Zhen's Subsidiary Blog

FTV1010 Assignment 2

2008-03-27T11:42:00.002+08:00

Gender Performativity in Princeton-Plainsboro:
Conformity, compensation, and chastisement in House, M.D.

Dr. Gregory House is a disabled diagnostician with an extremely caustic personality. His boss, Dr. Lisa Cuddy, usually dresses in cleavage-revealing tops. One of House’s assistants is sometimes mistaken for being gay and consequently ridiculed for it. These are just some of the characters of the award-winning medical drama, House, M.D. Such interesting personalities present on the grounds of the fictional Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital certainly justify the writing of a textual analysis of the television show. With that in mind, the works of Judith Butler is deemed pertinent for this study.

Butler introduced the theory of gender performativity in her book, Gender Trouble (1999), suggesting that gender is merely a person’s body language that is specifically coordinated in order to fit within clearly defined parameters of healthy and normal identification (Mansfield, 2000:76). She also proposed that a gender system does not exist naturally but fabricated and sustained by discursion instead, i.e. through our own repetitive performance of what we assume is the ‘right’ gender for us, eventually perpetuating the myth that a naturally-occurring gender system exists. Thus, the characters in House, M.D. are found to be merely performing their genders to give the impression that their lives are organised around the culturally acceptable poles of gendered being. Using this core concept, it is possible to evaluate why the show’s characters act in the way they do. This paper will therefore attempt to explain their characteristics and personalities as concerted efforts to conform to the aforementioned parameters, and in the event that they fail, how they attempt to compensate for the deviations or become chastised for it.

Nevertheless, a reduction of Butler’s work to the above ideas is an oversimplification of the complex and multifaceted theory of gender performativity. As such, this paper does not purport to reflect the full breadth of the theory but rather an appreciation of the theory’s essence as a basis upon which a textual analysis of House, M.D. as well as its characters and their personalities could be made.

First of all, we have the show’s namesake, Dr. Gregory House (Hugh Laurie), a medical genius who suffered a thigh infarction several years prior to the events of the show, rendering him crippled. This could be viewed as an obstacle which prevents him from completely ‘performing’ his masculinity through traditional means, such as displays of strength, control, and independence (Barker, 2003:301). Butler (1999) also suggests that those who do not constantly perform and represent themselves according to such standards may face social isolation, mockery, stigma, or even violence and death. Ultimately, House’s disability emasculates the character, causing him to compensate through his trademark acerbic personality. House also demonstrates unnecessary violence on occasion as an outlet for his suppressed masculinity; in the second season episode Hunting, he attacks the father of a patient in an attempt to prove a diagnosis. Hence, it is concluded that the pressures of conforming to society’s definitions of the male gender have forced House to, in the words of performance, ‘overact’ in such a way that observers continue to see in him the traits generally associated with men.
Another aspect of House’s character is his dependence on Vicodin to relieve the chronic pain in his leg. Although this habit is justified, the amount he consumes daily betrays a heavy addiction to the painkillers. It has been suggested that low self-esteem could arise from a self-perceived failure to meet society’s expectations (McLean et al., Rowe in Barker, 2003:303), leading men to resort to violence, gambling, alcohol and drugs as forms of self-medication against “covert depression stemming from shame and ‘toxic’ family relationships” (Real in Barker, 2003:303). House’s heavy Vicodin use – above and far beyond that of the usual dosage taken by most people – may have resulted from being abused as a child (revealed in the season three episode One Day, One Room), the breaking straw being the thigh infarction that crippled him. Therefore, his drug abuse is not so much a method of compensating for his emasculation, but more for assuaging the emotional trauma of his childhood as well as the depression caused by his self-perceived failure to perform his gender correctly.

Like House, his boss Dr. Lisa Cuddy (Lisa Edelstein) is someone who endeavours to correctly perform the female gender. Traditionally, an ideal woman is “caring and maternal”, “anxious to please” as well as “subordinate” to men (Barker, 2003:308). As the Dean of Medicine of the hospital, Cuddy is in a position of high power typically associated with male doctors. Thus, she attempts to compensate for her apparent masculinity by putting on a façade of femininity; Joan Rivière, an influence on Butler’s writings, suggested that womanliness is nothing but pretence in her 1929 essay “Womanliness as Masquerade” (in Mansfield, 2000:75). Rivière speaks of a highly successful woman professional that would act in a highly flirtatious manner to her male counterparts so as to return ownership of the phallus, a symbol of power, back to them. This reflects the relationship between House and Cuddy; she constantly empowers him by submitting to his requests to conduct dangerous tests on his patients as well as subjecting herself to his misogynistic comments that border on sexual harassment. In the season one episode, Kids:

[House’s eyes widen, then he covers them with his folder]
Cuddy: What are you doing?
House: Trying to think of anything except the produce department at Whole Foods.
Cuddy: I am working, it got hot, stop acting like a 13-year-old!
House: Sorry, you just don't usually see breasts like that on Deans of Medicine.
Cuddy: Oh, women can't be heads of hospitals? Or just ugly ones?
House: No, they can be babes. You just don't usually see their funbags.

It could also be surmised that Cuddy’s ‘masquerade’ is an intentional one based on her tolerance of House’s behaviour and on her preference for cleavage-revealing tops. As such, her personality supports Rivière’s thesis that femininity (or in fact, the female gender) is indeed an act which can be performed at will, further acknowledging Butler’s idea that gender is a “set of repeated performances that congeal over time to produce the appearance of substance, of a natural sort of being” (in Cranny-Francis et al., 2003:168).

Moving on, the character of Dr. Allison Cameron (Jennifer Morrison) represents many of the traditionally desired traits in a woman. Kind, caring, emotional and sentimental, she often becomes attached to the patients she treats. Her compassion seemed limitless; she once married a man dying from cancer despite knowing his condition, as well as agreeing to watch a homeless man suffer his final hours in the episode One Day, One Room simply because he wished to punish himself for living a wasted life by experiencing a meaningful (and painful) death. Assertive in her beliefs, Cameron passes as a person who very routinely exhibits the most desirable female traits throughout the series. Regardless, when she underwent an abrupt change in personality during an episode of the show, she is demonised (in the eyes of the audience, based on the series’ portrayal of her in that episode) for not conforming to the typical cultural definitions of the female gender.

In the episode Hunting, Cameron was exposed to the HIV-positive blood of a patient, creating fears that she may have been infected with the virus. Although her test results have yet to return, she expected the worst; discarding all her inhibitions, she became high on the patient’s methamphetamines and seduced a colleague. Her character’s personality almost completely inversed, she now becomes subversive to society’s expectations of a woman which, according to Butler (1999), draws an appropriate punishment. Hence, the episode thereafter depicts her as a sexual predator, appearing shaggy and haggard, as well as losing the ability to do her job properly. Overall, this impression of undesirability is Cameron’s punishment for her failure to conform.

This analysis now proceeds to another one of House’s fellows, Dr. Robert Chase (Jesse Spencer), and the aforementioned HIV-positive patient named Kalvin (guest star Matthew John Armstrong) as their characters provide an interesting insight into the treatment of homosexuals in House, M.D.. This is then consolidated with Butler’s appraisal of homosexuals, within the realm of gender performativity.

Firstly, Butler had always viewed the binaries ‘heterosexual’ and ‘homosexual’ with visible contempt. She uses drag as an example of putting on of a gender that does not properly belong to any sex, that ‘masculine’ does not necessarily belong to ‘male’ and ‘feminine’ does not belong to ‘female’ (Butler & Salih, 2004:127). Instead, it is an impersonation of any possible gender, resisting the traditionally held idea that there is such a thing as a ‘proper’ gender. Thus, she reasons, how could there possibly be a ‘reality’ of the heterosexual and the ‘imitation’ of the homosexual when both terms themselves are merely “an imitation of an imitation, a copy of a copy, for which there is no original” (Butler & Salih, 2004:129)?

This brings the argument back to Butler’s own suggestion that gender is a form of performance; heterosexuality is only produced by the repeated signifying practices of the traditionally-held representations of gender, that masculine is to male as feminine is to female. It is a problem when these age-old representations are challenged, as people are generally hostile to supposed ‘deviations’ from the norm. Consequently, when the character of Chase was thought by Kalvin to have been homosexual (“Nobody can be that pretty and not be gay.”) in the episode Hunting, the former was very quick to reject that notion, as though he were being accused of committing a crime.

Nevertheless, despite the series’ favourable portrayal of non-heterosexual characters, homosexuality in House, M.D. is dogged by stereotypes which lend credit to the suggestion that those who do not perform their gender correctly are chastised for their queer behaviour. For example, although Kalvin is depicted as being happy with his life (“Playing by the rules makes everyone else happy. Now I’m happy.”), he has AIDS, indulges in casual sex and uses recreational drugs; negative characteristics that are typically associated with as well as demonises gay culture. Furthermore, he has a difficult relationship with his father, who blames him for his mother’s death; being HIV-positive, Kalvin could not donate a kidney to save her life. All of these are interpreted as punishments that he receives for performing his gender wrongly, for being homosexual. Like how several of the characters have stated in that episode, it seemed like he deserved it.

Having analysed several relevant characters from House, M.D., it can thus be concluded that Butler’s theory of gender performativity allows for an interesting textual appreciation of the show. The treatment of these characters by the series’ writers demonstrates the effects of one’s choice of performance. Firstly, one could attempt to choose to fit within the bounds of traditionally-held definitions of gender. Failing to do so, one could compensate for that failure by the ‘overacting’ of other aspects of one’s character; for example, Dr. House and his rudeness. However, if one goes so far as to completely challenge the myth that a naturally-occurring gender system exists by deviating from the aforementioned bounds, he or she may face repercussions for that choice. In other words, an interpretation of Butler’s theories could very well be simplified into this: When performing a gender, we must attempt to conform to the status quo or compensate for any flaws that impede our attempts, lest we be chastised for our queer behaviour.

References

Barker, C. (2003) Cultural Studies: Theory and Practice. (Second edition) London: Sage Publications.
Butler, J. (1999) Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. (Second edition) NY: Routledge.
Butler, J. & Salih, S. (2004) The Judith Butler Reader. MA, Oxford & Victoria: Blackwell.
Cranny-Francis, A., Waring, W., Stavropoulos, P. & Kirkby, J. (2003) Gender Studies: Terms and Debates. NY: Palgrave Macmillan.
Hunting, Season 2 Episode 7, House, M.D. (FOX, USA, 2005).
Kids, Season 1 Episode 9, House, M.D. (FOX, USA, 2005).
Mansfield, N. (2000) “Femininity: From female imaginary to performativity” (excerpt), Subjectivity. NSW: Allen & Unwin: 75-78.
One Day, One Room, Season 3 Episode 12, House, M.D. (FOX, USA, 2007).

Chapter 1.8 - 1.9

2006-11-26T03:52:00.000+08:00

Despite the harrowing experience at the morgue, I was entirely back to where I started, where the days were cold, the work was soul-eroding and I had lost my wife and any motivation to trudge on.

Nightmares attacked me in my sleep. I was unable to recall most of them except for the sheer anxiety enveloping me each time I awoke, and the voice of the man on Mona’s phone, repeating his ominous words over and over again.

“Some people are not happy with what you did. You were warned.”

Parts of the dreams returned to me as I filled yet another survey with information I was collecting from a hesitant telephonic victim. The words would sometimes become twisted, and the voice would speak in different accents or tones, but always becoming a parody of my own, eventually. “Very unhappy, Mona sweetie. I’m unhappy with what you’ve done; you made me think you died! What a fucking, selfish, inconsiderate bitch!” After which I would begin screaming.

And each time the thought of Mona crossed my mind, it became a terrible distraction. Like how it affected me right now, so very difficult to think properly.

“Come on man, what makes you think I’d tell you those things? What’s in it for me? Besides, if you really wanna know, you should’ve come right down here to find out. Especially if you’re from GM like you say you are. They’re Goddamn rich is what I heard.”

“We don’t do visits because that’s very cost-inefficient, sir. We want to know your opinion on those products so that in the future, if GM wants to start a new product line or plan a merger or something, it can do so based on the customers’ needs and preferences. It’s actually for your own good, sir.”

“I don’t have time for this, man. Put me on the do-not-call list, you get it?”

From that point onward, the words just came to my mouth without bothering to make a pass through my brain to be validated first. “Time? Heh, sir, you don’t know nothing about wasting time. My wife’s gone missing for a week, feared dead, I even went to the morgue to identify corpses, damn it, but none of them were her, maybe it would’ve saved so much trouble if it were actually her lying there dead, but thankfully no. And now I wish I could be out there looking for her than in this, frankly, shithole of an office, wasting my time to waste yours. It’s all pretty ironic, isn’t it? Life’s just one, big, enormous irony.”

“What the fuck you smoking, man?”

“Smoke? Oh yeah, you a nigger right? Could you tell me where your people get your fixes from? Pot or coke, I don’t care, I just want to get away from all this, this stupid, absurd situation, even if it’s just for a little while.” I was drawling, but still intelligible.

“Damn, you one crazy motherfucker, that’s what you are!”

“Hey, thanks for the compliment,” I said to nobody in particular - The guy had already hung up.

I laid the phone down and, suddenly feeling all the energy being sucked out of my body, slammed my head onto the table. This drew more attention to me than that failed call had already done. Whispers floated around the cubicles in the office, and like they say, became a roar, one that was possibly referring to me. My inference was confirmed when my manager, a lanky man who’s amiable most of the time except when he doesn’t get his golfing fix (and since it was winter, he didn’t), walked up to me with an incredulous expression on his face.

“What the hell was that, Zack?” We were on a first-name basis around here in this department.

When I was answering him, I seriously did not know. “You know, I’m actually not very sure myself.”

Alexander the manager shook his head disappointedly, his arms crossed but not in a menacing manner. “Look, I know what’s been going on with you, so if you need a break, don’t hesitate to take it.” News of my troubles had spread in the office like wildfire - People here take any gossip they can get. They were that desperate. “Use that time to cool down and clear your head, and do whatever you’ve got to do. You’re just going to burn yourself out and scare the shit out of our respondents if you go on like this.”

I stared up at him blankly and nodded. His words were music to my ears. The reason for my staying here was already gone, so I had no justification for continuing any longer. At least, until I find Mona again.

“In fact, I’d like you to take your leave now. And only come back when you’re sensible again. I’ll get Michelle to count your clocked-in hours today, so don’t worry about your pay, you’ll get it.” Then he added, as an afterthought, “Eventually.”

A lay-off had never felt so good before. I didn’t bother asking Alex if I had to clear my things from my cubicle, or if somebody else was going to replace me in my project - Frankly, I didn’t give a damn. Had I been sacked, I may even have left the building with a stupid grin plastered to my face. Only now did I realise how much I really hated my job - I may never have to use the words “soul-eroding” ever again. My jock mentality took over for a moment, and for a few seconds, I was tempted to flip my co-workers the bird and yell, “Outta here, suckers!” I succeeded in resisting the urge.

And very soon, I was out of there, with only a bag and its contents which I have always taken to my workplace in the morning and have always taken home in the evening. For a while, I was disoriented, for where does a bum like me go on a cold afternoon like this, if there’s nobody or nothing waiting for me, at home or at any other place?

Then I decided that there was only one proper answer to that question: Somewhere with alcohol. I caught a cab and went to the only bar I knew that was open this time of the day. And if I ever drank myself silly there, home was close enough that the staff could carry me home on their shoulders.

***

Paying the cabbie his fare, I got off the road and onto the sidewalk which led to the Citystreets Bar, a small, round-the-clock establishment. At three in the afternoon, the place was sparsely populated. I took a seat at the counter.

“What can I do you for?” the bartender, a man in his mid-forties who may have been a bodybuilder at the prime of his life said.

“A bottle of Bud, dry.” The beer came, the bartender uncapped it and poured the golden liquid into a glass, and I began drowning myself, and my sorrows, in alcohol. The dry, crisp taste of the self-proclaimed King of Beers filled my lips, and then made a bitter journey down my throat as I swallowed it. The mellowing effect came soon after.

I was of the belief that taking alcohol had two effects on a person’s frame of mind. On one hand, alcohol incapacitates you, and makes you slow to react to external stimuli. On the other, alcohol is a catalyst of rage, which leads to the ever present problem of domestic violence and whatnot.

But the one thing that remains constant in both situations is that alcohol shuts off your thought processes, part by minute part until you can barely think anymore. Why do people drink? Because it offered escape from their worries, in the simple form of a drink out of a bottle or can or cask. And it’s legal too, because if we’re on the topic of eliminating thought, marijuana as well as the vast multitude of depressants could (probably) do the job much better. That also explains how alcoholics are born - When they’re too deep in the habit, the beer stops them short from finding out that it’s actually bad for them. Thank God for AA then, for putting all those people back in line.

Life would be so simple if we all had enough to drink, wouldn’t it? Even simpler if they made weed legal. Then, all of men’s social predicaments could be solved, or at least allayed, chemically. No more fighting, no more sadness, no more going crazy over Mona’s whereabouts, just a quiet, peaceful bliss, with a chance of hangover when you come to.

“Free Tommy Chong! Legalise the leaf!” I toasted to the bartender’s bald head, drawing attention from curious patrons.

Man, did I sound like a hippie. Blame it on the beer. I could feel the alcohol doing its work already, as the thought of my wife began drifting to a corner of my mind, to be stored away like an old and unwanted record, to be eventually forgotten. Of course, as I was the only person at the bar counter besides the bartender himself, I was obliged to speak to him - they're there for a reason, anybody can take a beer out of a refrigerator and man a cash register, and those type of people are called 7-Eleven employees, not bartenders - and in the kind of situation I’m in, what else could I really talk about except for my marital woes?

The bottle of Budweiser went empty. I wasn’t satisfied with just one - who is? - so I ordered something stronger. “A bottle of Heineken, please.”

“That was pretty fast,” the bartender commented before serving me my drink. “What’s the problem?”

“You could tell?”

“Work a bar almost everyday for ten years, and you would meet every kind of character known to man. Except the sober ones. I can read people like a book, but of course, there’s the occasional hit-and-miss, too. So this wasn’t a miss, right?”

“Yeah, you got that right.” I drank the beer in the glass, then forwent the glass and drank straight from the bottle.

“You haven’t answered my question. Unless you don’t really wanna talk about it, then I’ll let you be.”

“Will get to it,” I said, downing a few more gulps before wiping some of the beer off my mouth with the back of my hand. “Here’s the story. I have a wife and I love her to death. One day I, came home from work,” I let my sentence hang in mid-sentence to take another swill.

“And?” the bartender urged me to continue. He probably expected another one of those “I caught my wife cheating on me” stories.

“She wasn’t there. She was always there. And she wasn’t there the day after that, or the day after that either. Had me worrying like hell. Then the next day I found her phone lying in our house. In the kitchen, no less, under the refrigerator. And on it, some guy left a message.”

“Uh-huh.” He was really expecting a “I caught my wife cheating on me” story now, I guess.

“He was threatening her. The guy said something about someone not being happy with what she did, and that she was warned. Scared the shit out of me. I thought, hey, maybe it was a prank. But a couple of days later I had to go to the hospital to identify a corpse.”

“Whoa. I’m sorry, man.”

“Thank God it wasn’t my wife, but it was still freaky as fuck, looking at a bog body.”

“Phew, that’s a close one. So, what happened after that?” The bartender seemed genuinely interested in my story now.

“Still up and about, looking, searching, you know the drill,” I replied. Hey, the bottle’s empty - I discovered that I just finished my beer, and began staring at the bottle in my hands, aimlessly.

“Another?” I wasn’t too sure if that was the bartender or me, but either way, another bottle of Heineken soon materialised in my hand.

“Ooh, and did I tell you that I just got laid-off?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Well, now I did.” Gulp.

“Ouch. I feel for you.”

“It’s probably for the better anyway, I hated that place.” Another gulp.

“What did you do for a living?”

“You won’t believe this - I get paid to annoy people over the phone.” I held the beer bottle to the side of my face. “Hello, good afternoon, would you like to be mindfucked? And the pay was kinda good too.” And another.

“Really? Then why did you get the boot?” he asked while attending to some glasses that needed cleaning.

“Wait, lemme think for a sec.” Gulp, gulp, gulp, then as if by magic, I remembered. “Oh yeah! It’s ‘cause I worked for my wife, and now that my wife’s not around, I don’t need the job! Nice logic, huh?”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I used to be married, too, until the bitch took my kids and ran to Toronto with a slant-eyed asshole. I’m still waiting for a court order on that.”

“No kidding, eh?”

“Nope. Women can make or break you, but usually it’s the latter. Maybe you got lucky and learned the lesson earlier in life.”

“Nah, not Mona. She’s so wonderful, like an angel.” For a brief moment, the image of my wife appeared before my eyes, complete with a robe, wings, and a halo. “So very pretty,” I continued, reaching out in a vain attempt to touch the illusion as it floated out of my consciousness.

“Must be one heck of a broad.”

“Yessirree.” I took out my wallet, accidentally knocking the Budweiser bottle over (“Whoops”), and showed him a photo that we took during our honeymoon in Hawaii. “Check her out, the most beautifulest creature on the planet,” I boasted, beaming with pride. The bartender took a look at the picture and, captivated by what he saw, squinted his eyes somewhat and brought the photo closer to his face. I flipped my wallet close. “Looky looky no touchy,” I warned, still grinning.

“No wait, I think I’ve seen her before.” He gestured towards my wallet.

“Seen who? Mr. Lincoln? Mr. Jackson? Or our dear and helpful friend, Mr. Benjamin Franklin?” I asked jokingly, referring to the people who lived in my wallet. I showed him the picture again, and he began poring over it like a photographer in a dark room.

“I know this girl!” the bartender exclaimed.

“What?” I was knocked out of my drunken stupor, suddenly alert and sensible again, with a mini-hangover banging on my skull.

“Yeah, she used to work here.”

“That can’t be right, she was always home, she said -” I spoke faster than I could think, “How could she? Hey, you’d better not be pulling my dick on this one.”

“She quit for about two or three weeks now. Hell, I’d be boxing now if we weren’t still looking for someone to fill her shift. She worked from ten to four, by the way. Always came in and left on time, funny girl. But she’s really sweet though - Surprised me at first ‘cause I thought all the hot ones in Phobos were sluts. No offence.”

Confusion and shock came waltzing in without knocking first, as usual. “How long was she - No, when did she first start working here?”

“Not very long. Since September, I think,” the bartender replied. Then, counting the dates on a calendar made out of air, he confirmed, “Come to think of it, some the week after Patriot Day, to be exact.”

Mona had (could have?) been working in this bar for two months and I never was the wiser - It sure told me a lot about the trust in our marriage. “Okay, now, what’s more important is this: Do you have any idea where she is now? Did she tell you anything, when she left?”

“She didn’t tell me personally, but I heard that she took this job offer at VM.”

“VM?”

“You never heard of it? Valles Marineris, the new nightclub in Collins. Get out more often; you’ve still got young blood running in you.”

“I’ll definitely check that place out now.” I finished whatever’s left of my Heineken in one drink. “This is too coincidental to be true. Am I dreaming or hallucinating? Am I still drunk and this is all an illusion? Can you pinch me?”

The bartender gave a backhanded slap across my face, helpfully, causing me to yelp in pain. Then I thanked him as I rubbed my throbbing cheek.

“My pleasure.”

A wake-up call may be fine and dandy, but I still wanted a final confirmation before going on a wild goose chase. “Are you perfectly sure that you’re talking about the right person here?”

“Can’t be any more perfect. None of our usual customers could forget her, if you don’t mind me saying. If you want to,” the bartender paused, then took a look around the bar for a moment before snapping his fingers several times. “Hey, Tony!”

Tony took a break from his conversation and looked towards the bar. “Yeah?”

“You remember that hot Italian chick that used to work the bar at this time of the day?”

“What, you mean Alyssa?”

“Yeah, yeah, Alyssa. This guy here says that she’s his wife.”

“What, you?” Tony said as he eyed me, doubtfully. “Then you’re one lucky bastard, that much I can say to ya.”

“That’s all, Tony.”

“Sure, no problem.” Tony never went back to his original conversation. Instead, the topic of discussion seemed to have changed to theorising on how I could’ve gotten Mona to fall in love with me.

Only then did it hit me. “Hey, bartender, are you saying that the girl in the picture, Alyssa, used to work here?”

“Wasn’t that what we were talking about since your third bottle?”

“My wife’s name isn’t Alyssa - That's her sister’s.”

Chapter 1.6 - 1.7

2006-11-24T05:41:00.000+08:00

“Took you a while.” Constanza was sitting by the reception counter in the station, putting away a long outdated copy of the Scientific American to shake my hand, without getting up. “So how’s life without your wife so far?”

“Sucks like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Well, the last time my woman went to her parents’, it was like having cuffs removed. Beer and bowling all weekend long. Uh, while I was off-duty, of course.”

“Thankfully, I’m not yet at that stage of my marriage.”

“Hey, what are you trying to imply, huh?” the cop asked jokingly, trying to force back a full-blown smile which he probably decided may disturb some people. “You’ll get there someday,” he warned. “Anyway, may I listen to the message you told me about?”

“Sure.” I dialled the number, went through the list, and then played the recorded message for him to hear.

“Oh, damn. Sorry for doubting you the other day. Mr. Carter, I can’t tell you if the guy in the message meant it as a real threat or not, but I can tell you that these kinds of things are what sends us cops running around the city looking for missing people. Yup, evidence of foul play is what that is. Was? I hate grammar.”

So much for hoping that he’d clear my doubts for me. “What about the lead that you told me to come down here for?”

He suddenly seemed a little flustered. “Well, that. I need you to come with me, Mr. Carter. Help me out with something.” He stood up and walked out of the station and motioned for me to follow. Standing, Officer Constanza looked a lot less round and a lot more big.

“Is this necessary? And what about my missing persons report?”

“You can fill the report later. And I assure you, what we’ll be doing is absolutely, completely, one hundred percent relevant.” He looked over my shoulder - back into the station - and started waving at someone or something. “Janine! Hey, could you tell Murphy to cover for me ‘til I get back? He owes it to me, by the way.”

I turned around to see the policewoman named Janine, her fingers running accross a keyboard and her eyes glued to a computer monitor. The same voice that first answered my call to the station replied, “As good as done. Stay out of trouble, Louie.”

“Will do,” Officer Louie Constanza answered. He beckoned to me once more, and the both of us were soon walking towards his parked police car with the typical blue-striped, white finish. It was a Chevrolet, but I was unable to name the model.

As though he read my mind, Constanza patted the automobile and announced, proudly, “2001 Chevy Impala, 9C1 for police operations. Heavy duty as hell. How’d you think we outrun crooks, eh? Good old American engineering. By the way, were you one of those kids who’ve always wanted to ride in a cop car with the sirens turned on?”

I wasn’t really sure. “Can you tell me who wasn’t?” I said, just to humour him.

“Heh, well, I won’t let ya. Sit up front,” he said while unlocking the car.

Based on my first impression of him, Constanza’s patrol car was nothing like I would’ve expected. It was meticulously clean. The floor mats were effectively free of gravel and sand. The dashboard was spotless and empty, save for a bobblehead Dalmatian on the passenger’s side. A Little Trees air freshener hung from the rear view mirror, causing the car to smell a little like grapes. A glance at the backseat revealed a handheld vacuum cleaner. Constanza reached out to grab the aforementioned appliance and kept it in the glove compartment. “Murphy - that's my partner, by the way - he's a kinda messy fella,” he explained.

He reminded me of Adrian Monk.

Before long, the car started and hit the road. “Where are we going, anyway?” I inquired.

“You’ll find out.”

“This isn’t a kidnapping, is it?”

“Nah,” he said, laughing. “I just don’t think it’s right to tell you just yet. Come on, let’s talk about something else. What’s your job like, uh, Carter?”

If it is small talk that he wants, I’m fine with it, I guess. “I’m a business researcher and information analyst.” That was as much a euphemism as it was my real job description, since the word “telemarketer” carried with it some sort of stigma.

“Whoa, that sounds important.”

“Not really. That’s just another way of saying that I’m a telemarketer who doesn’t sell stuff over the phone.”

The cop was puzzled. “Then what do you do over the phone?”

“Surveys and enquiries, mostly. It’s a long story, and frankly, a lot more boring than it already sounds.”

“Thank God I’m a cop, then - Car chases and shootouts and donuts, oh my!” Then when he realised that I didn’t get the joke, he helpfully added, “It was sarcasm, man.”

“Oh.” That was followed by a long, awkward silence which I eventually broke. “I thought cops lived for these stuff.”

“Yeah, sure, but like I always say, there’s two sides to every job. Most of the time, it’s just paperwork and patrols and inspections. Personally, I’ve never been in a pursuit or gunfight before. Sure, there were times when I had to point the gun at suspects or settle the occasional domestic squabble with a manhandle - or womanhandle, those fights go both ways, you know what I mean, this is the age of gender equality, heh - but so far, nothing that puts my life in danger. And that’s good, too, because you know, crime is on the rise here in Phobos.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Well,” he sounded as though he was trying not to say it, “more or less. Kinda. When you’re a kid, and when you watch too much Starsky and Hutch, you wanna be like those guys, right? But when you’re writing reports, it just doesn’t feel like you’re upholding justice, you know? That’s the harsh reality, kid.”

I found myself more amused by him referring to me as “kid” than by his rambling. In any case, I felt at ease. Ever since Mona went missing, I was plagued by a perpetual state of anxiety. I spoke to my co-workers less and less, and I didn’t tell my friends anything - or Mona’s, for that matter - because I didn’t want to worry them unnecessarily.

A quasi-philosophical thought occurred to me: Was I bearing the whole brunt of the anguish because I didn’t share it? Was there such a thing as “spreading out your worries”? And perhaps more importantly, was it the reason for the imaginary clowns and the state of illusion I had earlier?

While I was pondering, Constanza had turned on the radio (“Hope you don’t mind,” he said). At the moment, we were listening to the American Top 40’s number one song for the week.

“She take ma muhnay!” the cop sang, his head bobbing to the beat (and so was the Dalmatian), “When ah’m in need!”

Kanye West’s musical rant was all the conversation we required on the way to our destination, Constanza singing all the words off-key, but entertaining nonetheless. It was like watching a Village Person dropping disco and picking up rap. And I was guilty of joining him.

***

“The hospital?” My worries multiplied tenfold as we exited the warmth of the Impala and entered the cold of the winter.

Constanza locked the car and then gave me a withdrawn look. “Okay, Carter, I’m not gonna hide it from you anymore. Please keep cool when I tell you this, alright?”

“By saying that, you only make it worse.”

“Aww, crap.” He held his forehead in his hands for a moment, then said, “Alright, I’ll cut to the chase. On Friday night, I think that was the day you came over, we got reports of dead bodies being found in Petersen’s Mire.”

Shit. My heart began to jog.

“Two men, plus a woman in her late twenties, found murdered and dumped in the bog.”

It was racing now, as it had been earlier today.

“I brought you here because I wanted you to identify the woman.”

The jester was laughing again, in his bright purple and red chequered costume, hanging just at the corner of my eye.

“See if it’s your wife.”

The deafening, chilling howl sent shivers up and down my spine, and my legs and arms, and every extremity, putting my whole body in a nervous tic. My shoulders were raised to my neck and my eyes were fixed to the ground. I could see the cop’s mouth move, but could hardly hear him over the din. He spoke for such a long, long time.

“Carter? Mr. Carter? Are you alright?”

Laugh, howl, guffaw, cackle, snigger, titter, somebody had been reading a thesaurus!

“Carter!”

I snapped out of it. I looked up at Constanza, stared at him for a second and nodded.

“Please,” he said, laconically.

I nodded again. He patted me on the back, and after that we began walking to the morgue. As we did, I caught on to why he was so uncharacteristically - at far as most Phobos City cops go - friendly and genial in the car. That, I believed, was to prepare me for the bad news he was about to break upon my currently fragile emotional constitution, the sedation of a delirious cow before sending it to the slaughter.

I’ve not been in a hospital in quite some time. The smell of disinfectant was overwhelming, and it added to the sedative effect. Maybe they didn’t put whatever it is that these establishments put in the water, but in the hundreds of automatic air freshening devices planted on the walls inside the building.

Whatever it was that they put, it might be what’s stopping me from thinking straight, too. Or perhaps it’s just the thought that my wife, my dear, beloved Mona, might be dead that’s unscrewing the bolts in my head.

Down the hallway and up the elevator and down some stairs, and we were soon outside the morgue. Constanza spoke to a nurse on duty, who was already informed in advance, and showed her his identification. We followed her into the room.

The nurse warned that the experience of identifying a dead person has its traumatic effects, et cetera, to which I said that I didn’t have much of a choice, did I? Then the ever tactful cop thanked me and said that I could be helping the department a great deal if I could identify the body, realised what he implied by that, slapped his forehead, and shut the hell up. Good.

The nurse then led me to one of the cold chambers and pulled out a body on the giant drawer-like contraption. Frigid air, so much colder than what was found outside the building, filled the room. I shivered, as much from terror as I did from the sudden, passing chill - I've never seen someone dead like this before, they’re always in suits and dresses and laid to rest peacefully in caskets. I took a very deep breath, closed my eyes, heard only the pounding of my heart once again, walked up to the body, and opened my eyes, looking down.

A very pale female face, darkened a disgusting blue, green and brown hue by the peat waters, stared back at me. The woman’s hair, blonde locks that were once very rich and painstakingly styled and taken care of, was bleached dull and matted. Like most bog bodies, she was perfectly preserved, down to the ghastly expression on her face; unlike the bloated corpses found washed up on beaches and riverbanks, trapped in the time of her death, a living photograph of the moment she was callously dumped by the very same bastards that robbed her of her life. Goddamn, unforgivable, pitiless bastards.

I sobbed uncontrollably, biting my knuckle. Constanza held my shoulder in his hand as I stood there in the morgue, the world around me completely blocked out except for the touch on my shoulder and the woman on the table.

“You okay? Is that your wife?”

A ghost of a smile appeared on my lips, and there weren’t any clowns in sight.

“I’ve never met this woman in my entire life.”

I heard the soft sighs of relief from both the cop and the nurse. Eventually, the crying stopped and I regained my composure.

“Here. Some tissues,” the nurse offered. I gladly took them and cleared the mess from my face. I really needed them. The past couple of hours had been one hell of an emotional rollercoaster ride for me, and it left me nauseating. On my way out of the hospital, I stopped by the restroom to regurgitate my breakfast.

Chapter 1.3 - 1.5

2006-11-23T01:41:00.000+08:00

The only indication to whatever Mona was up to tonight was written very concisely on a pink Post-it note she placed on the back of the front door before she left; she was obsessed about these sticky pieces of paper. In any case, it read, in her wavy handwriting:

Baby, you’ll have to make your own dinner tonight, I’ve got something important to do. I’ll be back late, so don’t wait up for me!

Love, Mona

I removed the note, crunched it in my hand and dropped it into the trashcan as I made my way to the kitchen. I wasn’t totally useless around the house without my superhuman wife around. I opened the refrigerator to see if there was anything that I could make without too much hassle - Eggs, cheese, milk, jam, some apples, broccoli, lettuce, and several other vegetables I did not know the name to. As I ran the list through my head, the first dish that came to my mind was omelettes. But that fit the definition of too much hassle, so I scrapped the idea, thought twice about inspecting the freezer, decided not to, and finally went to the phone to make a call for a delivery.

A male voice, which somehow made me think of a long-haired Mike Myers in a T-shirt and baseball cap, answered my call. “Domino’s Pizza Phobos City, thirty minutes or it’s free. You’re Mr. or Mrs. Carter, right?” People always liked businesses with a personal touch, like an old friend whom you’ve not spoken to for a very long time but suddenly need to borrow their services; for an international food delivery service like Domino’s, having their customers’ names and addresses in a database helped towards building that illusion.

“That’s right.”

“Go ahead and name your poison, sir.”

Poison? I shook of the word from my head. “Alright, I’d like to order a regular thin-crust double pepperoni with extra, and by that I mean extra, cheese. Don’t be stingy with it.”

“Extra cheese,” the man - or probably more appropriately, boy - said to himself. “You sure about that, sir? Too much cheese is bad for you, y’know.”

This was new. “What are you, trying to lose a customer or something?”

“No, no, not like that, sir. We at Domino’s are always, uh.” He began to sound as though he was reading off a teleprompter or notice of some sort; slow, robotic, with pauses in between words and completely lacking of nuances. He coughed before continuing, “Yeah, we’re always looking out for our customer’s best interests. Obesity is a killer, sir. Did you know that sixty percent of Americans are overweight?” Immediately after that, I heard a muffled “We are? Whoa.”

“Look, I just want my pizza with extra cheese. I am only a hundred and seventy. If there’s anything I were to die from, it’d be from hunger because of you giving me a hard time. If you want, you can have the delivery guy make sure that I’m not one of the 60%, okay?”

“Chill, sir, I’m just doing my job to, uh, inform the masses. So you’re sure about your extra cheese?”

I gave him the most irritated-sounding “Yes” that I could come up with.

He sighed. “Let me repeat your order again, sir. Regular sized thin-crust double pepperoni with a whole lot of extra cheese.”

“I’m surprised you remembered,” I said, sarcastically.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay, sir, you live in the Thornton Apartments at the Far East Side, is that right?”

“Same place since the last time I called.”

“That’s good, sir. Would you like any side orders with your pizza?”

“A bottle of Vanilla Coke will be nice.”

“May I suggest Diet Coke for a change?”

“Which part of not giving me a hard time did you not understand?”

“Hey, just doing my job here. I take that as a no.”

“Damn right it is.”

“That’ll be six dollars and forty-five cents, sir. It’ll reach your place in thirty minutes, or the pizza’s free! Not for the Coke, though. Thank you, sir, and,” he said, as insincerely as possible, “Have a nice day.”

That was by far one of the more interesting phone conversations I’ve ever had with a Domino’s guy. The times are changing. Less than a decade ago, McDonald’s and its ilk wouldn’t give a damn if you turned fat from their food. In fact, they hoped you supersized everything you bought. And we, the grossly stupid Americans with God-knows-how-much lard rerouting our synapses, are almost always inclined to do exactly that, drawn to the trap of obesity by their saccharine sweet smiles and pretty packaging.

The best part of this nationwide dilemma was that the fat people strike back. Once they’ve gone over the edge, they’d return with a vengeance, and with teams of lawyers by their sides, ready to sue the corporations to kingdom come for not warning them that binging on fast food is bad for you. People like Caesar Barber. When the corporation and the obese go loggerheads in the courtroom, it’s hard to decide who was more in the wrong - the companies that sell fattening food or the people who are caught overeating them.

An idiot could tell that I was on Ronald’s side.

And thus, like an enormous disclaimer, fast food outlets now remind their customers to eat the healthier choices on their menus, Exhibit A: The Domino’s guy. In so doing, they are cleared of any responsibility in the event that someone grows morbidly obese. People like Caesar Barber. It reminded me of how God had told Adam and Eve not to eat the fruit from the Tree of Life, and when they did, He had every reason to expel them from Eden. It’s not as if they weren’t warned.

When my mind stopped wandering, I immediately prepared the required $6.45 in exact change and placed it on the coffee table. I took my mobile phone out, selected the timer function and set it to 30 minutes. Then I used it to make a call to Mona. There was a ringing but no answer, so I decided to take a warm shower and perhaps try calling again later.

The feeling of hot water scalding my skin after a long, cold day at work loaded me with awareness, hopefully enough to last through the evening.

The doorbell rang while I was still in the bathroom. I didn’t bother to change, wrapped the towel around my waist instead, and took the money from the coffee table in the hall and went to answer it, realised that I had set the timer for 30 minutes, went to pick up my mobile, saw the numbers 00:13:26 (it was counting down), shrugged, put the phone back down, and opened the door.

“Domino’s pizza. Mr. and Mrs. Carter’s?” the delivery guy said.

“That’s me.”

“Here’s your regular thin-crust double pepperoni with extra cheese. And your Vanilla Coke. That’ll be six dollars and forty-five cents.” He gave me the bag with everything in it, and I passed him the cash. As he did, he said, as-a-matter-of-factly, “You are thin.”

“Yeah, you go tell your friend that now, will you?” I almost rolled my eyes.

“No problemo, Mr. Carter. Good evening,” he said, tipping his Domino’s employees’ cap slightly. His job done, he promptly left.

Now I had pizza, a bottle of soda, and nobody else around. I did what anybody would do under such circumstances on a winter evening; I watched TV.

Surfing the channels, I couldn’t find anything too interesting to watch. Here’s Dr. Phil teaching people how to diet. I found it extremely ironic for he wasn’t a paragon of fitness himself. Flip. Stephen Colbert was elaborating on The Wørd of the day, “Asia”. I didn’t feel like watching political satire today; those kinds of things wear me out. Flip. Somebody was demonstrating something which replaced several other things that you would use in the kitchen. I don’t own any of those things that they claim need replacing. Flip. A drama on undertaking. Flip. A medical drama with beautiful people. Flip. Another medical drama with beautiful people, except for the boss who, from the looks of it, wasn’t just unattractive but also excessively caustic, and walked with a limp, too.

The pizza was getting cold, so I gave up on TV and indecision, and popped the Fight Club DVD into the player instead for the umpteenth lonely night this year. It never gets old, at least not for me. I found the similarities between the narrator and me more evident with each viewing, and eventually, it became an addiction, watching an incarnation of myself beat the hell out of people. And it’s also much less mind numbing, in the literal sense, than watching a talk show.

I bit into a slice of pizza. They remembered the extra cheese. I was happy.

But for reasons unknown, for I wasn’t actually too tired anyway, I didn’t make it past the scene where the narrator and Tyler Durden went to steal human fat from a medical facility. I probably fell asleep.

But it didn’t matter whether I stayed awake or not - Mona didn’t come home that night.

***

She didn’t come home the next day, either. Or the day after that. Each time I tried calling her, she didn’t answer. I became very worried. In hindsight, I might even have been delusional, because on Friday, after work, I made a trip to a police station near my apartment.

“I’d like to make a missing persons report.”

The officer on duty seemed like one of those that you’d normally find in 90s sitcoms - he was rotund, wore glasses, and had a half-eaten box of Bavarian Crème donuts on the table, exuding a vibe which screams of ineptitude. I have learned to give people the benefit of a doubt, however. “Did your kid go missing at the playground or something, mister...?”

“Carter. No, I don’t have any children. It’s my wife.”

“Your wife? Hmm… May I see your I.D. please, Mr. Carter?”

I flipped my wallet open and retrieved my identification card, then passed it to the cop. He examined it for a while, and I soon realised that he was trying to find a way to say something without appearing to insult my intelligence. He returned me my card and said, “You see, Mr. Carter, we get a lot of reports everyday, mostly kids or teenagers who go missing - they give us the most problems, Goddamn teens, especially when they start drinking, all hell breaks loose - but for adults, they have the, uh, the constitutional right to go wherever they please without having to tell you first.”

I expected him to continue. He probably expected me to reply, but I didn’t, so he gave me a very suspicious look instead.

“Your wife is an adult, right? As in, eighteen and above?”

“Is there any other way?”

“Who knows? You could be a hillbilly or something, I can’t tell. Phew. Had me going there. Well, unless your wife is, say, a retard - pardon my French - or might pose a danger to society, we won’t enter her in our database. Not even if she’s an alcoholic or something, that’s an individual’s choice, even if it’s ruining her life. So is your wife either?”

“Definitely not a retard,” I groaned. “As for being a danger to society, well, not that I know of.”

“Do you suspect foul play?”

“Yes. I’ve been trying to call her for two days, and she doesn’t pick up, it’s driving me insane. She always calls if she has something to do.”

“Two days?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, Mr. Carter, I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to lodge a report yet, especially not so soon. Who knows, she could’ve left her phone somewhere and had been meaning to call you or something. She doesn’t run away often, right?”

“That’s not the point, I want to lodge a report so that if anything comes up that I should know of, the cops can call me.” I could feel my temperature rising.

“But we don’t send out cops to search for your wife just because you want us to, sir. If you really need someone to look for her, without evidence of foul play, you’d need to get a private eye.”

“So if there was foul play involved, knock wood, you’d wait until the foul playing is over before doing something about it? Haven’t you heard of prevention being better than a cure?”

“Sir, we get about ten to twenty reports like yours each day. Almost all the time, it’s some useless parent who left their children unattended in the park or in the apartment or at a neighbour’s place, and half the time these are false alarms and are resolved within the day. That’s a lot of work to cover, you know. So unless you have concrete proof of, or have every reason to believe that there was foul play involved, we can’t do anything.” He paused for effect, and then summarised his short lecture on the reasons he couldn’t help me out into a single word: “Procedure.”

“Frankly, that sounds like balls to me.”

His composure remained calm and collected, evidence of his experience in facing people like me day in, day out. “Tell you what, Mr. Carter, you don’t worry about your wife for now, give it a few days, maybe she’d come back.” Then he adopted a somewhat sinister tone. “After that, if you really feel that something has happened, and with proof, if possible, you come back here and ask for Constanza - that's me. Okay?”

At that, I could only afford to shrug.

Then I said, “I doubt that I’ve ever said or heard the words “foul play” so many times over such a short span of time before,” before turning to leave.

***

I never stopped trying to contact Mona, hoping that somehow, officer Constanza’s theory was correct. Besides, his was the more reasonable one. Now, I wasn’t sure of what to think of anymore.

It was a Sunday. It’s hard to believe how quickly I was returning to my old bachelor self, like a college student living away from his parents for the first time. Almost all my food was delivered, or packed, resulting in a diet consisting mostly of carbohydrates and fat. And I won’t eat out because I do not want to be caught eating in a posh restaurant all by my lonesome self.

The main course on today’s bachelor lunch menu was a packet of Japanese instant noodles. I was waiting for the pot of water to boil when I decided to make the ubiquitous phone call, again. It had become a routine for me, making the call and failing to get a response. My rationale for continuing this exercise in futility was based on the fact that Mona’s phone rings - which meant that it was operational, and if it had been turned on for the past few days, there’s a possibility that somebody was charging it after each use.

The call connected, and I heard a ringing sound. The one I’m referring to wasn’t coming from my phone.

Instead, I heard - or at least, thought I heard - a mild whining noise in the kitchen, soft enough that it could hardly be heard over the sound of a stove fire, like the permanent, unending hum of a muted TV.

I turned the flame off and tried to locate the sound, but by now the kitchen was already silent. Somehow, subconsciously and without logic, my mind put two and two together and I pressed the redial button on my mobile.

I could hear the whine again. It had a tune, and I recognised it almost immediately: “Tomorrow” from Little Orphan Annie, one of the songs Mona would lose herself in whenever she was cleaning or cooking or washing or vacuuming. Unsurprisingly, she used the MP3 version for her phone’s ringing tone.

With my phone still making the call, and Annie still singing ominously in the background, I frantically searched the kitchen for Mona’s phone. Drawers were opened, cupboards ransacked, cups and dishes were pushed about. Each time Annie stopped singing, I would press redial, and she’ll begin calling out to me again, a high pitched, foreboding wail, and I would follow the voice.

Eventually, I found Mona’s phone stuck in a gap beneath the refrigerator. I took more time trying to pull it out than I did trying to find it.

I flipped the clamshell phone open. The words on the screen told me that it had received 64 missed calls; most of them were probably from me. I played with the buttons on the phone for a moment, trying to figure out my next course of action. Then I decided to check her voice messages. I dialled the number to retrieve them, and a little menu appeared on the screen, listing each message along with the date and time it was received. I selected the most recent one (Friday 11/18/05, 17:21):

“Hey, Mona sweetie. I hope you get this. Well, if you do, that means you’re alright. I hope. Please, please, call me, okay? And come home. Love ya.”

I cringed at the sound of my own voice. I selected the next on the list (Wednesday 11/16/05, 12:10):

“I’m coming home for dinner tonight, hope to see you soon. You scared me shitless last night, did you know that? Well, whatever. Call me if you get this, okay sweetie? Bye.”

The last message on the list caught my eye, because it was the only one received on the day Mona stopped coming home (Tuesday 10/16/05, 14:42):

“Mona,” a male voice said very loudly, with a hint of pretentiousness and an accent I couldn’t place. The voice became much softer after that. “Some people are not happy with what you did. Very bad people. You were warned.”

Needless to say, I became utterly confused and unnerved. Panicking, my mind was invaded by thoughts, each of them trying to spin a story from that single, short, voice message. I couldn’t stop myself from imagining Mona being kidnapped, being raped, being killed, and in more ways than one. Scenes of my naked wife being passed around a dirty room by men, of her being slapped and punched and beaten, of her being shot in the head at point blank range, materialised deep in the recesses of my brain, refusing to go away, dancing and mocking me like a vile jester who had stolen the king’s crown, and who had insisted on keeping it. The jester’s laughs boomed in my ear, I dropped Mona’s phone and with my hands pressed hard against my ears, trying to block the laughter out, and succeeded only in keeping it in.

I crumpled to the floor, against the kitchen wall, screaming. My heart was pounding against my chest, and I couldn’t tell if it the pain was real or not.

Could it have been a prank? Or was it one of her friends, just trying to be funny? I tried to assure myself that all was okay, but who was I kidding, this was completely uncharacteristic of my wife, she never does these things, Goddammit! The images continued to fade in and out of my sight, so very vividly, still smirking, mocking. The men had become clowns, in children-friendly, colourful costumes, a nightmarish contradiction to the obscenities they were performing on my wife. Closing my eyes to stop myself from seeing the terrifying sight was as futile as trying to stop the jester’s laugher, for it blocked out reality and made the imagined more intense.

I could feel the warm tears rolling down my cheeks, although I didn’t remember crying at all.

Then I remembered the foul play spiel I received at the police station, as well as Officer Constanza’s advice. And just as suddenly, everything became clear again. The images disappeared as instantaneously as they came, and my racing heart slowed down. I wiped the tears from my eyes, took a prolonged breather, shook off everything that just happened and got up to call the police.

“Hello, Phobos City Police Department, 42nd Precinct, how may I help you?” It was a lady.

“I need to speak to Officer Constanza.”

“Constanza? And to whom am I speaking to, sir?”

“Tell him it’s Mr. Carter, the guy who’s missing his wife.”

“You hold on a second, sir.”

The all-too-familiar ragtime tune was played as I was put on hold. This made me believe that a tenth of all phones with the ability of putting people on hold played “The Entertainer”, while another tenth opted for “Für Elise”.

“Constanza speaking. Mr. Carter?”

“Yes it’s me.”

“Crap, I was wondering when you’d call. I sort of have a lead for you.”

“A lead?”

“Oh wait, you must be calling because you either found some evidence of foul play or your wife came home. Please tell me it’s not the first.” His intonation was that of a man doing the vocal equivalent of crossing his fingers.

“I wish it wasn’t. I’ve been trying to call my wife all this while, but it turned out that she left her mobile lying around the house.”

“And?” he said, expectantly.

“I listened to one of the voice messages that some guy left on her phone. It sounded like a threat.”

There was a short pause before Constanza replied. “When did you get this? I mean, when did the guy leave his message?”

“Tuesday afternoon, the day my wife stopped coming home.”

“Are you sure it’s not a prank?”

“That’s what I was hoping you’d be able to help me decide, if it’s the real deal or just a very stupid, scary joke.” Then I recalled that he was trying to tell me something earlier. “What was that you told me about a lead?”

“Well, it’s this, um,” he trailed off. “Look, just come down to the station, will ya? Before I get off work, it’s a Sunday, y’know. Oh, and bring your wife’s phone along, it might be useful.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen.”

“See ya.”

I hung up the call. To borrow the clichéd line: I had a very bad feeling about all this.

Chapter 1.1 - 1.2

2006-11-22T00:23:00.000+08:00

CARTER

CHAPTER 1

Calls

My story began at work. It was a cold Tuesday afternoon in Phobos City. The radiator was broken, and everybody had sweaters over their bodies and hot coffee or chocolate in their hands. The office had become a mini Winter Wonderland, save for the snow which had yet to fall for that year.

I eyed the jumbled mass of numbers as they scrolled across the computer screen, feeding my head with information only I could understand. Names were to one side, particulars on the other. An unchecked box entered my view. This was someone whom we haven’t hit.

I punched the numbers on my phone, as the fingers on my other hand twirled a pen like a bandleader’s baton. The dialling tone came. I waited for someone on the other end of the line to answer it.

I heard a clink and a cough. “Hello, Southeastern Motorworks, Jenna speaking,” went the voice.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” I greeted. It was always good to greet them. Your routine becomes more agreeable if you’re polite. “I’m calling from Dataminer Business Consulting, on behalf of Shell. I’m actually conducting a survey on motor oil usage in Mars County, so I was hoping if you could spare-”

“You’re a telemarketer? Fuck you, asshole.” She hung up. In reality, courtesy wasn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.

My job had never been easy. I had to collect information from unsuspecting households and personal assistants about the most mundane of subjects, from mothballs to motor oil. And then, I crunch the statistics and relay them to my boss. Then he shows it to the companies that contracted us for the information.

So it wasn’t exactly telemarketing. Yet, talking to an unknown voice, describing every intimate detail of your life to someone you’ve never met - and will never meet - is every bit as disturbing as being pushed by a telemarketer. Sometimes I don’t get why the idiots over at Shell or DuPont, or hell, even Wendy’s, think that they’d get a straight answer when you ask people their incomes, or the size of their families, or the addresses to their homes. These things are what make the security sirens at the back of our essentially animal minds go blaring, screaming at us to scurry up a tree and hide. And that’s what most of them do; in my line of work, the human equivalent of scurrying is hanging up.

Maybe that’s why those of us in this line get paid so much more than our telemarketer friends. If it weren’t for that, I would’ve left for a better place a long time ago. This wasn’t one of those self-satisfying jobs. As a matter of fact, there used to be a time when I could feel my soul eroding with every rejected call. I don’t feel that anymore.

But even if it’d cost me my soul to keep my family afloat, I would sell mine to the devil in a heartbeat, on discount with a 30-day money-back guarantee thrown in. My girl deserves the best the world had to offer, and if holding up the world for money required annoying the hell out of a hundred people a day, I’m all game. She has looks that could beat Helen of Troy in a ship-launching tournament, and to this day I still wonder why she settled with a bum like me when she could’ve easily bagged any upper class socialite hotel-empire heir from any ballroom party in the city. And you’d think a broad like that would pretty much come up last in every other department, but no; she cooks the most delicious steaks in the world, sings Annie as she cleans and decorates the apartment, and best of all, is absolutely, absolutely spectacular in bed. If Martha Stewart were an ugly stepsister, my wife would be Cinderella.

I love my Mona.

Before too long, though, the little hand pointed to four and the staff went about their going-home rituals. Many stayed back for the overtime. That’s reasonable. Despite whatever it is that psychologists and occasionally, Oprah tells you, as the wise Sean Combs said, it’s all about the Benjamins. The men of today have been reduced to living a life with but one single purpose, to make enough dough to run the bakery. Without the dough, you don’t get your donuts and cakes and pies. It was that simple. Those counterculture nutjobs advertising their oh-so-emancipating lifestyle, living it on the edge, taking each day as it slaps them in the faces, to the max and whatnot, are just fooling themselves. They should try and see if they can keep up with their bohemian lifestyles with what little cash in their bank accounts. And besides, how is it counterculture when Fubu and Timberland make millions every year from their misguided lifestyles?

These days there is no such thing as “keeping it real” anymore. Every facet of counterculture had been invaded by the pox of consumerism. And the men of today willingly infect themselves - ourselves - with the pox as if it were a vaccine for conformity. The smarter ones instead realise that it is money that actually serves as a panacea to all our problems.

That made me one of the wise. I chose to stay back. I do this almost every single time. Overtime pays well, and I needed something to bring home to show my baby how much I loved her, and to thank her for being everything that’s good in my life.

Mechanically, I called home on the company phone to warn her that today would be one of those days, where she need not cook for me tonight. It was a routine that she had learnt to live with. Sometimes she wouldn’t wait and would call me in the office to check.

The dialling tone came, growled and rumbled for almost a minute, and ended with a long, drawn-out whine. Mona wasn’t home. I decided that she must have gone out shopping with her girlfriends.

But whatever makes her happy, I guess. I live to please.

***

“So where do we finish off the job this time around?”

“Petersen’s Mire, down in the south.”

“That’s new. We’d better move them quick, then.”

The two men, one significantly taller than the other, and the other significantly rounder than the one, cleaned and holstered their guns before attending to the two lifeless figures lying on the backstreet pavement. Blankets and comforters enveloped the bodies, which the men lifted - with great effort - into a waiting car’s trunk. There was already a body there, so only one could be fit inside, while the other went in the backseat. Then the engine started, the headlights came on, and the car sped out of the alley and onto the road.

The taller one was behind the wheel, manoeuvring the car through the streets of Phobos City. He took a detour at every opportunity, like a crafty cabbie who makes rides seem longer to squeeze every penny out his passengers. It was a force of habit, for he was indeed an unscrupulous taxi driver. Or more exactly, he used to be one, until his employers found out. Nonetheless, it was a useful habit. There tended to be fewer people around the snaking routes he takes, so there was a reduced chance of being spotted with an extremely pale-faced woman with a permanent grimace riding in the backseat.

“Aww, Sammy, you just had to sit her up straight, didn’t you?”

“What? I’m just doing you a favour.”

“How is blocking my rear view with the bobbing head of a dead chick helping me?”

“Well, I thought it’d be good to look at something pretty while you’re driving.”

“If she were alive, yeah. But she’s dead. We offed her. Am I supposed to get some satisfaction out of this?”

“She’s a looker. Appreciate that a bit, won’t you? Jeez, Frank, and here I was thinking that you’d at least enjoy the view.”

Frank became exasperated. “Just go tip her over, damn it. I don’t wanna keep having to look at her. And cover her face while you’re at it, will you?”

“Oh alright. She’s just fucking gorgeous is all I’m saying. Pity we had to off her.”

“As though we had a choice.”

The rounder one, Sammy, sidled up to the backseat and proceeded to lie the woman down. He unrolled the covers blanketing the body and took an appraising look. “Shit, what a waste of a fine rack.”

“What the hell? Quit your act and get back in front!”

“I’d jump her.”

“What? Oh God no, now you’re talking about necrophilia. Fuck you, you sick bastard, fuck you!”

“Oh come on, don’t come telling me that you’ve never thought of fucking one of our targets before.”

“Well, yeah I do, but not after I kill them!”

“There should be a first time for everything. And since you’re the one driving and I have nothing better to do…”

The car made a very sudden and very hard turn, throwing everything in the car off the seats like laundry in a washing machine. Sammy crashed his head into a window, releasing a sickening crack as skull met glass.

“Motherfucker!” he yelled, separating the first and second halves of the word with a pause. “What’d you do that for, asshole?!”

“Shut up and get the hell back in front, you jackass.”

“It was only a passing comment,” Sammy grumbled as he returned to the front.

“Passing comment, my ass. Necrophilia is the single worst thing you can ever do to disrespect a dead body. Where’re your principles, man?”

“Principles? Frank, we’re thugs for Chrissakes, we don’t need no stinkin’ principles.”

“Yeah we do, and one of them says not to fuck with dead chicks. Even though we’re just thugs, we have to have a specific code of conduct to go by, y’know? Otherwise it’d be all chaos and all.”

“But if you have principles, you’re leaving yourself wide open to stupid things like guilt. It’s easier to kill someone if you don’t give a shit. Do you give a shit?”

“That’s not the point, what I’m trying to say is that even as hired killers we should treat our jobs with respect and do it in a gentlemanly manner.”

“Like what? ‘Hullo good ma’am, may I please forcefully perform intercourse with you before I blow your bloody head off with my .45? Oh thank you very much.’” Sammy said that with a passable imitation of a pretentious British accent.

“No, no, you got it wrong. I meant like the mafia in Godfather. Y’know, Brando and Pacino and all. They’ve got principles, they don’t, uh, sell drugs and stuff. And how it’s not personal, but it’s all business. Yeah.”

“Well, we ain’t in no mafia now, are we? Hell, we kill those kinda people, Frank.”

“Even so, they still have my respect. Mean little Italian bastards, each and every one of them, and they’ve got suits and accents and all that jazz. It’s hard not to like them, dead or alive.”

“They’re better off dead than alive, though.”

Frank chuckled half-heartedly. “You got that right. Alright, we’re here.”

The car drove down a grassy path, away from the road and into Petersen’s Mire. After a minute or so, Frank parked the car in a large clearing overlooking a peat bog. The place was exactly how anyone would expect it to be; dark, dank, and altogether generally uninviting. The smell that permeates the air, although the thugs are unable to give it an appropriate adjective, brought to their minds the words coal and vegetables.

Normally, the mire would often be visited by amateur cooks with a predilection for wild berries. During winter, the biting cold became as much a deterrent to people as fo sign would, making it the perfect place to dispose of the murdered. And so Frank and Sammy began unloading the bodies from the car - once again, with great difficulty.

“Shit, it’s really cold here,” Sammy muttered through his teeth. They weren’t dressed in proper winter clothing.

“Hold still, and we can do this faster.” Frank was somewhat irritated by Sammy’s hopping from foot to foot as they were carrying one of the bodies. The deceased was a man in his late 30s, and in what was probably his best suit - which they would have kept if not for the bulletholes and the blood. With the tiniest tinge of regret, they flung the body into the bog. They did the same for the original driver of the car, a relatively old man who, as far as the thugs were concerned, might not have minded having his life ended after all.

Then they came to the broad, which Sammy offered to dump alone. “Bye-bye, birdie,” he said as he rolled the woman, wrapped in comforters like a comical representation of sushi rolls, down the banks and into the bog. The two men watched the body bob in the water several times, refusing to sink. Frank stuck a foot out and gave it a push, and the woman floated, ever so slowly, towards somewhere deeper. It was a while before she finally relented and sunk.

That was only one half of a job well done. There was still the car to attend to. “Now let’s get the hell out of here,” Frank said, “We still gotta get to Hernandez’s, and I don’t wanna be home too late.”

With that, the thugs went back into the car and drove away from the mire.

Foreword

2006-11-22T00:17:00.000+08:00

After so much trouble and delay, I finally start uploading my work. I don't like posting stuff in portions that people might not understand, so I'm going to do it systematically and in parts.

Because I couldn't come up with a better name, I'm naming my story "Carter" after the lead character(s). Be forewarned; I'm still honing my writing, and I wrote this under quite a bit of pressure, so it will not be a polished work. If anybody is bothered to read, though, I sincerely accept constructive comments.

Be prepared to be amazed. Whether in a good way or bad. Heh.

I'm Cuckoo Batshit Crazy

2006-11-19T19:46:00.000+08:00

It has been two weeks since I began my NaNoWriMo endeavours, and those of you who check back from time to time (bless your soul) must be wondering where did all the written words went.

Well, I kid you not: As of now I have actually written very close to nothing. I don't actually have very convincing excuses to fend off allegations of laziness, so I'll be frank and admit that I've been gaming too much, and whenever I'm not caught up with computer games (the devil!), I'm doing work (of the planning-a-year-end-camp kind, applications still open, hint, hint).

Oh wait, that's an excuse. Ha ha. And pretty much the rest of this post is an excuse, too: Justifications created by a person to fool himself into believing that there was an external force in making him fall short of his intended goal(s).

*Cough*

However, even with only 10 days remaining on the NaNoWriMo clock, I remain hilariously optimistic. You could say that I am the kind of fellow who would deliberate over what to have for lunch even as he discovers that his parachute is faulty while skydiving ("Who knows, I could fall into the sea and become comatose instead of dying, but the doctors had better wake me up before it's already time for tea"). Even when faced with seemingly insurmountable odds, I can still stare blankly at the circumstances and flash you a thumbs-up while proclaiming, in typical unflappable Malaysian fashion, "Can what..."

In this case, "what" specifically refers to writing upwards of 5,000 words a day. That's not an impossible feat, mind you, all you have to do is just throw quality out the window and engage in the verbal diarrhoea of wordcrap. That was the aim of NaNoWriMo anyway, quantity over quality; we can always edit later.

Besides, when I joined, I already told myself not to yield until the 50,000 mark is reached. When my mom heard that, she laughed, no thanks to my brilliant track record of always cheating myself with promises. So I thought, why not prove her (and myself, for once!) wrong?

Yet I wonder why I fool myself into thinking that this would all be so simple and would end happily with me drinking from the goblet of success and a 50,000 word tome - albeit a shitty one - under my arm. I thus came to the conjecture that I may have, by and large, turned cuckoo batshit crazy. Insane in the membrane, I have gone mental and lost my marbles. Claiming that my mind has gone unhinged is such a simple and ambiguous response that I should begin using it as an excuse for any kind of shit I throw myself at. Occam's razor: The simplest explanation is usually the best. And after that I emerge from the ruin absolutely guilt-free ("I was crazy back then")!

And people like me, who spend almost half their lives in front of computer monitors, take all the crazy we can get. Plus, the phrase sounds funny, so it justifies everything, eh?

In any case, expect updates on my progress to come much, much more often from now on. It'll be one hell of a wordcrap-ridden ride.

Clueless

2006-11-05T02:43:00.000+08:00

I'm still cracking my head for a passable plot. No such luck so far... Watch this spot, though!

Testing...

2006-11-03T18:22:00.000+08:00

Hello, world!