an appointment with a Mr.... uh." She looked at the appointment book. "A Mr. Merguson. But he never showed."

  © 1983 Joe R. Lansdale.

  "Listen" was originally published in 1983 in Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone Magazine. It later appeared in A Fist Full of Stories (and Articles), a collection of Lansdale’s short stories (and articles) published by CD Publications.

  MR. BEAR

  For Michelle Lansdale

  Jim watched as the plane filled up. It was a pretty tightly stacked flight, but last time, coming into Houston, he had watched as every seat filled except for the one on his left and the one on his right. He had hit the jackpot that time, no row mates. That made it comfortable, having all that knee and elbow room.

  He had the middle seat again, an empty seat to his left, and one to his right. He sat there hoping there would be the amazing repeat of the time before.

  A couple of big guys, sweating and puffing, were moving down the aisle, and he thought, Yep, they'll be the ones. Probably one of them on either side. Shit, he'd settle for just having one seat filled, the one by the window, so he could get out on the aisle side. Easy to go to the bathroom that way, stretch your legs.

  The big guys passed him by. He saw a lovely young

  woman carrying a straw hat making her way down the center. He thought, Someone has got to sit by me, maybe it'll be her. He could perhaps strike up a conversation. He might even find she's going where he's going, doesn't have a boyfriend. Wishful thinking, but it was a better thing to think about than big guys on either side of him, hemming him in like the center of a sandwich.

  But no, she passed him by, as well. He looked up at her, hoping she'd look his way. Maybe he could get a smile at least. That would be nice.

  'Course, he was a married man, so that was no way to think.

  But he was thinking it. She didn't look and she didn't smile. Jim sighed, waited. The line was moving past him. There was only one customer left. A shirtless bear in dungarees and work boots, carrying a hat. The bear looked peeved, or tired, or both.

  Oh shit, thought Jim. Bears—they've got to stink. All that damn fur. He passes me by, I'm going to have a seat free to myself on either side. He doesn't, well, I've got to ride next to him for several hours.

  But the bear stopped in his row, pointed at the window seat. "That's my seat."

  "Sure," Jim said, and moved out of the middle seat and out into the aisle to let the bear in. The bear settled in by the window and fastened his seat belt and rested his hat on his knee. Jim slid back into the middle seat. He could feel the heat off the bear's big hairy arm. And there was a smell. Nothing nasty or ripe. Just a kind of musty odor, like an old fur coat hung too long in a closet,

  dried blood left in a carpet, a whiff of cigarette smoke and charred wood.

  Jim watched the aisle again. No one else. He could hear them closing the door. He unfastened his seat belt and moved to the seat closest to the aisle. The bear turned and looked at him. "You care I put my hat in the middle seat?"

  "Not at all," Jim said.

  "I get tired of keeping up with it. Thinking of taking it out of the wardrobe equation."

  Suddenly it snapped. Jim knew the bear. Had seen him on TV. He was a famous environmentalist. Well, that was something. Had to sit by a musty bear, helped if he was famous. Maybe there would be something to talk about.

  "Hey," the bear said, "I ask you something, and I don't want it to sound rude, but..'. can I?"

  "Sure."

  "I got a feeling, just from a look you gave me, you recognized me."

  "I did."

  "Well, I don't want to be too rude, sort of leave a fart hanging in the air, though, I might. . . deer carcass. Never agrees. But I really don't want to talk about me or what I do

  or who I am___And let me just be completely honest. I was

  so good at what I do ... well, I am good. Let me rephrase that. I was really as successful as people think, you believe I'd be riding coach? After all my years of service to the forest, it's like asking your best girl to ride bitch like she was the local poke. So I don't want to talk about it."

  "I never intended to ask," Jim said. That was a lie, but it seemed like the right thing to say.

  "Good. That's good," said the bear, and leaned back in

  his seat and put the hat on his head and pulled it down over his eyes.

  For a moment Jim thought the bear had gone to sleep, but no, the bear spoke again. "Now that we've got that out of the way, you want to talk, we can talk. Don't want to, don't have to, but we can talk; just don't want to talk about the job and me and the television ads, all that shit. You know what I'd like to talk about?" "What's that?"

  "Poontang. All the guys talk about pussy. But me, I'm a bear, so it makes guys uncomfortable, don't want to bring it up. Let me tell you something, man, I get plenty, and I don't just mean bear stuff. Guy like me, that celebrity thing going and all, I can line them up outside the old motel room, knock 'em off like shooting ducks from a blind. Blondes, redheads, brunettes, bald, you name it, I can bang it."

  This made Jim uncomfortable. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had sex with his wife, and here was a smelly bear with a goofy hat knocking it off like there was no tomorrow. He said, "Aren't we talking about your celebrity after all? I mean, in a way?"

  "Shit. You're right. Okay. Something else. Maybe nothing. Maybe we just sit. Tell you what, I'm going to read a magazine, but you think of something you want to talk about, you go ahead. I'm listening."

  Jim got a magazine out of the pouch in front of him and read a little, even came across an ad with the bear's picture in it, but he didn't want to bring that up. He put the magazine back and thought about the book he had in the overhead, in his bag, but he hated to bother. Besides, the book was the usual thriller, and he didn't feel like bothering.

  After a while the flight attendant came by. She was a nice-looking woman who looked even nicer because of her suit, the way she carried herself, the air of authority. She asked if they'd like drinks.

  Jim ordered a diet soda, which was free, but the bear pulled out a bill and bought a mixed drink, a Bloody Mary. They both got peanuts. When the flight attendant handed the bear his drink, the bear said, "Honey, we land, you're not doing anything, I could maybe show you my wild side,

  find yours."

  The bear grinned, and showed some very ugly teeth.

  The flight attendant leaned over Jim, close to the bear, and said, "I'd rather rub dirt in my ass than do anything

  with you."

  This statement hung in the air like backed-up methane for a moment, then the flight attendant smiled, moved back and stood in the aisle, then looked right at Jim and said, "If you need anything else, let me know," and she was gone.

  The bear had let down his dining tray and he had the drink in its plastic cup in his hand. The Bloody M
ary looked very bloody. The bear drank it in one big gulp. He said, "Flight drinks. You could have taken a used Tampax and dipped it in rubbing alcohol and it would taste the same."

  Jim didn't say anything. The bear said, "She must be a lesbian. Got to be. Don't you think?"

  The way the bear turned and looked at him, Jim thought it was wise to agree. "Could be."

  The bear crushed the plastic cup. "No 'could be.' Is. Tell me you agree. Say, is."

  "Is," Jim said, and his legs trembled slightly. "That's right, boy. Now whistle up that lesbian bitch, get her back over here. I want another drink."

  When they landed in Denver, the bear was pretty liquored up. He walked down the ramp crooked and his hat was cocked at an odd angle that suggested it would fall at any moment. But it didn't.

  The plane had arrived late, and this meant Jim had missed his connecting flight due to a raging snowstorm. The next flight was in the morning and it was packed. He'd have to wait until midafternoon tomorrow just to see if a flight was available. He called his wife on his cell phone, told her, and then rang off, feeling depressed and tired and wishing he could stay home and never fly again.

  Jim went to the bar, thinking he might have a nightcap, catch a taxi to the hotel, and there was the bear, sitting on a stool next to a blonde with breasts so big they were resting on the bar in front of her. The bear, his hat still angled oddly on his head, was chatting her up.

  Jim went behind them on his way to a table. He heard the bear say, "Shid, darlin', you dun't know whad yer missin'. 'Ere's wimen all o'er 'is world would lige to do it wid a bear."

  "I'm not that drunk yet," the blonde said, "and I don't think they have enough liquor here to make me that drunk." She got up and walked off.

  Jim sat down at a table with his back to the bar. He didn't want the bear to recognize him, but he wanted a drink. And then he could smell the bear. The big beast

  was right behind him. He turned slightly. The bear was standing there, dripping saliva as thick as sea foam from his teeth onto his furry chest.

  "Eh, buddy, 'ow you doin'.'' The bear's words were so slurred, it took Jim a moment to understand.

  "Oh," he said. "Not so good. Flight to Seattle is delayed until tomorrow."

  "Me, too," the bear said, and plopped down in a chair at the table so hard the chair wobbled and Jim heard a cracking sound that made him half expect to see the chair explode and the bear go tumbling to the floor. "See me wid dat gal? Wus dryin to roun me ub sum, ya know." "No luck?"

  "Les'bin. The're eberyware."

  Jim decided he needed to get out of this pretty quick. "Well, you know, I don't think I'm going to wait on that drink. Got to get a hotel room, get ready for tomorrow."

  "Naw, dunt do 'at. Er, led me buy ya a drank. Miz. You in dem tidht panss."

  So the waitress came over and the bear ordered some drinks for them both. Jim kept trying to leave, but no go. Before he knew it, he was almost as hammered as the

  bear.

  Finally, the bear, just two breaths short of a complete slur, said, "Eber thang 'ere is den times duh prize. Leds go ta a real bar." He paused." Daby Crogett killed a bar." And then the bear broke into insane laughter.

  "Wen e wus ony tree . . . three. Always subone gad ta shood sub bar subware. Cum on, eds go. I know dis town ligh duh bag ob muh 'and."

  They closed down a midtown bar. Jim remembered that pretty well. And then Jim remembered something about the bear saying they ought to have some companionship, and then things got muddled. He awoke in a little motel room, discovered the air was full of the smell of moldy bear fur, alcohol farts, a coppery aroma, and sweaty perfume.

  Sitting up in bed, Jim was astonished to find a very plump girl with short blonde hair next to him in bed. She was lying facedown, one long, bladderlike tit sticking out from under her chest, the nipple pierced with a ring that looked like a washer.

  Jim rolled out of bed and stood up beside it. He was nude and sticky. "Shit," he said. He observed the hump under the sheet some more, the washer in the tit. And then, as his eyes adjusted, he looked across the room and saw another bed, and he could see on the bedpost the bear's hat, and then the bear, lying on the bed without his pants. There was another lump under the blanket. One delicate foot stuck out from under the blanket near the end of the bed, a gold chain around the ankle. The bear was snoring softly. There were clothes all over the floor, a pair of panties large enough to be used as a sling for the wounded leg of a hippopotamus was dangling from the light fixture. That would belong to his date.

  Except for his shoes and socks, Jim found his clothes and put them on and sat in a chair at a rickety table and put his head in his hands. He repeated softly over and over, "Shit, shit, shit."

  With his hands on his face, he discovered they had a foul smell about them, somewhere between working-man sweat and a tuna net. He was hit with a sudden revelation that made him feel ill. He slipped into the bathroom and showered and

  redressed, this time putting on his socks and shoes. When he came out the light was on over the table and the bear was sitting there, wearing his clothes, even his hat.

  "Damn, man," the bear said, his drunk gone, "that was some time we had. I think. But, I got to tell you, man, you got the ugly one."

  Jim sat down at the table, feeling as if he had just been hit by a car. "I don't remember anything."

  "Hope you remembered she stunk. That's how I tracked them down, on a corner. I could smell her a block away. I kind of like that, myself. You know, the smell. Bears, you know how it is. But, I seen her, and I thought, Goddamn, she'd have to sneak up on a glass of water, so I took the other one. You said you didn't care."

  "Oh God," Jim said.

  "The fun is in the doing, not the remembering. Trust me, some things aren't worth remembering."

  "My wife will kill me."

  "Not if you don't tell her."

  "I've never done anything like this before."

  "Now you've started. The fat one, I bet she drank twelve beers before she pissed herself."

  "Oh, Jesus."

  "Come on, let's get out of here. I gave the whores the last of my money. And I gave them yours."

  "What?"

  "I asked you. You said you didn't mind."

  "I said I don't remember a thing. I need that money."

  "I know that. So do I."

  The bear got up and went over to his bed and picked up the whore's purse and rummaged through it, took out

  the money. He then found the other whore's purse on the floor, opened it up, and took out money.

  Jim staggered to his feet. He didn't like this, not even a little bit. But he needed his money back. Was it theft if you paid for services you didn't remember?

  Probably. But...

  As Jim stood, in the table light, he saw that on the bear's bed was a lot of red paint, and then he saw it wasn't paint, saw too, that the whore's head was missing. Jim let out a gasp and staggered a little.

  The bear looked at him. The expression on his face was oddly sheepish.

  "Thought we might get out of here without you seeing that. Sometimes, especially if I've been drinking, and I'm hungry, I revert to my basic nature. If it's any consolation, I don't remember doing that."

  "No. No. It's no consolation at all."

  At this moment, the fat whore rolled over in bed and sat up and the covers dropped down from her, and the bear, moving very quickly, got over there and with a big swipe of his paw sent a spray of blood and a rattle of teeth flying across the room, against the wall. The whore fell back, half her face clawed away.

  "Oh Jesus. Oh my God."

  "This killing I remember," the bear said. "Now come on, we got to wipe everything down before we leave, and we don't have all night."

  They walked the streets in blowing snow, and even though it was cold, Jim felt as if he were in some kind of fever dream. The bear trudged along beside him, said, "I had one of the whores pay for the room in cash. They never even saw us at the desk. Wiped d
own the prints in the room, anything we might have touched. I'm an expert at it. We're cool. Did that 'cause I know how these things can turn out. I've had it go bad before. Employers have got me out of a few scrapes, you know. I give them that. You okay, you look a little peaked."

  "I... I..."

  The bear ignored him, rattled on. "You now, I'm sure you can tell by now, I'm not really all that good with the

  ladies. On the plane, I was laying the bullshit on___Damn,

  I got all this fur, but that don't mean I'm not cold. I ought to have like a winter uniform, you know, a jacket, with a big collar that I can turn up. Oh, by the way. I borrowed your cell phone to call out for pizza last night, but before I could, I dropped it and stepped on the motherfucker. Can you believe that? Squashed like a clam shell. I got it in my pocket. Have to throw it away. Okay. Let me be truthful. I had it in my back pocket and I sat my fat ass on it. That's the thing. . . . You a little hungry? Shit. I'm hungry. I'm

  cold."

  That was the only comment for a few blocks, then the bear said, "Fuck this," and veered toward a car parked with several others at the curb. The bear reached in his pocket and took out a little packet, opened it. The streetlights revealed a series of shiny lock pick tools. He went to work on the car door with a tool that he unfolded and slid down the side of the car window until he could pull the lock. He opened the door, then said, "Get inside." The bear flipped a switch that unlocked the doors, and Jim, as if he were

  obeying the commands of a hypnotist, walked around to the other side and got in.

  The bear was bent under the dash with his tools, and in a moment, the car roared to life. The bear sat in the seat and closed the door, said, "Seat belts. Ain't nobody rides in my car, they don't wear seat belts."

  Jim thought: It's not your car. But he didn't say anything. He couldn't. His heart was in his mouth. He put on his seat belt.

  They tooled along the snowy Denver streets and out of town and the bear said, "We're leaving this place, going to my stomping grounds. Yellowstone Park. Know some back trails. Got a pass. We'll be safe there. We can hang. I got a cabin. It'll be all right."