Burn the Future

      Normally, I never go to bars, especially not alone, but Miranda’s bridal shower drove me over the edge. We were all sitting around a large table, wearing these pastel-colored dresses she insisted on, and drinking impossibly small cups of tea. Catherine, the maid of honor, joked that she didn’t expect the groom-to-be, Tony, to take so long with the proposal. Miranda and Tony had been dating a whopping year and a half before he asked, after all. Catherine had only dated her husband eight months before they got engaged and she liked to wave that over everyone’s head.

           That’s when Miranda says, “I know! I was getting worried. At least I got married before Bree. Can you imagine how embarrassing that would be?”

           The comment stung, but I tried to tell myself the joke was that I didn’t even have a boyfriend, not that I wasn’t someone who could get married. They quickly clarified for me though when Catherine chuckled and said, “C’mon, that’ll never happen. Who’d marry her?”

            Attempting to stand up for myself, I laughed along and said, “Of course it won’t. I never want to get married.”

           All the women looked at me in a way that told me not wanting to be married made me more of a loser than being someone too undesirable. I sighed and rubbed my fingers over the lighter in my purse, thinking how much I could have used a cigarette. I must have smoked a pack since there and the bar.

           Like marrying Tony was a big thing to brag about, anyway. The guy once fell into a laughing fit that lasted over an hour over a mediocre fart joke. His favorite thing to do was participate in food eating challenges that made me queasy to even hear about. He also kept millipedes as pets. Apparently, the quality of man didn’t matter. Only that one existed and provided a ring as quickly as possible to show you were such a catch that man didn’t need any time to think it over. Wasn’t thinking it over a good thing?

           I wanted to prove them wrong about me though. I guess going to a bar wasn’t necessarily the way to do that, but where does anyone meet people anymore? I won’t meet anyone curled up on my couch with a real, normal cup of tea, watching movies. Besides, this bar claimed to have a music act, “Benji and the Banjo.” Who could pass up a great banjo act?

           Due to the dim lighting of the bar, I had to pull out my phone to read the menu. I was starving. The bridal shower invitation mentioned lunch, but the reality had been a plate of bite sized cucumber and lobster sandwiches. I noticed the daggers of disgust hurled at Louise for eating three, so I didn’t dare grab more than one.

           I ordered a Shirley temple, because I know better than to be a single woman ordering alcohol at a bar. That’s how the murder stories on my cop show always seem to start out. Then I got myself a plate of loaded nachos, because why not? I turned to the stage in time to see a man walking out. At least, I think it was a man. Where the head should be, was a paper mache fox head. He wore an orange, yellow, and blue flannel tweed jacket, and dark jeans. He did not have a banjo or any instrument.

           He walked up to the microphone and stood quietly for a moment. Then into the microphone he said, “Oh, uh…well, hello.”

           Did paper mache affect acoustics? Wouldn’t that mask be hot on stage under all those intense lights?

           Then without introduction, he launched into what could best be described as some kind of spoken word poetry. Whatever it was, had a hauntingly beautiful quality to it. The words captivated me to such a degree, I forgot where I was and didn’t notice the nachos placed before me.

           When he left the stage, I returned to the present dazed and trying to piece together the lapse in time. I checked my phone. No messages or notifications, of course. Then I dug into the cold, soggy nachos.

           The man with the fox head sat a bar stool away from me. He ordered a cola and placed a book on the counter in front of him. Burn the Future, one of my favorite books. My heart swelled with longing.

           “You were amazing up there,” I said.

           He turned to face me, and I wondered about his expression. I couldn’t even see his eyes. Just black empty space. “Really? Well, thanks.”

           “My name is Bree Wallows.” I held out my hand. He stared at it, or so I thought.

           “Red Fox.”

           I laughed, but he did not. “Oh, sorry. I…thought you were Benji, I guess?”

           “Something happened to Benji.”

           “Oh! I hope he’s okay.”

           “Why? Do you know him?”

           “No, but…” I didn’t know what to say. “I love that book.”

           “Hmm.”

           Why did he wear a mask? Asking didn’t seem appropriate, but I wanted to know. Maybe he was incredibly good looking but wanted to make sure he was recognized for his talent instead. His body did look fit from what I could tell. Imagine if I dated a musician. That would prove them all wrong. Something about him appealed to me. I wanted to know everything.

           “You want some nachos?” I offered.

           “Uh…no, thanks.” He looked in both directions. “You shouldn’t eat those either. Earlier I was rummaging through their dumpster and saw from the packaging they use Cheesy Cheese which is a dangerous cheese making corporation. They use chemicals that are highly addictive but will shorten your life span and cause fertility issues. Basically, they’re wiping out humans. Well, except maybe those who are lactose intolerant. Which might lead to a whole thing with evolution.”

           An alarm went off. No one else seemed to hear it, but I heard it loud and clear. I rubbed my fingers over the lighter again, while trying to think of something clever to say. “I have a friend who is lactose intolerant, but she eats tons of cheese anyway because she craves the flavor too much.”

            Red sighed. “They’ll get us all. Everyone who isn’t in the know.”

           My brain couldn’t even begin to wrap around how insane this sounded. Was it a joke? Was he just quirky and trying to be interesting? Still, there’s something amazing about feeling like a special “in the know” group of anything.

           “Are you dating anyone?” Was that too much?

           “No,” he sighed. “I was dating Esmeralda, the sword swallower, but she left me for Jacob, the snake charmer.”

           “Oh.”

           “Are you?”

           My heart danced. He might be interested. “No. The last guy I dated was just a plumber. He also left me for someone else. A cam girl that wasn’t really into him and had him arrested for stalking her.”

           Red’s head was turned in my direction, but I had no idea what was going on behind the mask. Was he staring in disbelief? Looking sympathetically? Showing signs that we were one in the same and therefore should be together forever? The mask made it impossible to know, but I had this feeling that things were really working out. Underneath that mask was an amazing, handsome guy. He’d know my feelings were real because I loved him when he was hidden behind a mask. He’d reveal himself as someone breathtaking like a toad turned into a prince, and I’d be the luckiest girl. All my so-called friends will be jealous. My heart beat fast like a drum in a punk rock song, and my head grew cloudy and light.

           “You want to see a movie?” I asked. A part of me knew I needed something to take this to the next step, but I didn’t want to seem too forward. Nothing has ever felt as romantic to me as a dark, movie theater.

           “I only like old, silent films. Modern cinema is all propaganda.”

           I had no idea what that meant. Nor had I ever seen a silent film in all my life. “I completely agree.”

           “Really? That’s so exciting. Tell me about your collection.”

           I froze. “Um…I don’t believe in collecting movies.”

           “I can understand that. Why don’t we go to my place?”

           “Do you have a good collection?”

           “No, but I’d like to show you my art.”

           “Oh, okay. I’d love that.” I took a sip of my drink to hide my goofy grin.

           The air outside was cold enough to turn my breath into visible smoke, but I didn’t feel the chill with all the warmth radiating from my body. I couldn’t stop smiling, but luckily the night was too dark for him to see that. Self-sabotaging thoughts like “Why was he rummaging through their dumpster?” and “It’s a bit weird he is a cheese conspiracy theorist,” tried to darken my happiness, but I pushed them aside.

           We walked to a section of town I had never been too. The only light came from the full moon, and the beautiful, sparkling path it shined across a very swampy smelling body of water. What was that smell? It smelled like a mixture of a dead mouse in your car heater, chemicals, and earthy mud. Brick buildings surrounded us. They all had boarded up windows. A bag moved across the street in a strange way, like being carried by something I couldn’t see. I squinted towards the ground and noticed thousands of cockroaches marching around. With a gasp, I grabbed Red’s arm. He turned towards me but didn’t say anything.

           “A-are those cockroaches?”

           “Harmless little fellows.”

           “Where are we going?”

           “A little further.”

           “Why does that water smell so bad?”

           “Hmm. I never even notice the smell. What’s it like?”

           “Dead things.”

           “Rats probably. I see the bodies floating around sometimes. I think the chemical waste kills them when they try to drink it.”

           My stomach flipped. The alarm sounded again, and this time I realized it was in my head. My body knows something I don’t. Although my feet itch to run, I can’t offend him like that. He lives here so it must not be that bad. I rubbed the lighter for comfort. Would he care if I smoked?

           He pulled me towards a rundown building with boarded windows. The door creaked loudly when he pushed it open. Then he guided me up a terrifying staircase, with several missing boards and large holes. I saw rats scurrying around. Then we entered a room, and he lit several candles. A filthy mattress laid on the floor. Clothing was either scattered across the floor or hanging from pieces of sheetrock with thumbtacks. I looked from painting to painting. Each one filled with nightmare inducing images. All of them showed women being savagely attacked by monsters. All were painted in sickly colors like mustard yellow and swamp green. My feet stepped back instinctively. I needed to be careful. I glanced at the book still in his hand.

           “Who’s your favorite character in Burn the Future?” I needed reassurance of our connection. Proof I wasn’t wrong about him. What I needed to hear him say was, Barnaby. I connected so much with Barnaby when reading, that I miss him whenever I wasn’t reading the book. Sometimes to the point it made me cry. 

           His head titled towards the book and then he flung it on the ground. “I haven’t read any of it.”

           “Oh. What have you read?”

           “I don’t really read anything actually.”

           “You just like carrying around books?”

           “I like the type of person people think I am when they see me doing so.” He stepped closer to me. “I want to make a painting of you.”

           “Of me?” I laughed.

           “Yeah. A little of your blood will help capture the essence. It won’t hurt.”

           My body froze and my eyes widened. I laughed nervously. “You’re a funny one.”

           “How so?” His head titled. I wished I could see the expression on his face. I needed to.

           He stepped closer, and I threw my fist out punching into his mask. My fist broke through the paper mache, but it never hit flesh. All I felt was empty air. Frantically, I grabbed at his mask, pulling it apart. There was nothing there. He had no head at all. I screamed and turned to run. He grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled me close.

           “Being the subject of a painting will make you very important. That’s what you want, right? To be the envy of others. I can give you that.”

           I whined. “No, please. Let me go home.”

           “We’ll be together forever this way,” he said in an icy whisper that made me shiver.

           “What are you?”

           Although I couldn’t see his expression, because he didn’t have a face. I felt the sensation of a mocking smirk. Without a word, he pulled me towards a blank canvas and a metal tray of supplies. I rubbed my lighter for comfort and glanced at a rag covered in paints and oils. I didn’t know for sure if it would work, but when he turned his broken mask face away from me, I flicked the lighter until a flame lighted and lit the rag. I grabbed a corner that wasn’t on fire. The flames grew, greedily eating the rag. When he turned back, I tossed it at him. He jumped back startled, and I ran towards the stairs. The flames quickly went to work consuming the sheetrock, clothing, and wood. I flew down the stairs as fast as I could while still watching not to fall through. I heard him shriek, crying about his precious work and I fled.

           Once I was far enough away, I called to report the fire. I couldn’t wait to be home on my couch, all alone.

           For the next week, my nights were filled with nightmares of men without heads, talking foxes, bloody paintings, and trickery. My days were jumpy and on edge. Nothing happened and I kept assuring myself it was all behind me. I scanned the news constantly for any word of the fire or story about the fox man. Nothing. I almost wondered if I had made the whole thing up. I could check the places where he was, but I feared I’d see him again. Maybe in an owl mask this time.

           Then one day, I came across a viral video about a sword swallower named Esmeralda. A firefighter came across a portrait of her being attacked by a monster while putting out a fire in an abandoned building. Enchanted by the portrait, he shared it with everyone he knew looking for the artist or the subject. Esmeralda became an instant obsession. I groaned. She wasn’t nearly as beautiful as they said. Just because someone makes a painting of you, doesn’t mean you’re important. What’ll they think when they find out it was made of her blood? Of course, the video then told the tale of how the painting was made from her blood and people found it riveting and inspiring. Evidentially, blood isn’t very flammable, and that may have saved the art. There was no mention of Red Fox anywhere though. Everyone wanted to find him and be immortalized in one of his paintings like she was. No one could.

           I laughed and felt a weight had been lifted off me. I didn’t regret anything. I’m happy as can be now; alone and invisible, patiently waiting for someone of quality. People have no idea what they envy.