The Wall Boom. Something appears to move out of the corner of my eye. Is that the cat? No, not the cat. Just a blanket. Let me just grab the vacuum and do a couple of my nighttime chores and then I’ll get to folding laundry. As I reach for the vacuum, it slips through my hands. I watch it crash towards the floor, its top-heavy handle picking up speed as it races for my freshly painted wall. It grazes the wall with enough force to take out a chunk of paint and drywall. Great. Okay, there’s got to be spackle around here somewhere. I remember packing it before we moved. Boom. It’s probably out in the garage with the paint rollers. I walk around to the foyer and open the door to the one-car garage. “Garage door left,” my alarm system chimes. The heat is overwhelming. I walk over to the far back cabinet and flip the tiny little latch upwards so I can access the paint. Blue, beige, white. I grab the can of white paint and put it on the ground. I look for the toolbox and spot it in the corner. Its latches are starting to rust. I make a mental note to invest in a new toolbox. I rifle around for something to dislodge the lid to the paint can, trying to tune out the overwhelming smell of a bonfire. Usually, I like the smell of a bonfire in summer. It reminds me of family cookouts — not something I ever had with my parents as a kid — but it reminds me of roasted marshmallows and charred meat. I get the aching knot in the pit of my stomach again and push it from my mind with all my might. The wall has a gash in it and I need to fix it. I just paid a lot of money to have my basement redone and I’m not going to let a vacuum ruin that for me. I pry open the lid to the paint can and give it a shake. I locate the spackle and some sandpaper and a tiny paintbrush and make my way back inside. I head to the bathroom for some paper towels; I just redid the floors and I don’t want the paint to splatter onto them. My mind starts to wander and I start to think of the mall and how I miss shopping but I redirect my thoughts because this chunk missing from my wall is going to drive me crazy if I don’t take care of it tonight. I mean, yeah, it’s 2 am but I need to get this done so it can dry by morning. Cracking open a window, I instantly regret it. I close the window and prepare to paint the wall. Crash. Okay, so let’s see. This spackle is purple, which means it dries white. Here’s hoping, at least. I apply a generous layer of spackle and wipe some off. Then I head to the laundry room where I keep a hair dryer, especially for moments like this. With hairdryer in hand, I head to the hall closet and look through my clear plastic bins, all labeled with the contents. “Extension cords.” I pull out a long, white extension cord and slowly unravel it. I attach it to my hair dryer and plug it in so it can reach the spot on the wall with the spackle. I turn the hairdryer on and watch as it turns red — there’s some type of gimmicky infrared light on the tip of it that allegedly helps keep flyaways at bay, or so the box advertised. I don’t know; I use it to dry spackle and paint. Once the paint turns white, I start to sand. I sand down the spackle until it’s nice and flat. At this point, I’m pleased with my work. This is my motorcycle maintenance. I grab my paintbrush and start to paint. I make sure to paint with careful little strokes; when the basement was remodeled, I’m pretty sure the crew used rollers, so the stroke pattern will be different. As soon as I finish painting the spot on my wall, I hit it with my hairdryer once more. I can see the paint slowly starting to dry. I walk over to the desk and grab my “Game of Thrones” lamp. I think back to watching the show in our old condo, missing the beach. Missing our old house. A loud bang rips me from my reverie. I get back to the task at hand. I grab my lamp and head over to inspect the paint job I’ve just completed. Looks good. No visible brush strokes. I actually notice some other brush strokes and wonder if the painters maybe didn’t use a roller but used paint brushes themselves. Then I spot it. An imperfection in my paint strokes. It appears as if I was a little heavy-handed with the paint, and I can see a glob near the base of my work. A dried glob. Shit. I grab my sandpaper and start to smooth it out. But at this point, I can’t tell where my paint job ends and where my layer of paint applied by the professionals begins. And I know I’m probably sanding off more paint than I should be. I start to sweat. I just had this basement redone. I can’t have fucked up a wall already. Okay, relax, I remind myself. There’s a paint roller in the garage. You saw it when you went to get the paint supplies. I walk back through the foyer and over to the garage door. “Garage door left” I hear my alarm system say as I open the door. The heat hits me in the face, the smell of smoke overwhelming. I make my way over to the paint supplies. I spot the roller. It’s bigger than I need for this small area. I root around a bit and then I spot it. Success! There’s a brand new small roller, perfect for this job. Roller in hand, I make my way back through my foyer and into my basement. I walk over to the wall and dip my roller into the paint can. I coat it in paint and slather a thick layer onto the wall. I use this layer to spread out the paint, going as far as the crown molding above and the trim near my feet. Perfect. You’d never know I painted this wall. It looks absolutely perfect. I go to the laundry room and clean off my supplies in the slop sink. The cold water splashes out against my legs. It feels good. I go back to the wall to inspect my work. I grab my “Game of Thrones” lamp and give the wall a thorough once-over. It looks amazing. Even better than before. I head for the garage and put all my paint supplies away. I ignore the smell of smoke. I need to find the hammer so I can close up this paint can. Never know when I may need to fix more damage to a wall. Once inside the foyer, I look down. My hands are filthy. I need to get this paint off before it’s crusted on. I head for the bathroom and scrub my hands. The paint turns the water in the sink a frothy, milky white. I dry my hands on the paper towels I keep nearby. I make my way back to my wall and see some paint and dust on the floor. I grab my steam mop and clean up after myself. This is a brand-new floor, after all. I don’t want paint on it. I head back to the laundry room to put the dirty mop head in the clear plastic bucket I reserve for dirty rags and such. I’ll do laundry tomorrow. Time for bed. As I head upstairs, I take a look over my shoulder and out the window above my front door. I can see the entire city. Boom. Another building collapses. But at least my walls are perfect.
Viral How the fuck do I get out of here? Where the FUCK is here? Relax. Relax. Fucking RELAX. How did I get here? I was with Max. We were headed to the mall. Then everything went black and next thing I know, I’m waking up here. Wherever here is. I’m not ready to get up. But I have to get up. The alarm clock is blaring in my face, practically bitch-slapping me awake. Get up, you worthless drone. Time to get to work. Okay, so it didn’t say that. Not in so many words, at least. But if that alarm clock had an inner monologue, that’s what it would say. I feel like last night is a blur. I remember lots of music and a large crowd and going home with a stranger, but—that’s it. That’s all I remember. Shit. That can’t be good. BEEP BEEP BEEP. Oh, SHUT UP already. Will someone PLEASE kick that fucking alarm clock off the nightstand? Why is it making such an incessant racket? Then I see her. Max. She’s hanging off the bed, one leg in, one leg out, shirt pulled up to her bra, no pants on, snoring without a care in the world. Is that who I went home with? Shit. I debate leaving before she wakes up. But I’m hungry. And I’ve got nothing to eat at home, and I have a feeling this girl is going to be on her way to breakfast soon, so maybe I can hitch a ride and grab a bite to eat. BEEP BEEP BEEP. She finally hears the alarm. Swatting it with her left arm, it crashes to the floor, startling her. Max—yeah, we’ll call her Max—jumps up, looking around, seemingly confused. She hasn’t noticed me yet. I don’t mind. She’s pretty, and I’m enjoying the view. It’s not every day I go home with such pretty girls. This is actually a first for me. And I like it. I may very well do this again. Max drags herself out of bed and to the bathroom. I use this as an opportunity to survey her room: clothes on the floor, magazines scattered under a nightstand, shoes piled in a corner, a white fuzzy rug, and a large corkboard above her bed with pictures of her friends and family. I don’t know why, but I have a good feeling about her. It’s like I know we were meant to meet, and I don’t even know her all that well. Hell, I don’t know her at all. In the bathroom, I hear the water running as Max brushes her teeth. I look down, and thankfully I’m dressed. Well, as dressed as I’ll ever be. I want to check out the rest of her house, so I head downstairs and decide to wait for her in the kitchen. Her living room is an extension of the bedroom, with clothes piled on the couch and a TV stand littered with books and magazines. I check to see what she reads—mostly smut, but then again, who doesn’t read that type of stuff? I go to the kitchen, but all she has are some empty Pop-Tart boxes and a container of Chinese food. It looks like it’s been sitting out for a week, so I skip it altogether and wait to see where we can grab a bite for breakfast. I wait for about twenty minutes before Max heads into the room. She’s dressed, hair done, and looks good. I wait for her to acknowledge me, but she doesn’t. At this point, I’m uncomfortable, unsure of what to do. She knows I’m in the room—I mean, I’m so close to her I’m practically under her skin—yet she neglects to say two words to me. I see her shiver. She even coughs. I know she knows I’m here. “Let’s get some food,” she says, and I know we’re off to a good start. I’m still pretty uncomfortable because we haven’t discussed last night or what I’m still doing at her place. But she seems unfazed by the entire situation, so why wouldn’t I be uncomfortable? Is this something she does frequently? We walk to the front door, and Max grabs her bag and car keys. I don’t know how I got here—maybe she gave me a lift?—so I decide it’s best to ride with her. We walk out her front door and toward her grey Accord. She reaches for her car keys to unlock it but stops. She coughs again, as if she doesn’t feel well. She looks pale, pasty. Hope I don’t catch whatever she’s got. “That’s weird.” Max leans over, puts her hand on her car door, and steadies herself as if she’s going to pass out. After a few seconds, she straightens and opens her car door. I get in beside her. It’s obvious she doesn’t feel well, so we sit in silence. She backs out of her driveway and onto her street. At the stop sign, she goes left, turning out of her neighborhood. We drive in silence past cookie-cutter houses, all with well-maintained lawns and perfectly timed sprinkler systems. Everyone smiles. They all look miserable. Right as a splash of water hits the front windshield, Max sneezes. I’d offer her a tissue, but I don’t have any pockets. “It’s just allergies.” She sniffles, and that’s it. Speaking is off the table. I don’t even push the issue. Fifteen minutes later, we arrive at a big tan house with a large front lawn and one of those wraparound porches you see in Hallmark movies. There are seven other cars in the driveway and parked in front of the house, and it’s obvious we’re at some type of party. Why is this girl taking me to a party? We barely know each other. I begin to protest, but I’m hungry, and Max looks into the visor mirror to put on lipstick. “Let’s eat” is all she says, so I decide to run with it. We walk from her car to the house, and I notice the lawn gnomes. They’re tasteful, displayed in the landscaping like trophies. But their painted smiles make me want to give them a solid kick, their spooky expressions frozen in time. Max rings the bell as if to announce herself but walks right in. A tall, grey-haired woman greets us from the kitchen, straight ahead of the foyer. She’s pretty like Max, dressed in a light blue dress and tan heels. “Maxine! I didn’t know if you’d be joining us or not, with the hours you work.” Stifling a yawn, Max smiles at the woman—her mother, no doubt. “I told you and Daddy I’d be here. I switched shifts with Carol at work, so I don’t have to be at work until tonight.” They talk, but I’m not interested. I need something to eat. But they keep talking, and I feel more invisible than I ever have. Although not much before last night is clear. And why hasn’t Max introduced me? I’m beginning to grow uncomfortable, so I make my way to the kitchen. In there, I see a younger version of Max—maybe twenty years old or so. Her younger sister, I assume. I smile, and she ignores me. Figures. I get myself a drink and sit by her sister, who is busy texting. I brush her arm as I sit, but she doesn’t even flinch. We sit in silence before Max walks back in the room. I’m noticing a pattern with this family. “There you are.” “Here I am,” I say. Max sits next to me, looking over my shoulder at her sister. “Who are you texting?” “Jade. It’s not fair she never comes to this shit. Mom’s such a Stepford bitch, yet we put up with her. Jade makes it like she’s above these family parties.” Sighing, I can tell Max has had this conversation before. “It’s not that, Sam. Jade’s got her own life and doesn’t have time to come to every single family brunch.” “Yeah, but this one’s for Daddy’s retirement.” They bicker, and I’m bored. A minute later, the door opens. And in she walks. I can see her from my spot on the stool. She’s tall like Max but elegant. Polished. Regal, even. Max is still ignoring me, so I see no loyalties here. Besides, what we shared last night was something special. She’ll remember me forever. I make my way across the room and to the regal-looking woman. She ignores me, but I’m getting used to it. We spend the entire morning eating and laughing, and she’s infectious. Like me. At 3 p.m. she decides to leave, so I hitch a ride with her. We drive in silence. This family really isn’t much for conversation. At her house, we head inside. She takes a bath, and I sit in her room, anxiously awaiting her return. From inside the bathroom, I hear her sneeze and cough. “That’s odd,” she says. And I know my work here is done. It’s not easy being the first of my kind. But I suspect the world will know who I am before long. I think of Max. I miss her. I hope she’s okay. Patient Zero has a nice ring to it.
