Walking through the mall I saw a now hiring sign in the window of a store. The shop in question sold toys, mainly for kids six and under. In need of a new job I looked at the sign then the store, and thought, “Oh fuck no.” Places like that are dungeons full of plastic distractions capable of endlessly emitting maddening electronic cacophonies, while hordes of children, more akin to feral rats than humans, run screaming in every direction, their hollow eyed parents in tow like enslaved zombies. However, I needed a job, so I filed the option the way terminally ill people keep suicide in mind. I decided that if I couldn’t find a better alternative in a week I would submit to the infernal gauntlet of providing toddlers with vaguely educational toys.
Motivated as such, I immediately went to my local bar. Perched on a stool I eventually started scrolling through searches on my phone. Nothing promising presented itself. Lucky for me I was relating my aforementioned thoughts to a buddy when a gnarled regular shuffled over.
The man reminded me of a gargoyle, and his voice only added to the association, “You need a job.”
I couldn’t quite place the accent. He sounded somewhat Eastern European, though Middle East traces hinted as well. Wherever he hailed from I doubted he was used to waiting, so I quickly answered, “Yes.”
He nodded, “Okay. You got a license? For car?”
“Yeah.”
He pulled a card out of his wallet. Handing it to me he said, “Call this number. Ask for Charlie Frink. He won’t be there. Tell them Mike Spotnik told you to call. Leave your number, yadda yadda yadda, they call you back.”
I took the card, a bone colored rectangle with a telephone number scrawled across in pen. I asked, “What’s the job?”
Mike Spotnik furrowed his brow, “Driver. It is not hard.” Then he shuffled back to his seat to sip warm vodka.
That night I called. Just like Mike said Charlie Frink wasn’t available, so I left my number, and two minutes later the phone rang.
I answered, “Hello?”
A coffee voiced woman spoke, “You call about the driver job?”
“Yeah.”
“Tomorrow evening be at the corner of 18th and Allport. 7:30. Do not be late. Wear a suit.”
Before I could say anything the other side hung up. I have been around long enough to know when something is, for lack of a better term, shady. Unfortunately that same awareness always sets off my curiosity. So the next evening I arrived at 18th and Allport in my best pinstripe suit.
Soon as I got out of the car I saw an elderly man in tweed waving at me from across the street. I hurried to him. He looked the way grandfather’s in fairy tales do, smiling the promise all will always be well. We shook hands. His gentle expression juxtaposed by the rough leathery grip that greeted me, my curiosity ticked up a notch.
He introduced himself, “Call me Minin. You are here to drive.”
“Assuming I get the job.”
He nodded, “Yes, of course. If you make it through your first run, you’re hired.”
I suddenly disliked the road curiosity seemed to be leading me down.
Minin said, “Excuse me. I make things sound so treacherous. Some find this work too stressful.”
“Can I ask what it is?”
He spread his arms wide, “Of course. You will be driving girls, well, dolls of a sort.”
Once again curiosity got the better of me. Minin gave me a set of keys, and pointed to a luxurious car up the block. He told me an address, and I set off.
A leather seat, smooth as silk, that cradled me like a loving mother’s arms, mahogany and gold dashboard, state of the art stereo hooked up to an HD digital display, I was tempted to steal the car the second I got in. I punched up the address, and took off. Even though I didn’t technically own the vehicle, cruising through the city I felt like a king.
My destination turned out to be a lounge on Ashland and Fulton. I couldn’t see any lights on through the windows. A busted neon sign over the entrance called the place The Arkhangelsk Lounge. It seemed like the doors closed ten years, and hadn’t been unlocked since.
The display announced, “You have arrived at your destination.” The second it stopped speaking a side door opened. A man in a black leather jacket strolled over to the car.
I rolled down the passenger side window as he approached. He leaned in through the opening, “You’re the new guy.”
“I am.”
“Okay. We’re gonna bring the girl out in a minute. Unlock the back, and don’t worry about anything except getting her where she’s going.”
“Alright then.”
He stepped away.
I called after him, “Hey, can I ask a question?”
He leaned back in, “What?”
“How’d you know I was here?”
“We’re tracking the GPS.” He didn’t wait for a reply just went back inside the Arkhangelsk. In a minute he emerged, and held the door open for two men who looked like shaved bears. The two grizzlies carried a limp figure between them, a young pale woman in a designer dress. They loaded her in the back, fastening a set of custom seat belts to hold her upright. Glancing in the rear view I expected to see a woman, barely out of her teens if even, drugged into a catatonic stupor. Instead I saw the slack jaw and hazy hollow eyes of a dead person. The Y-incision arching across her cleavage, dipping between her breasts accentuated the fact. Yet, she smelled like lavender with just the subtlest hint of milk chocolate.
One of the grizzlies smoothed her hair then delicately tied a ribbon around her neck. The man in the leather jacket leaned back in. He asked the GPS for a route to a particular address out in Wilmette, one of the wealthiest Chicago suburbs. The moment the map displayed he said:
“Drive safely.”
I said, “Thanks. Uh, one question though, just for my own personal edification. She’s dead?”
He glanced in the back then at me, “Yeah. Don’t worry. It’s time you got to getting where you’re going.”
And I drove off. Mainly I reasoned that those who casually cart dead bodies around don’t like to be trifled with. A string of questions might only serve to make them wonder if I was more trouble than my worth. So I drove the dead woman out to the suburbs.
The whole drive I kept hearing her body shifting. The limp ragdoll swayed with every turn and acceleration. Her dress rustled when she slumped forward during certain stops. The car’s tinted windows took on a new meaning, less about privacy and more about concealment. At one point I thought I heard her groan only to recall that dead bodies sometimes expel gases which can sound like vocalizations. That bit of trivia did nothing to relieve a rising concern about zombie prostitutes, and my impending demise at the hands of one – the undead will not be pimped out.
The drive felt more decadal than the actual fifty minutes it took. I pulled up to a mansion on Sheridan road, the sounds of the lake whispering from the backyard. As soon as I arrived events similar to those at The Arkhangelsk Lounge transpired. Apparently the people here also tracked my GPS unit. No sooner had I shifted into park than two men in dark suits hurried out of the house. They collected the body from the backseat, and I watched them lug the lifeless woman up the walk. Standing in the doorway I saw a middle aged man in a sweater vest sipping a brandy glass. He waved to me. I waved back.
My phone rang. I answered it, “Hello?”
“Hello young man. This is Minin calling. You’ve made the delivery?”
“I have.”
“Good, good. When our customer is done with her he will call us. Then I will call you, and you can retrieve the doll. Take her back to the lounge, and your work is done.”
“Okay?”
“Good.” Minin hung up.
I drove away. Sometimes it’s worse not knowing what people are doing. The imagination gets to run wild inventing any possibility it can conceive which remains almost eternally true in the absence of facts. A silver haired man slowly undressing the cold corpse of a woman young enough to be his daughter – she might be his daughter for all I knew… I found a liquor store, and bought some liquid courage. Parked near the lake I sat in the sand drinking until my phone rang three hours later.
Once again I pulled up to the house. The men in dark suits emerged and carried the dead woman to the car. The middle aged man stood in the doorway wearing a bathrobe. He waved. I waved back. My passenger belted in placed, I returned to The Arkhangelsk Lounge. The sounds of the body shifting bothered me less this time, and I started to wonder what I might get used to given enough time. Glancing in the rearview I saw a tear roll out of one dead eye. I turned around to be sure. She no longer wore the ribbon around her neck, and yes, a drop of moisture was rolling down her cheek.
I thought, “Maybe he licked her eye, and it’s just his drool leaking out.”
I have no idea why I thought that would be a more comforting idea.
At the lounge, the grizzlies ambled out to gather the corpse-doll. When they got back inside the man in the black leather jacket stepped outside. He carried an envelope in one hand. I rolled down the passenger window. He leaned in:
“You did good. Minin is pleased, so I am too.” He tossed the envelope on the passenger seat, “That’s for tonight. If you want the job give us a call. If not, thanks for tonight.”
I counted the cash in the envelope. Hints of lavender and milk chocolate inspired second thoughts, but the amount turned out to be too tempting. So I drove six more corpse-dolls, two of them men; one night a week, and for a few hours I made more than I could spend in a month.
The grizzlies deposited a doll in a giraffe print dress. Out of an ocean of perfume jabs of embalming fluid struck my nose. I glanced at her, the way I glanced at all my passengers, as if acknowledging the presence meant something. Her skin matched the turquoise print. Then I recognized her.
My first passenger sat in the back again, time having ripened her unpleasantly. Grey shades mingling with the green tint to her skin; sunken in odd ways from having long pins used to lance her so accumulating gases leaked out before bloating the body; her eyes full of milky fog and accusations. I saw her jaw move ever so slightly, and watched a tear drop drip from her eye.
I got out of the car. Turning to Vogt, the man in the black leather jacket, I said, “I quit.”
He shrugged, “Your loss. We’re adding ghosts.”
I hesitated… damn curiosity. When I arrived to pick up my first ghost no one came out. I went inside the lounge. The place looked ready to open, though the doors obviously remained shut. Hearing a soft voice slowly singing, I followed foreign words to the basement. I peeked through the window of a refrigerated room, and saw rows of corpse-dolls, naked on metal tables, waiting to be dressed. In another room I found enough clothes to start a theatre company. Bullet holes dotted the hallway. The singing guided me to a store room.
Inside I found a young woman in a blue dress floating over the pieces of Vogt. Blood dripped from her hands as she sang Hej, a Petronella.
Leaving the Arkhangelsk Lounge I said, “Okay, I quit for good this time.”
Motivated as such, I immediately went to my local bar. Perched on a stool I eventually started scrolling through searches on my phone. Nothing promising presented itself. Lucky for me I was relating my aforementioned thoughts to a buddy when a gnarled regular shuffled over.
The man reminded me of a gargoyle, and his voice only added to the association, “You need a job.”
I couldn’t quite place the accent. He sounded somewhat Eastern European, though Middle East traces hinted as well. Wherever he hailed from I doubted he was used to waiting, so I quickly answered, “Yes.”
He nodded, “Okay. You got a license? For car?”
“Yeah.”
He pulled a card out of his wallet. Handing it to me he said, “Call this number. Ask for Charlie Frink. He won’t be there. Tell them Mike Spotnik told you to call. Leave your number, yadda yadda yadda, they call you back.”
I took the card, a bone colored rectangle with a telephone number scrawled across in pen. I asked, “What’s the job?”
Mike Spotnik furrowed his brow, “Driver. It is not hard.” Then he shuffled back to his seat to sip warm vodka.
That night I called. Just like Mike said Charlie Frink wasn’t available, so I left my number, and two minutes later the phone rang.
I answered, “Hello?”
A coffee voiced woman spoke, “You call about the driver job?”
“Yeah.”
“Tomorrow evening be at the corner of 18th and Allport. 7:30. Do not be late. Wear a suit.”
Before I could say anything the other side hung up. I have been around long enough to know when something is, for lack of a better term, shady. Unfortunately that same awareness always sets off my curiosity. So the next evening I arrived at 18th and Allport in my best pinstripe suit.
Soon as I got out of the car I saw an elderly man in tweed waving at me from across the street. I hurried to him. He looked the way grandfather’s in fairy tales do, smiling the promise all will always be well. We shook hands. His gentle expression juxtaposed by the rough leathery grip that greeted me, my curiosity ticked up a notch.
He introduced himself, “Call me Minin. You are here to drive.”
“Assuming I get the job.”
He nodded, “Yes, of course. If you make it through your first run, you’re hired.”
I suddenly disliked the road curiosity seemed to be leading me down.
Minin said, “Excuse me. I make things sound so treacherous. Some find this work too stressful.”
“Can I ask what it is?”
He spread his arms wide, “Of course. You will be driving girls, well, dolls of a sort.”
Once again curiosity got the better of me. Minin gave me a set of keys, and pointed to a luxurious car up the block. He told me an address, and I set off.
A leather seat, smooth as silk, that cradled me like a loving mother’s arms, mahogany and gold dashboard, state of the art stereo hooked up to an HD digital display, I was tempted to steal the car the second I got in. I punched up the address, and took off. Even though I didn’t technically own the vehicle, cruising through the city I felt like a king.
My destination turned out to be a lounge on Ashland and Fulton. I couldn’t see any lights on through the windows. A busted neon sign over the entrance called the place The Arkhangelsk Lounge. It seemed like the doors closed ten years, and hadn’t been unlocked since.
The display announced, “You have arrived at your destination.” The second it stopped speaking a side door opened. A man in a black leather jacket strolled over to the car.
I rolled down the passenger side window as he approached. He leaned in through the opening, “You’re the new guy.”
“I am.”
“Okay. We’re gonna bring the girl out in a minute. Unlock the back, and don’t worry about anything except getting her where she’s going.”
“Alright then.”
He stepped away.
I called after him, “Hey, can I ask a question?”
He leaned back in, “What?”
“How’d you know I was here?”
“We’re tracking the GPS.” He didn’t wait for a reply just went back inside the Arkhangelsk. In a minute he emerged, and held the door open for two men who looked like shaved bears. The two grizzlies carried a limp figure between them, a young pale woman in a designer dress. They loaded her in the back, fastening a set of custom seat belts to hold her upright. Glancing in the rear view I expected to see a woman, barely out of her teens if even, drugged into a catatonic stupor. Instead I saw the slack jaw and hazy hollow eyes of a dead person. The Y-incision arching across her cleavage, dipping between her breasts accentuated the fact. Yet, she smelled like lavender with just the subtlest hint of milk chocolate.
One of the grizzlies smoothed her hair then delicately tied a ribbon around her neck. The man in the leather jacket leaned back in. He asked the GPS for a route to a particular address out in Wilmette, one of the wealthiest Chicago suburbs. The moment the map displayed he said:
“Drive safely.”
I said, “Thanks. Uh, one question though, just for my own personal edification. She’s dead?”
He glanced in the back then at me, “Yeah. Don’t worry. It’s time you got to getting where you’re going.”
And I drove off. Mainly I reasoned that those who casually cart dead bodies around don’t like to be trifled with. A string of questions might only serve to make them wonder if I was more trouble than my worth. So I drove the dead woman out to the suburbs.
The whole drive I kept hearing her body shifting. The limp ragdoll swayed with every turn and acceleration. Her dress rustled when she slumped forward during certain stops. The car’s tinted windows took on a new meaning, less about privacy and more about concealment. At one point I thought I heard her groan only to recall that dead bodies sometimes expel gases which can sound like vocalizations. That bit of trivia did nothing to relieve a rising concern about zombie prostitutes, and my impending demise at the hands of one – the undead will not be pimped out.
The drive felt more decadal than the actual fifty minutes it took. I pulled up to a mansion on Sheridan road, the sounds of the lake whispering from the backyard. As soon as I arrived events similar to those at The Arkhangelsk Lounge transpired. Apparently the people here also tracked my GPS unit. No sooner had I shifted into park than two men in dark suits hurried out of the house. They collected the body from the backseat, and I watched them lug the lifeless woman up the walk. Standing in the doorway I saw a middle aged man in a sweater vest sipping a brandy glass. He waved to me. I waved back.
My phone rang. I answered it, “Hello?”
“Hello young man. This is Minin calling. You’ve made the delivery?”
“I have.”
“Good, good. When our customer is done with her he will call us. Then I will call you, and you can retrieve the doll. Take her back to the lounge, and your work is done.”
“Okay?”
“Good.” Minin hung up.
I drove away. Sometimes it’s worse not knowing what people are doing. The imagination gets to run wild inventing any possibility it can conceive which remains almost eternally true in the absence of facts. A silver haired man slowly undressing the cold corpse of a woman young enough to be his daughter – she might be his daughter for all I knew… I found a liquor store, and bought some liquid courage. Parked near the lake I sat in the sand drinking until my phone rang three hours later.
Once again I pulled up to the house. The men in dark suits emerged and carried the dead woman to the car. The middle aged man stood in the doorway wearing a bathrobe. He waved. I waved back. My passenger belted in placed, I returned to The Arkhangelsk Lounge. The sounds of the body shifting bothered me less this time, and I started to wonder what I might get used to given enough time. Glancing in the rearview I saw a tear roll out of one dead eye. I turned around to be sure. She no longer wore the ribbon around her neck, and yes, a drop of moisture was rolling down her cheek.
I thought, “Maybe he licked her eye, and it’s just his drool leaking out.”
I have no idea why I thought that would be a more comforting idea.
At the lounge, the grizzlies ambled out to gather the corpse-doll. When they got back inside the man in the black leather jacket stepped outside. He carried an envelope in one hand. I rolled down the passenger window. He leaned in:
“You did good. Minin is pleased, so I am too.” He tossed the envelope on the passenger seat, “That’s for tonight. If you want the job give us a call. If not, thanks for tonight.”
I counted the cash in the envelope. Hints of lavender and milk chocolate inspired second thoughts, but the amount turned out to be too tempting. So I drove six more corpse-dolls, two of them men; one night a week, and for a few hours I made more than I could spend in a month.
The grizzlies deposited a doll in a giraffe print dress. Out of an ocean of perfume jabs of embalming fluid struck my nose. I glanced at her, the way I glanced at all my passengers, as if acknowledging the presence meant something. Her skin matched the turquoise print. Then I recognized her.
My first passenger sat in the back again, time having ripened her unpleasantly. Grey shades mingling with the green tint to her skin; sunken in odd ways from having long pins used to lance her so accumulating gases leaked out before bloating the body; her eyes full of milky fog and accusations. I saw her jaw move ever so slightly, and watched a tear drop drip from her eye.
I got out of the car. Turning to Vogt, the man in the black leather jacket, I said, “I quit.”
He shrugged, “Your loss. We’re adding ghosts.”
I hesitated… damn curiosity. When I arrived to pick up my first ghost no one came out. I went inside the lounge. The place looked ready to open, though the doors obviously remained shut. Hearing a soft voice slowly singing, I followed foreign words to the basement. I peeked through the window of a refrigerated room, and saw rows of corpse-dolls, naked on metal tables, waiting to be dressed. In another room I found enough clothes to start a theatre company. Bullet holes dotted the hallway. The singing guided me to a store room.
Inside I found a young woman in a blue dress floating over the pieces of Vogt. Blood dripped from her hands as she sang Hej, a Petronella.
Leaving the Arkhangelsk Lounge I said, “Okay, I quit for good this time.”
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