Dr. Billy Malone is new in town but it looks like he won’t be staying in the remote, little town of Desert View the way he imagined. Billy, you see, has a condition nobody would recognize, one which leads to his premature funeral.
What would you do if you were buried alive? This is the Billy’s story … once Dr. Malone, now Billy the corpse.
Desert View, CA 1898
The day crawled on like a dehydrated turtle, blinded and baking in the sun.
Waves of heat sat suspended over the dirt streets. Although the whole town was under expansion to greet the new century, neither man nor beast desired progress enough to move against the searing temperatures. The saloon was open, but no one played the piano, or danced, or started a fight, or even drank too much for fear of stroke.
The only movement in town seemed to be at the end of Main Street, on the porch of the general store.
The old oak sign protested the sparse August breeze. Rusty chains heaved and sighed as they rocked their monstrous burden back and forth, until it was stopped dead by the forehead of William Malone.
“Ouch.”
Young Dr. Malone rubbed his hairline gently and smiled as he waited for the inevitable chiding that was to follow. “Ah have to warn you about that sign every week, Billy!” Chester Kinslow chastised him, never looking up from the checker board he shared with Pete Cawley. “You’re just goin’ to have to stop growin’!” Pete laughed at this like it was the first time Chester had ever made the observation. It was an old wheeze of a laugh that made you sure the 78-year-old man was going abruptly hitch and heave and fall over dead on the playing field, forcing the checkers to actually move for the first time that summer.
“Yes, sir.” Billy smiled. He could have avoided the sign each and every visit (well, except for the first time when he wasn’t paying attention as he climbed the porch steps. That impact nearly buckled his knees), but he enjoyed amusing the geriatric pair. It made them comfortable around him, and that was important. He crossed the porch and put his elbow in the shoulder of Chief Buffalo Chips, the wooden Indian. “You know, you can crown Pete some time this year.”
“Don’t you rush me, boy. Every move…every twitch…every blink is a message of some kind to your opponent. You remember that.”
“The pieces are in the exact same positions they were in last week. The only message you’re sending Pete is that you’re comatose.”
“Comatose…” Pete repeated. He wheezed out another laugh which abruptly turned into a hacking cough. He covered his mouth just as a ball of phlegm roughly an inch in diameter flew out onto his hand. He promptly sucked it back in, turned his head, and spit it over the rail and into the dirt road. “Ah kin still make it over the rail, Billy!”
Chester beamed at his friend. “Hell, he’s been gettin’ better distance since he lost his teeth! Ain’t that right, Pete?”
Pete just wheezed his approval, gleefully displaying his grayish-brown gums.
Billy’s face tightened at the display, but his smile barely faltered.
“I’m going in for the week’s supplies, boys. I’ll talk to you in a bit.”
“You can talk all you like,” Chester commented absently as he turned his attention back to the ostensibly petrified board. “We still ain’t lettin’ you poke ‘round on us.” Dr. Malone’s posture shrank imperceptibly as he stepped through the door.
The lettering painted on the glass read just like the rickety wooden sign; Hatskin’s General Store. Gustof Hatskin was in the back, assisting an elderly Negro woman with some yardage goods. The bell suspended by a bobtail over the door frame clearly announced Billy’s arrival, and Gus looked up with the same welcoming expression the young man had come to appreciate since moving to Desert View.
“Doc! Just the resident we required!” Gus directed his customer down the aisle toward the dapper yet enormous man who entered. “Come down here Ms. Sarah, and let Dr. Malone have a look over you.”
The frail woman never took her suspicious gaze off Billy as she side-stepped the 50-lb bags of flour and grain that littered the ply-wood floor with an ease that only came with familiarity. She stopped within a foot of the young physician, scrutinized him from head to foot, turned to Gustof and accused, “Where’s Doc Prichard?”
Gus rested his hands on the venerable woman’s shoulders. “I have told you Ms. Sarah, Doc Prichard retired. Now we have his fine nephew, William. He’s here to take care of you now.”
“Mis-ter Hatskins, since it’s obvious you don’t take an ol’ woman’s ailments seriously, ah’ll just have to do mah yardage shoppin’ elsewhere.” The tiny figure shrugged off the merchant’s hands, picked her cane off the coat tree next to Billy, shoed the “doctor” away from the door with a series of swats from said cane, and started for the outside.
“I’m the only dry goods in town, Ms. Sarah. You know that.”
“Then ah’ll open mah own! Don’t think ah cain’t!”
Billy thought the bell might fall off or the glass might shatter as she tried to slam the door home, but she simply couldn’t muster enough strength to make a very powerful exit. Billy and Gus stared through the glass in quiet fascination as she took the length of the porch to finish voicing her grievances. “Stupid ox of a boy is what he is! Ain’t no proper doctor! Tryin’ to peek under Ms. Sarah’s skirt! Don’t think ah don’t know!”
“That’d keep me as far from medicine as ah could git!” This came from the store front, followed by a wheezing, hack of a laugh.
“No one axed your opinion, Kinslow,” she said before turning her venom toward Pete, “and don’t you dare spit that at me, you old fool!”
Billy turned away from the minor skirmish outside and began ambling the aisles. Each time he was forced to duck the occasional skittle, pot, or scale that hung low from the rafters, he did so with a shrug.
“You took that well, Doc. People will come to you in time.”
“Just getting used to it, I guess. That’s the reaction I’m getting from everyone since Uncle Charles moved back east.” He picked up a plow harness and began rubbing his thumbs appreciatively into the leather. “What’s bothering her, Gus? Medically.”
“Just a touch of rheumatism. My mother called it ‘the knotting.’” Gus walked to the back shelves of the store and began replacing the bolts of cloth he had taken out to show Sarah.
“It’s the funniest thing, Gus,” Billy said as he gripped the straps and tugged, for no logical reason. “Most people aren’t suspicious of my age so much as my size.”
“That’s going to take some getting used to on their parts, Doc. What small town do you know of where the biggest man isn’t the sheriff or the blacksmith. You’re what they call an oddity right now, my young friend.” William looked puzzled. He let go of the straps and stood straight.
“I’m only a few inches taller than you, Gus. And I know you outweigh me. I’m not that big.”
“But ah grew up ‘round he’ye,” Gus thickened up his accent to accentuate his point. “This makes a difference. They know me, and mostly remember when I was a snot-nosed, flabby boy whose German mother would be screaming to come and help mein ‘fah-dare’ unload the ‘way-goon’ into the ‘stoke-room.’ Don’t be naive, Doc. You are six-and-a-half feet tall? Seven? You’re the biggest thing most of these people have seen in their lives. First pants you buy are gonna stick above your ankles. Which reminds me; have you visited Undertaker Wilson yet?”
“What? Where the hell’d that come from?”
Gus headed to the front counter. “Wilson’s caskets only go to six feet. I know. I order them. If you plan to stay here the rest of your life, you better make arrangements for afterwards. Unless you don’t mind being buried in two boxes? But by then, you will be in no position to complain, so why be concerned.”
“Who thinks about things like that?” Billy approached the front of the store as well. “I can’t believe I have to tell someone I want to be buried in one box. What kind of town is this?”
“This is still the west, after all, Doc. Still the frontier. But,” Gus cupped his hands and looked for his pad and pencil. “You did not come here for funeral arrangements. Yes? What can I order for you today, my friend?” Grateful to get off the topic of his interment, Billy opened his mouth to give a list of things he’d need from the coming month’s stage. What came out seemed to be the sound of a gunshot. He immediately closed his mouth again. Another shot rang out. This time the two men could tell it came from the outside. Turning their attention to Main Street, they witnessed what appeared to be most of the town running amok. A small tornado of dirt and steel whirled about in the center of the chaos.
“I can not remember the last time there was a gunfight in this town.”
“I don’t think that’s it.” Billy’s eyes squinted as he tried to see inside the whirlwind, as well as place the last time he heard that sound. “Sounds more like a backfire.” As he said this, he and Gus moved toward the door in unison.
“A what?”
They walked out of the store and joined Sarah, Chester, and Pete (the two men having actually gotten up from their precious game) at the oak railing.
William Malone was 26-years old when he stepped out of Hatskin’s General Store and into the hands of fate. He never really knew what hit him.
◆ ◆ ◆
There were certain advantages to being the Mayor of a town as small as Desert View. Towns primarily occupied by miners, settlers, and immigrants seeking steady work rarely produced politically savvy residents. People living hand-to-mouth don’t conspire and maneuver to oust an incumbent. As far as they’re concerned, you’re a Pharaoh. Public office is your birthright. You control property development and taxes, which translate into a lot of lives and livelihoods balanced on your whim. Unless you were a complete nuisance to the farms, the ranchers, or the banks, your job was pretty much secure until
death. So, if you liked to nip the bottle occasionally, or spend a little more time in the local bordello than a public official probably should? Let’s just say there weren’t a lot of community watchdogs in 1898.
But what Frank Tulpa liked most about his job was that every couple of years he would be invited east for some kind of partisan rally, and get to rub shoulders with congressmen and senators…and shop.
Frank Tulpa loved to shop.
The last trip, he brought back half-a-boxcar full of phonographs and cameras to share with the people of his hometown (at a modest profit for himself, certainly). But this year! This year he found the most wonderful invention ever produced by man! And it was all for him! This year, Frank Tulpa brought back…an automobile!
◆ ◆ ◆
“A what?”
Billy sighed. “A backfire, Gus. It’s caused by air buildup in the valves of a combustion engine. A motor car.” He thought Gus was putting him on. He could understand Chester and the rest not knowing, but surely word had gotten to the town’s merchant by now. He looked for a shred of recognition. Receiving none, he continued. “Motor car? You know, a horse-less carriage? An automobile?”
Still nothing. He really couldn’t blame them. If he hadn’t gone to medical school back east, he wouldn’t have known about them himself. Billy felt segregated by this knowledge somehow, so he decided to go down to the street for a closer look. Having no thought to amuse Chester and Pete, he carefully dodged the heavy oak sign and descended the three steps to the dirt road.
“Ah don’t know what that contraption is, but Tulpa sho’ is cuttin’ da fool!” Sarah observed. “An’, if mah eyes ain’t failin’, that’s a bottle in his hand! Someone’s in fer hurtful times!”
◆ ◆ ◆
Man and horse alike desperately tried to get out of the random path of the metal monstrosity. The carriage backfired once more. Horses began to throw their riders. The street became littered with sprawled, startled onlookers.
Sheriff Tyler had been inside the saloon, escaping the heat with a round of Texas Hold-‘em. He walked outside to see what had instigated the town to such a degree. He didn’t know what it was that Tulpa was riding, but he did see all the guns that were starting to be leveled at the Mayor. He meandered over to Cobalt, seemingly the only calm beast in town, and rode off toward the maelstrom.
◆ ◆ ◆
“Yuh best git back up here, boy!” Sarah called.
“It’s just a car. It’s not going very fast. And you had all better get used to it, because there’s going to be more of those things around in a few years.” Billy took a deep, hopeful breath. “Horses will be obsolete.”
“Yer talkin’ foolishness, boy!” As he said this, Chester never took his eyes off Tulpa’s wondrous machine. “Ain’t that right, Pete?”
Pete couldn’t respond, as he was too busy hacking his amusement over everyone talking the ass-step off their horses.
“It’s called progress, Chester. You can’t stand in its way.”
“You may wish to follow your own advice, Doc. I think it is heading your way.”
“I don’t think so, Gus,” he replied, carefully eyeing the car’s route. “I doubt the Mayor is going to get anywhere driving like that.”
◆ ◆ ◆
Somehow, Tulpa had maneuvered himself into the passenger side of his new toy. He stretched his right leg out to press the gas pedal, while his left leg fought his considerable stomach for control of the steering wheel. He had it cocked all the way to the right, and took a circular view of his town, passing the general store, north Main Street, the telegraph office, south Main Street, and so on, and proceeded to finish his bottle of whisky.
He laid back to bask in the sun just as Sheriff Tyler rode up along side. The two rode in circles for a time in the middle of the road.
◆ ◆ ◆
Billy tried to read the lips of the men as they cycled past. He thought he saw Tulpa say “Gotlieb Daimler,” which Billy recognized as the manufacturer of the carriage. His roommate in Boston had received one for graduation last year as they were leaving medical school. He even allowed Billy to drive it briefly.
William liked the idea of a machine for transportation. He never took to horses. He was afraid once he moved west, it would be the last time he would see the new inventions for quite a few years.
As the Sheriff and Mayor made another pass, Billy thought he heard Tyler scream “pull over” above the roar of the sputtering engine. A wave of deja vu swept over him. It continued as he watched the Sheriff draw Tulpa’s attention to the guns and rifles that were trying to get a bead on the mechanical gibbon. The Mayor relented.
Tulpa’s heel relinquished the wheel, which he grabbed with more than a little effort. While shifting over to the proper seat, his right foot must have slipped off and jumped right back on. Billy had made the same mistake himself. It caused the mechanism to cough, convulse, and backfire.
◆ ◆ ◆
Cobalt was a good horse. Not wanting to run, she chose to fight. Rearing up on her hind legs, she tried to kick the life out of the alien beast. What her hoof connected with was the left cheek of Mayor Tulpa.
◆ ◆ ◆
The bottle flew out of his hand as he tried to protect his injured face. Spitting out teeth and blood, the Mayor threw himself back into the passenger seat to prevent any more destruction to his jaw.
Slipping once, and therefore responsible for the assault, his right foot held the gas pedal steadfast to the floor. Similarly, the vehicle directed itself to the destination it had last circled toward; Hatskin’s General Store and Doctor Billy Malone.
◆ ◆ ◆
“Doc!”
Gus shouted and tried to pull at him from the top of the porch. But the young man was just outside his reach. Shouting was beyond Chester, Pete and Sarah. None of them had ever been witness to this kind of mechanical hazard in all their long, hard lives.
It was Billy who was the most mesmerized by the turn of events. He advocated progress more than anyone, and he was apparently about to become its first victim. Right then, he would have given anything for the car to be miraculously transformed into a beautiful, air-breathing, warm-blooded horse.
Tulpa’s bottle hit the ground. The explosive sound snapped Billy coherent. He stepped back instinctively, and his foot knocked against the bottom step of the porch without taking hold. Continuing to bring his weight back, he managed to lay himself out on the porch steps with a bone-jarring fall.
Looking up, he saw the swaying oak sign, oblivious to all. The sound of a sick goose jerked his attention forward again, and he saw the radiator of the carriage almost on top of him. Billy closed his eyes.
◆ ◆ ◆
It took the Sheriff a few seconds to regain control of his horse. He didn’t have time to move the doctor, so he tried to get the Mayor to reign in his beast. Tyler rode up to the car again and tried to grab hold. What he gripped was the rubber bulb of a brass horn, which made a rather undignified “honk.” The Sheriff removed his hand immediately, looking as if he had somehow done the contraption harm, just as Tulpa bolted upright.
Hearing the horn, not to mention being kicked in the face, sobered him up enough to realize his new toy was out of control, and he was about to run over the young town physician and into a taxpayer’s retail establishment. Grabbing the wheel fiercely, he jerked it ninety degrees left. The car began to turn, but not before it struck and climbed the first step, missing Billy’s right boot by hairs. The corner of the auto crashed through the railing and vaulted toward the porch skirt. Metal met wood with a severe impact, felt by everyone standing on the porch and stairs. Billy and Tulpa both clenched their eyes with every fiber and prepared to meet God.
The report of sound ran the length of the town. No one dared breath, even as the last echo faded. They waited for Tulpa’s machine to explode, or the general store to collapse, or something else cataclysmic that might swallow the town whole.
Nothing.
Tulpa’s engine had stalled. The only sound coming from the wreckage was the right front tire which was slowly rotating itself to a stop. Plus Tulpa, sobbing and nursing a broken jaw.
The only other movement in town also came from the end of Main Street; also from the porch of the general store. The old oak sign swung erratically on the rusty chains. Against the angst-ridden silence of the town, the board pitched and heaved loudly, as if voicing its protest against the unprovoked assault the porch had just suffered at the hands of Tulpa and his machine. Billy was just becoming aware that he wasn’t dead when, abruptly, that sound stopped too.
The corroded links gave up their heavy burden, simultaneously snapping from either side as they swung toward the road. The smooth, round edge of the 50-lb sign neatly clipped the back end of Dr. Malone’s skull before connecting with the stairs.
The entire town flinched at the impact.
◆ ◆ ◆
Billy laid out on top of the sign, face open to the intense heat of the mid-afternoon sun, his blood running into the carved letters. It didn’t hurt. Not then. He felt something like a shove, and then he was on his back, facing the sky. He heard Gus scream his name (well, “Doc” anyway). He heard people running up. Most were laughing nervous laughter, unaware that he was hurt.
Or not really caring.
He heard Gus tell everyone how he tried to pull “the boy” out of the way. Chester said something about the checker board being tipped over. Sheriff Tyler was telling the Mayor that he was going back to play poker, while Tulpa was crying and vomiting. Then he heard Sarah. “Well, maybe now we git owselves a real doctor!”
Then he drifted away.
◆ ◆ ◆
The sensation was like swimming, but he was surrounded by substance-less void.
Thrashing around in the emptiness, he discovered that he had no need to breath. But he desperately wanted to breath. The voice in his head said that breathing proved he was alive. The voice was all he had right then.
Panic quickly set in. Part of him wanted to curl up into a ball, sink to the bottom of the nothingness and be content there. But another part of him, the part that could feel the edge of substance just beyond his fingertips, the voice, refused to allow his arms and legs to stop kicking.
The intangible space smothered him like quicksand. The more he exerted, the more it dragged him further away from border of the void (if there even truly was one).
He began to scream, thrash and cry without thinking. He only plunged deeper toward Hell. But amidst his convulsions, his left foot struck something solid. He was shocked! Exhilarated! He stretched out in the direction of the unknown construct, gained a foothold, and leapt for the edge of the abyss. He broke through the subconscious wall and into the world of those who are aware.
◆ ◆ ◆
“Ou-ch.”
The pain radiated from inside his head. His eyes hurt long before he tried to open them, not that opening them did any good. He immediately knew that, wherever he was, it was entirely enclosed. Before worrying about the where, Billy concentrated on what kind of shape he was in.
Physician, diagnose thyself.
His head sang in discomfort. He was surprised to feel no bandage.
His jaw was painfully thrust into his chest, as his head had been pressed against a wall of some kind. He shifted, to much regret. Brand new pain splattered across his eyelids. He became alarmed to find his hair stuck to something that had the density of wood.
My blood’s coagulated.
His nose confirmed it. Nothing smells like dried blood except the genuine article.
Discomfort flowed down the rest of his body the more he awakened. He realized that his legs were bent out of shape and cramped. He found that his feet were pressed flat against the same kind of wall that mashed his head forward. His knees were forced into a corner that was quickly identified as the lid to his enclosure.
His hands were folded over his chest. Reaching up to rub his eyes, his fingers brushed the top. He explored the texture.
Definitely wood. I’m in a wood box.
Billy the Corpse will continue in the Lip Service Webzine’s September 9 edition
About the author:
Jim Fredrick, author of the novel A Cross to Bare, is currently performing as a stand-up comic throughout South Florida. Sunday nights at 11PM (EST), he hosts the JKRZ show along with Richy Lala, Matt Z. and Kevin McLeman, discussing the trials and triumphs of comedy in South Florida. The call in number is 347-324-3937, if you would like to contribute to the show.
If you should run into Jim in the streets: He’ll trade you a story for a cigarette. It’s a fair trade, as both are proven to take time off your lifespan.
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