DAVE
A short story by Michaela Catalano
He stands on one side of the door. On the other side, the man with three eyes is rolling one of them, Dave can see, his almost normal face bulging through the fisheye of the narrow peephole.
"Look, dude. Just let me in, all right?"
"No. Are you kidding me? Get the fuck off my porch."
"Man, what are you afraid of?"
Dave doesn't even dignify this with a response. He removes his eye from the hole and leans his back up against the door's cold wood. Sweat runs down his brow and into his eye. He curses.
"Come on. It's cold out here, man. It's snowing. I don't even have a jacket. Look at this shit. Let me use your phone. This is ridiculous."
"Use somebody else's goddamn phone.”
"There's nobody else for miles. My car's busted. I walked like a mile in the fucking snow before I saw your house. Let me use your phone."
"It's not snowing. It's July. It was 85 out today, you crazy fuck."
"Jesus! Are you okay in there?"
"What do you mean, am I okay?"
"I mean, July? Really? It's December. It's December 13th. It's fucking snowing, man."
Dave is quiet for a while. The man with three eyes is obviously lying or insane. He looks out the peephole again. The man is standing on his porch, arms wrapped around his waist, shivering. Snowflakes shimmer in the afternoon light before collapsing into the white waste surrounding the house.
"Well what do you want me to do about it?"
"What?"
"So what if it's December. How is that my fault?"
"How is... what? What are you talking about?"
"Don't blame me just because it's snowing. I don't control the weather, asshole. I'm not the Weather God."
"Nobody's saying you're the... Weather God. My car is broken down. I need to use your phone."
"Go to somebody else's house!"
“There’s. Nobody. Else. For. Miles. We’ve gone over this. You live here, man. Listen. I don’t understand why you won’t let me use your phone.”
“You have three eyes!”
Nobody says anything for a while. Dave is leaning against the door again, although he doesn’t remember moving. The man with three eyes sighs. Dave slumps down onto his ass, and in the process bangs his head, producing a loud thump.
“...Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
“Just leave me alone.”
“My name is Greg.”
“What?”
“It’s my name.”
“I don’t want to know your fucking name.”
“Well, now you know it. Listen. I could die out here. It’s really, seriously fucking cold. I just want to use your phone and call somebody.”
“I’m not letting you in my house. You have three eyes.”
“I don’t have three eyes, man. Are you high? Is that what’s going on? Because that’s cool, whatever. I just need to use your phone.”
“I’m not high. I’m high? You’re the guy with three fucking eyes!”
“I don’t have three eyes, man. Just look at me.”
Dave groans, struggles to his feet and lowers his eye to the peephole yet again. Greg is staring pointedly at the other side of the door. His third eye twitches shut and opens again mischeviously.
“You winked at me!”
“I didn’t wink.”
“You did it with your third eye!”
“Oh for fuck’s sake.”
“What, are you trying to psyche me out? D’you think if you keep saying you don’t have three eyes I’m just gonna believe you? I looked out the door, man! I saw your eyes. All three of them.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you think you saw. I’ve got two eyes. I’m just like you. I’m a regular guy. I’m from Chicago.”
“Where the fuck is Chicago?”
“What do you mean, where’s Chicago? It’s in Illinois.”
“Illinois, where?”
“Uh, America?”
“What the fuck is America?”
“The country we’re in? Right now?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“Oh my god. Oh my god you’re fucking crazy. We’re in America. We’re American. This is... I’m going to die out here. You’re gonna let me die. It’s fucking freezing and I’m gonna die because the only house within miles is home to a FUCKING PSYCHOPATH!”
It’s quiet for a while. Dave stands there thinking until Greg starts beating on the door with his fists, then steps back. The door shudders and groans. Greg is yelling and knocking and bashing his hands and feet against the door.
“LET ME IN! LET ME IN! JESUS PLEASE LET ME IN!”
Dave ignores him. Eventually Greg stops his assault and begins to sob. This goes on for a while. Dave sighs.
“Will you promise not to do anything but use the phone?”
“... What?”
“Promise not to do anything but use my phone and leave.”
“Christ, of course. I promise.”
Dave opens the door and Greg walks in. As he moves in, looking for the phone, Dave notices that he has four arms. He’s not quite sure how this fact slipped by him before. Greg picks the phone up off the wall and dials.
“Hey, John. Yeah, it’s me. No. No, listen, my car broke down. Yeah. Some bumfuck place out off the 78."
There is a halo of hot light forming around Greg's body as he talks. Dave watches it, his mouth slightly open. The space above Greg's head is twisty and blurred with heat, the ceiling's wood boards beginning to smoulder and blacken.
"Just go northeast for a while, you can’t miss it. Only car for miles. I’m gonna run back there and wait. No, I’m calling from somebody’s house. My cell’s dead, that’s why. Shit, I know, you don’t have to tell me. All right. All right. See you.”
He turns to Dave. A narrow, ragged hole has burned its way through the ceiling, and standing beneath it, Greg shines with gray winter light and his own blistering aura.
“Thanks, man. You’re a livesafer.”
He reaches out his hand. Dave takes it. It feels cool and dry. They shake.
"No problem."
Greg walks back out into the snow. Dave stands in the doorway, watching as he slowly fades into the distance. His arms are opening as he walks, multiplying and spreading out in a fan, four becoming six and then eight and then ten and then twelve, flakes of white turning to rain and plummeting as they brush up against his radiance, the wet furrow of melted snow in his wake glittering under the dull and distant light of the evening sun and the seven pale circles of early moon.
Dave shuts the door, locks it, slides the deadbolt into place, opens his closet door and picks up a bucket. He stares up through the hole in his ceiling for a while, letting the snow settle on his cheeks and in his hair, then sets the bucket beneath the hole. He sits down on his couch, fishes the remote out from between the cushions, leans back, and turns on the TV.
