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ANHEDONIA

stories

PATRICK CHAPMAN

BLAZEVOX[BOOKS]
Buffalo, New York
Anhedonia
by Patrick Chapman
Copyright © 2018

Published by BlazeVOX [books]

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be


reproduced without the publisher’s written
permission, except for brief quotations in reviews.

Printed in the United States of America

Interior design, cover and typesetting by Geoffrey Gatza

First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-60964-335-5
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018957375

BlazeVOX [books]
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Kenmore, NY 14217
Editor@blazevox.org

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Juniper Bing

Frost cracked on the street outside like a crème brulée


gone wrong. The forecast was for a sub-zero night,
the kind of weather that defeated armies. Jeffrey Bing
did not want to leave his warm office but he had made
an appointment.
In the lift to the foyer, he caught sight of a
particularly ugly guy. Here was a fat loser in a peacoat
and a tartan scarf over a Louis Copeland suit. A
morlock dressed as a womble. Jeffrey blinked at his
own reflection and looked away. He watched the
numbers light up in sequence until the doors parted
and he stepped out. There was no concierge. The
consulting firm Jeffrey worked for had signed the
lease in anticipation of a new city quarter that was no
longer expected. From his sixteenth-floor cubicle, the
view was of this building’s stillborn twin. He liked the
austere beauty of that skeletal tower, its floors but no
walls giving it the aspect of something unearthed.
Jeffrey shivered as he left the building. He had
taken the lift because there would be enough stairs

11
later. He knew he was not classically fit. Too lumpy,
he over-existed. Smoking did not help him lose
weight, though it had given him the chest complaint
that now sawed away at his innards.
The previous morning he had felt a little weaker in
the abdomen than usual and he made an appointment
to visit Doctor Stone, who would not be surprised to
see him, for Jeffrey was always popping around. Stone
was himself a man of considerable girth, and appeared
to have both a scalpel intellect and a blunt manner.
That could be tricky. The doctor didn’t do denial. He
was a denial denier. Whenever Jeffrey grumbled up to
his clinic, Stone would trot out the customary advice
to shed a few kilos but he seemed disinclined to lead
by example.
Jeffrey got a tram to Mayor Street and crunched
down to the clinic. There were no other patients
waiting and the receptionist told him to take a seat.
After ten minutes, the doctor popped his head out.
‘Bing.’
Jeffrey put down the copy of Irish Tatler in which he
had been browsing the social pages at the back. It was
in this column, many years before, that he had first
seen Juniper. Now he looked for her there. These
days it was the only place he was likely to find her.
He got up and followed the doctor.
In the surgery, Stone smiled and shook his patient’s

12
hand. ‘Take off your coat and sit down. There’s a
good fellow.’
Without speaking, Jeffrey did as he was told.
Doctor Stone sat and called up Jeffrey’s record on
the computer, studied it for a minute then turned to
him. ‘Now what can we do for you?’
‘Chest infection, I think.’ Jeffrey was surprised to
hear that his voice sounded like that of a well man
though his throat felt as though he had swallowed a
very small jellyfish that refused to go down.
Doctor Stone looked smug. He rubbed his hands
together and stood up.
‘Get up on there for me,’ he indicated the exam
table.
Jeffrey did as he was told.
The doctor checked his pulse and shone a light
down his throat, then into his ears, and listened to his
breathing with a stethoscope. This routine made
Jeffrey feel properly inspected. He’d had to pull his
shirt up and the doctor had seen his stomach, its furry
corrugations.
‘Chest infection,’ the doctor said, and sat at his
computer again while Jeffrey got off the table and
tucked his shirt into his trousers.
The patient was relieved that there was actually
something wrong with him.
‘Plus,’ the doctor continued, ‘you’re terribly unfit.

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All the signs point to stress, except the chest infection,
which points to cigarettes. Otherwise, everything is
fine. You can sit down again.’
A cold mass settled inside Jeffrey as he sat.
Doctor Stone made out a prescription for
antibiotics and cortisone, and a request for blood
tests. ‘Tell me this. Do you ever intend to have
children?’
‘No.’ This approach was new.
‘Are you going out with anyone?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Be serious. You might want to have children one
day, right?’
‘No.’
‘Work with me here. What age are you now?
Forty?’
‘Thirty-four.’
‘Right. So let me tell you this. Say you do have kids,
if you don’t give up the fags you won’t be around to
see them grow up.’
Jeffrey deflated a little. Was that another smug look
on the doctor’s face or still the same one?
‘How much would you go through in a day?’
‘Twenty, max.’ Jeffrey fidgeted.
‘Well, as I said…’
‘I should be around for my children.’
‘No. They should be around for you.’

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‘Excuse me?’
Doctor Stone leaned forward an inch. ‘Let me put a
little scenario to you. You’ll meet some lovely woman
and you’ll have kids. Then you’ll work your
considerable butt off to provide a home and education
for the little rug-rats, so you’ll never see them as
they’re growing up. But then when they’re finished
school and you’re retired, then will you get to see
them? I don’t think so. When you should be able to
enjoy the company of your children, you’ll be only a
photo on the wall. “Why is Daddy a Polaroid,
Mammy?” they will ask.
‘And here’s the kicker. Here comes the bad news.
Say your wife is still a relatively young woman, still
relatively attractive, right? Now, to coin a phrase, it’s
a truth universally acknowledged that a youngish,
good-looking woman in possession of a small fortune
in life assurance must be in want of a husband. So
what’s to stop some Johnny-come-lately moving in
and taking over everything you’ve built up? You see
what I’m saying here? Your wife won’t be sentimental
about it, believe me. She’ll soon be sleeping with
some randomer in your bed as if you had never
existed. He’ll get the benefit of everything you
sacrificed for the sake of your family. And all because
you didn’t give up smoking now.’ Doctor Stone sat
back again and folded his arms like a genie.

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‘Christ.’
‘No, think about it. Sure, she’ll look back on you
fondly but you’ll be dead. It’s up to you. If you don’t
mind having a short life, go ahead and smoke. But if
you do, give up now.’
‘I…will.’
‘That said, I suggest you don’t give up until you
really want to.’
‘But — ’
‘You have to want to, and when you’re ready, here’s
a little plan to stick to.’ Doctor Stone clapped his
hands together. ‘Make a list of the reasons you’re
giving it up. Lung cancer. Chest infections. Poor
circulation in the wedding tackle. Take out that list
every time you feel like a smoke. Save up the money
you’d be spending on the fags for six months, as a
little incentive. Tenner a day? After half a year, when
your physical addiction is gone, you’ll have a nice tidy
sum. Take that money and blow it on something for
yourself. A new sound system. A weekend in Paris. An
hour with a very good hooker. Something fun. You
have to treat yourself.’
‘I thought that’s why I was paying you.’
The doctor didn’t hear him. He was concentrating
on his spiel. ‘Then you can enjoy being more than a
sperm donor, and a lump sum when you’re dead.’
‘What else is there?’

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Doctor Stone smirked. ‘You’ve got me, there.’
Jeffrey coughed and tasted blood.
The doctor watched him with mild interest as the
rattle died down. He seemed to be waiting for a
decision from his patient.
Jeffrey sighed, straightened in his seat and pulled on
the lapels of his jacket. ‘Look here, doctor. None of
what you say is relevant to me. There was someone
once but only that one. No one has touched me since,
not intimately, which is just as well. Women find me
revolting, and they’re right. Men too. So I’m sorry
but the scenario you paint is one I have no real
interest in pursuing.’
Jeffrey smiled uncertainly. Tears formed, uncalled-
for, in his eyes.
‘Jesus, man.’ Doctor Stone put out a hand and
almost took Jeffrey’s but hesitated then withdrew. He
picked up the prescription and the request form and
gave them to the patient, who took the paperwork and
folded it into his pocket. They both stood up at once,
moved by the same weary spirit.
‘Call me in a week or two after you get those tests
done.’ The doctor said. ‘In the meantime, get some
exercise and put some bloody elbow grease into it.
Man up and lose the flab.’
Jeffrey felt a new stillness. ‘There’s something else.
I think I want to talk to you about something else. I

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just mentioned there was someone, once.’
Doctor Stone frowned. ‘Sorry, Jeff, but you’ll have
to make another appointment.’
‘But I really need to —’
‘Ask the girl on the desk, there’s a good man.’
Jeffrey nodded slowly then turned for the door and
the doctor stepped in front of him to hold it open.
Stone held his other hand out to shake but Jeffrey
didn’t take it.
Outside, the pharmacy next door to the clinic had
just closed. He stood in its doorway to light a smoke,
so that the wind would not thwart him, then he
walked off slowly, determined to enjoy this final
cigarette.
The chill in the air made his bones feel exposed like
a sculpture made of X-rays.
At the tram stop a young couple, wrapped in fleeced
jackets, generated an aura of being newly in love.
They held hands and played casually with each other’s
gloved fingers. Jeffrey regarded them with pity. One
day, my friends, all this will not be yours.
He got the LUAS to Spencer Dock and crossed the
road. A slice of light, his office floated above in the
dark. He strode past it and over to the aborted
apartment building. There he found a gap in the
perimeter fence that he had made two nights
previously, when he’d broken in to have a look

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around. He pulled it wide and squeezed in. Despite
the state of his chest, he ran wheezing to the door that
he knew would give. Now he started up the service
stairwell, huffing all the way, one step after another.
Three times on his climb, he stopped for a breather,
the air becoming icy in his lungs. It took him ten
minutes to reach the sixteenth level, where he
wandered out into the frost-covered concrete floor of
what would have been a master bedroom. There was
fluid in his throat now and a rising pain in his arm.
The wind slapped his face and he surrendered to the
assault so that he no longer felt it. The exertion of his
climb had dulled his perception. This room had the
city for walls but he barely saw it.
Jeffrey undid the buttons on his peacoat and
shucked it off. That felt better. He dropped his tartan
scarf. At the edge of the concrete floor he stopped.
Jeffrey looked over at his office and concentrated his
vision but could see no one there.
After shaking off one shoe then the other, he bent
and rolled his socks down and tucked them into the
shoes and god, how the cold stabbed up through his
bare feet into his shins, how his body hollowed itself
out.
The doctor had said to sit so Jeffrey did as he was
told. He sleepwalked back into the almost-room and
sat down at the centre of it. His suit felt thin against

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the icy air. He could not feel his fingers anymore.
Nor could he now feel his lips, one lifting from the
other, even as a word, a weightless word released at
last, evaporated through them. ‘Juniper.’ The name
hushed into the gloom of this darkening city.
The sounds of night itself were becoming faint. The
sirens and bells faded, the shrieking of gulls flying
level with him grew distant, and the jagged music of
the city softened into one brittle note that played out
on the air and was gone.

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Interstate

Now there was the road. Now there was the desert
road flashing by, and Michio’s car, a Chevy Impala,
which Oliver had borrowed without asking. Rufus the
dog was present in the aftermath of her fur. She was a
bitch collie but Michio had decided to give her a male
name. He had thought it funny to do so. It was a
political statement too. Oliver was not quite sure what
he’d meant by that.
Rufus was dead. Her ashes were settled in an urn on
top of the refrigerator in their enormous kitchen.
Oliver missed her. He missed the way she’d land her
chin on his lap when he was eating at the table. She
would look up and emit a barely audible tone, her
pleading eyes popping, her nose moist, her tongue out
and trembling.
In the end, Michio had insisted on the needle.
There was nothing left of her, nothing to be done.
Even weeks later, he still said it.
By now he would be getting home from Montana
State and would see the note on the kitchen table. He
might call, but Oliver’s phone was turned off.

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Now Oliver spotted an object up ahead and to his
right. As he passed, he saw it was a solitary wooden
shack, set only a few yards in from the road.
He caught it again in the rear-view mirror. Out on
the porch, a fat man waited with his retriever. Man
and dog stood still, staring out like they and the house
itself were expecting some invisible signal to change
and let them cross.
Why did that man have a dog?
Shortly Oliver saw something else, a broken-down
pick-up truck on the hard shoulder. Michio would
know how to repair it. Even though he was a
professor, he worked in his father’s garage during his
summer visits home. Michio would get that old jalopy
going again. The driver stood by the truck with its
open hood. He waved at Oliver, who waved back.
Repairing mechanical objects was not Oliver’s
strength. Maybe in Modesto he’d learn how to fix
things.
He concentrated on the mirage floating in his
windshield. This was new but he had not paid it any
attention, the smudged horizon like a final layer on a
blacktop of air. Power pylons and cables turned the
sky into sheet music whipping past, crazy desert birds
for notes.
Someone was out there. Oliver took his foot off the
gas a little and slowed down. It was a woman,

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resolving out of the haze, floating in the middle of the
interstate. The woman was wearing a summer dress,
patterned with individual poppy flowers against white,
like she’d been shot across her body by a very precise
dressmaker-assassin who had nonetheless missed her
head.
Oliver had plenty of time to take her in. Her hair
was shoulder-length and black. It danced across her
face even though the air out there was dead. He took
the car slower again and decided to drive past her.
The woman looked shattered. She was shaking her
head and it was this that caused her hair to flip. Was
she talking to herself? As she came into focus out of
the horizon, Oliver saw that she was barefoot.
He thought about getting the hell out of here but
he was intrigued. Where had she come from? There
was nothing for miles except the car and the road and
the woman.
Now she was upon him, still walking slowly. She
didn’t stop, nor did she see him. He stopped the car
then rolled down the window on the passenger side.
‘Need a ride?’
The woman kept walking. She passed the open
window. Her poppy-patterned dress was dirty. Should
he hit the gas? Behind his car, the woman stopped and
turned. In the mirror he saw her staring in.
Oliver didn’t get out. He was curious now. He

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slammed hard on the horn for one sharp second.
Then he slammed again and kept his hand on it for a
good long moment. There was no reaction from the
woman. She had stopped moving her head from side
to side.
No way was he was getting out now. He started the
engine and stepped gingerly on the pedal, intending
to inch away from her before rocketing off down the
road.
The woman bent forward and slapped both hands
loudly on the back of the car. The bang shook him.
Thunk. Thunk. Fuck. She might have dented the
body.
She came around to the passenger door and opened
it. Oliver gazed at her. He cleared the seat, sliding a
couple of porno magazines and Rufus’s old dog collar
into the footwell. He sniffed as she sat in and closed
the door. The woman smelled of engine oil.
‘Sorry about the stench, lady,’ he said. Notes of wet
fur clung to the interior. ‘Used to be a dog owned this
car.’
Oliver drove off again. He kept the pace of the
vehicle slow and steady for now. In a moment he
would ask what the trouble was.
Then something new went past. A pair of red court
shoes, one with a broken heel, bled in the sunlight like
roadkill couture. And they were gone.

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‘Those your shoes?’ Oliver asked.
The woman said nothing.
Oliver reckoned she was about twenty-five. Maybe
she was a runaway bride or a groupie cut loose by a
band. How long had she been wandering in the
Mojave heat?
‘You could use some water,’ Oliver said.
No response.
He drummed his fingers on the wheel. He didn’t
appreciate the silent treatment. It was impolite, for
one thing, even if she was in trouble.
‘Where you going?’ Oliver glanced sideways at her.
The woman continued to stare. ‘Don’t look at me,’
she whispered. She put her hand to her forehead and
her fingertips came away with blood from under her
hair.
Why hadn’t he seen it? Oliver slammed on the
brakes. The car skidded and stopped.
With one hand he found some Kleenex in the glove
compartment. He dabbed at her blood. She breathed
in sharply then closed her eyes and lost consciousness,
her head lolling to one side away from his hand.
‘Shit.’ Oliver dropped the Kleenex on the floor.
He started up and drove on. There’d be an exit
soon. He could take her to a doctor. She must have
been in an accident. She must have amnesia.
He scanned the horizon for any sign of a town. He

25
tried to think of something other than the woman but
all that came to him was Rufus, with her cancer and
arthritis and canine senility. Even dogs got old. Even
Rufus had got old and died.
The woman stirred. Oliver caught her movement in
the corner of his eye but didn’t speak. After a moment
she managed to open her mouth.
‘Good morning.’ Her voice croaked, like a
transmission from some other source, an alien vocal
fry, her body as amplifier.
Oliver watched her slow revival.
‘You knocked yourself out pretty good,’ he said
after a minute.
‘What?’
‘You were bleeding.’
‘Who is — OK. What am I doing in this car?’
‘You tell me.’ Oliver glanced at her reflection.
There was an absence in her expression. ‘Picked you
up about an hour back. You were pretty shook. A little
bleeding. Were you in a crash? I didn’t see a crash.’
The woman leaned over and touched his arm then
took her hand away instantly as if she’d burnt it.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Oliver.’
‘Ella.’
‘What do you remember?’
She looked back at the interstate rolling away

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behind them. ‘My shoes.’
‘You were walking in the middle of the road. No
shoes. You seemed out of it. Were you on anything?’
‘No.’
‘Did you have an accident?’
‘I don’t remember.’ Looking perplexed, she sat up
straight.
‘Tell me later. We gotta get you to a doctor now.
Should be an exit coming up.’
Soon Oliver saw an intersection, comforting green
signs over the lanes.
‘Are we going to a town?’ Ella asked.
‘Exit up ahead.’ Oliver slowed down and let the car
cruise. ‘There’ll be a town.’
‘Who are you?’ Ella asked.
‘Told you, I’m Oliver.’
Now the exit was upon them and Oliver turned off
the highway. With any luck he could drop her
somewhere and not feel too bad about it.
Ella played with her hair. ‘I was on my way to see
my father.’
‘You sound too sad for someone so young. Are you
running away from home?’
She smiled bitterly.
It would soon be late afternoon. Michio might have
called already; might even have reported him missing.
‘Where’s your father?’

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‘Bozeman.’
‘That’s funny,’ Oliver said. ‘Bozeman?’
‘Why is that funny?’
‘No reason.’
Oliver didn’t trust her seeming fragility.
The sun was descending and there was still no town.
The fuel gauge was getting low. Ella slumped back
into silence for a minute. Then she bounced forward
in her seat, sparking suddenly. ‘What about you,
Oliver?’
‘What?’
‘Where are you going?
‘Modesto. My uncle’s place.’
‘Modesto. That armpit.’
‘That armpit. My uncle says it’s a good city. He
might give me a job.’
‘What kind of job?’
‘Machine parts. I’m a salesman.’
‘What happened your last job?’
‘I left it. Just this morning. Walked out.’
‘Are you stupid?’
‘Most of the time,’ Oliver said, ‘yeah.’

A Town Pump appeared. Oliver was glad to see the


lights on in the diner and that it didn’t seem busy. He
pulled in and stopped. A sign said: Next town 50 miles!
Dont Wait! Eat here!

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Oliver turned to Ella. ‘Why don’t I get you to a
doctor? There’s a town.’
Ella flinched.
‘Damn.’ He got out and slammed the door.
Ella stepped out too and stretched. ‘I have to wash
my face.’
She yawned then brought her arms down. She
sauntered across the concrete apron to the restroom.
Oliver shook his head. He opened the tank, took a
pump gun and inserted it. He watched the numbers
roll. It was getting late and the ancient music of the
desert had begun that horrendous symphony. Night
creatures, the night wind accompanied now by the
heavy rattle from the machine. He had nearly filled
the tank when he heard the rising grumble of a car in
the distance. Now it was a roar. The car was heading
in the direction they’d come from. Oliver drew the
pump gun out and replaced it in its cradle. He put the
cap back on his tank, and watched the other car speed
past. It was an Impala with a woman at the wheel. The
coincidence made him smile. Maybe the woman was
heading to Great Falls.
Then déja-vu. A split-second vision of Ella at the
wheel of his Impala. Oliver shook the image off. The
real Ella was returning from the restroom. She didn’t
look different. He caught the smell of gas-station
soap.

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‘What’s up?’ Ella walked with an easier gait now, as
if her visit had refreshed her.
‘I’ve been driving too long,’ Oliver said.
They went in. Oliver paid for the gas at the counter.
The sound of the jukebox hit him with melancholy at
first. It was playing ‘Leader of the Pack’. That song
always made him sad. It reminded him of a girlfriend
he had in the days when he used to swing the other
way.
The waitress led them to a booth. She placed two
glasses of water on the table. ‘Be right back.’
Before she could leave, Oliver said, ‘Just coffee.’
The waitress smiled and sauntered away.
Ella picked up the menu. ‘I’m not hungry.’
The waitress brought two mugs and filled them
from her coffee pot. ‘You guys see anything you like?’
‘We’ll let you know,’ Ella said.
The waitress smiled and departed.
The diner was caressed by a pleasant, soft light,
which surprised Oliver. They appeared to be the only
customers, which didn’t. He took one sip of coffee. It
was a little burnt.
‘So, Ella, you remember anything more?’
‘Well…’
‘It’s OK.’
‘You know I told you I was going to see my father?
That I had to go see my father?’

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