Lousy Genes – Cole Deaver

How did He get in here?

Because He shouldn’t be in here. He can’t be. He would have had to get past those electric locks, the ones your chief of security insisted on installing. The ones that were 100% money-back guaranteed to be unbreakable.

But then again, nothing’s unbreakable, is it?

He’s wearing a red suit. No, you wouldn’t call it red. Salmon, maybe. Beneath that, a blue shirt, a yellow tie. Green shoes. White teeth.

He sits on your desk, the hundred-thousand-dollar bamboo desk imported from Japan. It just got cleaned. He can’t sit there.

How did He get in here?

“You can put the pen down,” He says.

You look down at the report. You were filling it out a second ago, but now, Christ, it suddenly seems so complicated. “How did you get in here?” you ask. You have a smoker’s voice (and a smoker’s cough, don’t forget).

He exhales. “I’ll say this once, because if I don’t, I’ll get frustrated. And I don’t want to get frustrated. Not with you.”

“Okay.”

“You can’t ask questions about how I do what I do. Because there is no explanation. I just can. Is that all right? Does that make sense?”

You nod. It does, impossibly. He interlocks his fingers and folds his hands outward. Ten perfect little crackles. “Just remember, you agreed to this.”

You did?

“I did? I don’t recall.”

“I know. I just told you to remember. That’s the whole p—” he cuts himself off, sighing.

He stands and walks around the desk and sits down in a chair next to you. A perfect little replica of yours. That wasn’t there before. Of that you can be sure.

“What do you do?” He asks. “For a living?”

“I—” You hesitate.

Wait. You know this. You have to know this. You’ve been working here for years. Decades.

Your jaw feels tight. You rotate it, a cow chewing invisible cud.

“You don’t know?” He asks, fake-incredulous. “But look at this office. I mean look at the floors! Polished tiles! Rembrandts on the wall! How many secretaries have knelt under this perfect little desk? And you don’t even know what paid for it?”

You swallow, trying to drown the fluttering insect in your chest. No, no, no. You’re healthy. You jog five miles every morning. You take fish oil at night. You can remember what your own company does! You just have to think!

“We should call the investors,” He says. “I mean, this is big news. Our own founder and CEO forgot what the company does.” You don’t know what to say.

He scoffs. “Come on, man! Your business is on the NASDAQ--a lot of people are depending on this, so think real hard and I’ll ask again: what do you do?”

“We make money,” you offer pathetically.

He howls, slamming his palms on your desk in alternating beats, like a petulant child.

“Well, that you do!” He laughs. “That you do.”

He’s on the desk now, laying on his stomach, resting his chin on his hands. “Ready for another question?”

And then there’s a red tightness in your chest. No more questions. Anything but that.

“How long have you been married?”

Relief floods your chest. You know this! “Twenty-five years!”

“What’s her name?”

You know this too! “Jeannie!”

“How’d you meet?”

And then there’s concrete in your belly again. You’re stumped. It’s on the tip of your tongue. You can visualize it. You were in a bar.

No, that isn’t right.

You accidentally got in the same cab.

Shit, no, that was your parents (both dead. Bad tickers). You stand. “Um…”

He imitates a game show buzzer. “ERRRR! You’re out of time!” A game show, you think. He’s dressed the part. He just needs one of those long, Bob Barker microphones.

“Give up?!” He’s standing behind you, his hands on your shoulders. How’d He get there? He pushes you back into your chair.

“No,” you say. “I know this.”

He grins, his smile too wide. His happiness too pure. “Come on. Give up!”

“No…”

“Yes!”

You just need to catch your breath. A big deep breath and the answer will come. But the air is steel wool.

“Give up!” He insists.

Gasping, you nod. “Okay.”

He’s on your desk, criss cross applesauce. He raises a hand and wriggles his fingers. He reaches into his suit and pulls out a strange, bronze teapot. It’s big. Too big for a breast pocket.

That’s impossible, you want to protest. But you remember the rules.

He just can.

He places the teapot on the desk in front of you. “You know what this is, don’t you?”

“No.”

“Oh, shut up,” He says. “Yes, you do.”

Your throat is closed. Breath snakes through, but just barely. You must be beet-red by now. You wipe your forehead. The collar of your shirt is wet.

He speaks into his microphone. “What did I pull out of my jacket, Mr. Man?”

Your mouth moves but the words won’t come. Some part of you knows one simple truth: if you answer, you’re finished. But you can’t stop it.

“Well?” He asks, offering you the business-end of the microphone.

“It’s a lamp.”

“Winner! How’d you meet your wife?”

“…I didn’t.”

“Double winner!”

Then, he’s dancing on your desk. Those green shoes must be tapping shoes because they click. Too loud. It can’t be that loud. His toes curl upward in a sickening spiral.

You didn’t meet your wife. How could you forget? She isn’t real. She’s a figment of your imagination. The wish of a young man who could have anything he wanted.

One of three.

“’I wish to have the most beautiful wife in the world,’” He recites. He mimics your voice perfectly, his feet in a fury. “One that would keep you busy in the sack, right? One that would screw like she was paid to! That was wish number one, right?”

You nod.

“And wish number two?”

The desk is on its side now. Or does it just seem that way? You try to steady yourself on its edge, but it seems to be melting. Slipping away.

“I wished…” you whisper. “I wished to be rich.”

“That’s not what you said!” He’s still tapping. Faster now. How can he keep this up?

“You wished to be stinking rich! Top dog! The alpha! King of the world! And wish number three?!”

You can’t remember.

“I don’t…” Your breath comes in a rasp now. Tires over gravel.

“You don’t what?!”

“…Remember.”

He stops dancing suddenly, his face in a pout. No. Not a pout. A reverse smile. His mouth is upside down.

“Ding, ding, ding!” He cries.

“What?”

“Wish number three: ‘I wish that I’ll forget these wishes! Until the day I die, I want to live in blissful ignorance.’” He leans forward, inches from your face. “Because what fun is success if you have to face the horrible, disgusting truth that you didn’t earn any of it?!”

He’s right. Of course, He’s right.

“But…” you murmur. “You lied.”

He sits on your lap, staring up at you, confused. “When did I lie?”

You wanna puke, it's so hot. You’re back in high school. You’re running suicides after your coach caught you smoking a joint in the bathroom.

“You weren’t supposed to tell me.” You wheeze. “Why’d you tell me? I didn’t want to know!”

“I didn’t lie. I can’t lie. ‘Until the day I die,’ remember?” He smiles sadly. “What? You think I just have this effect on people?”

He taps you on the chest with his index finger.

You look down. Your shirt is soaked clean through. You try to inhale, but it won’t come. All the fish oil pills in the world can’t combat lousy genes.

You’re having a heart attack.

The desk melts away completely. Before you know it, you’re on the floor. Your wife’s face is a watercolor smudge. The name of your empire is static in your ears. There’s suction at your feet, like the massager in a jacuzzi.

You manage to look down.

The lamp has grown. The hole in its spout deep and black and infinite. He sits atop the lamp, laughing so hard he’s crying. You’re inching toward it. You’re crying too, begging him to stop.

Your feet enter the spout. Then your knees, then your chest. His laugh becomes a shriek. A primordial roar. You’re in past your eyes, and then it’s eternal, falling darkness.

And, Christ alive, it burns.

Cole Deaver

loves writing in all its forms, including screenplays, short stories, and novels. He has been published in a local magazine, "The Aster Review," and is currently writing as a screenwriter at Knox Studios in Oklahoma City. His first novel, "Burn the Forest Down," is available on Amazon.

Author Website URL: https://coledeaver.wixsite.com/website