Filth
There’s been a lot of filth, recently. Lots and lots of it. I try to tell people about it: Everything is so disgusting right now. No one seems to believe me. I whisper it anyway, lie flat and supine in my bed, sheets like paper under my palm, lance my breath up to the unassuming white ceiling. Filth. This is what there is.
Coming back from the metro, trudging along, there was a man staring into a bush outside the station. Very intently, I should add, eyes like a hawk’s from under his brow, which jut out to an almost dramatic degree. He had a very classical face, like something you could paint white and pose up in a museum. What are you doing, I asked him. He slapped my back—his hand was firm and steady—and told me to take a look. I took a look. In the bush were some napkins, melting solemnly into the ground, and a broken needle, and a man’s face.
I inhaled, sharp, windmilled my arms and took a huge step back. It’s okay, he said, it’s okay. He’s dead. He’s long dead, long dead, there’s never been anyone more dead. His words calmed me. Sugar cube to the horse. My ears perked up and forwards. I looked again. Napkins, needle, face. A face with a dramatic brow, jutted out, squint-lines about the eyes. Grey, cold, pallid. Tragic and recognizable. The dirt bunched up around where it protruded—just his face, an oval come up. Even his ears were underground.
I looked at the dead man and then at my companion, who smiled at me. There was a gap between his two front teeth, and a quirk about him. There’s filth, I told him. Filth everywhere.
He said, help me dig it up. Come on. I came on. I dropped my bag to the ground—forget the fact that my laptop and my notebooks were inside, my earphones and my book of poems, poems that made me feel like the air around me was shifting unnaturally—and got on all fours, started to dig my thumb into the place where unbloated flesh came in contact with the world. He didn’t follow me down, just braced his hands on his knees and watched, still so intent. I made a groove and grew bold, began to scrabble. The dirt was packed in hard, the chill seeping in through it, but I managed. I dug and I dug.
Who loved you, I asked.
My mother, he answered, and my father, for a while, my buddy Pete, and the woman I kissed at the bar after I was fired from my most hated job.
What job was that, I asked.
I don’t remember, he answered, and I believed him. How do you know she loved you, I asked.
He was silent. The face was like wax under my fingertips, like wax rigged up on scaffolding like cloth. I pressed my thumb to the face’s cheekbone and the skin bounced back to me, plump, lively, missing any sort of spark or vitality. He continued to be silent until he was no longer silent, until he said, she collapsed me down. She folded me up. I only knew her for an hour, exactly an hour. I was on the bus. I got off the bus and she found me, drew me in. You remember being small?
Yes. Yes, I remember being small.
I was small and my room was right outside the landing of the stairs. You remember the ice storm?
No. No, I am not so old as that.
I’m just kidding you. You’re too juicy. It was during the ice storm. I insisted on sleeping in my room, though everyone else was sleeping in the living room, like bears in a cave. I loved my room, you know. Maybe you do know. I woke up and it was night and my nose was cold as ice and pink as a cherry, hands curled into raptor claws inside my blanket. I sat up, considered going down to where everyone was, finding a space at the foot of the couch and sleeping there. I dunno the time. It was early, early morning, or deep, deep night, whichever you want to call it. My door was open. I looked out and I saw a face.
A face?
Yeah, a face. Listen. Just floating there. A bodiless face, you ever seen a thing like that?
Never.
It was watching me. It had these, these piercing eyes. Mouth like a dust pile. It said something to me.
What did it say?
I’ll tell you what: I don’t remember.
Huh. I wiped my hands on my jeans, leaving a streak of brown, like a crayon dragged down along the denim. I had done some good work, made some good progress on the excavation, but I had quickly realized this wasn’t really a face—not a human one, anyway. It had no ears—the flesh extended down and down and down into the earth. What do I do, I asked him.
I don’t exactly know, he said, and scratched his head. Thought it’d be, I don’t know, I thought there would be some clear instruction from here on out.
You said the mouth was like a pile of dust?
Something thereabouts, yeah.
Filth, I said. Filth.
He rubbed at his chin. I heard it, how his stubble scraped. He seemed ancient to me in that moment, though he was not old—not young, mind you, but he was not old. His jacket was a neon green that stuck out like a beacon. Maybe that was what had drawn my eye to him in the first place, because normally I walked with my neck craned downward, scouring the pavement for dropped nickels and quarters and trinkets and luck. I looked down, now, took in his hiking boots, a bit worn, but not badly.
What did that story have to do with the woman, I asked him. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his boots, the salt crusted onto them, the laces, fat from weeks and months and maybe years of becoming soaked and then being left to dry by the heater. Speckles of dirt. Mud. Crack an egg over them.
His mouth pulled into a little o of surprise. Well, I thought it would be obvious.
It wasn’t. It wasn’t obvious.
He turned his attention to the face. I’ll rebury it, he decided. Thank you.
But, I started, and then thought against saying anything more. A dime glistened in a crack in the sidewalk a little ways away. You’re welcome, I said instead. I hope you find the woman again.
He barked out a jackal’s laugh. I don’t want her. She loved me, sure. Don’t want her anymore. Crossed wires.
When I got home, I realized I still had the dirt tucked into the space under my cracked nails. I thought about washing them, thought about it hard. I could feel the phantom sensation of the face’s waxy skin against my own skin still, and I imagined what it would have been like to lean down like I was looking into the depths of a pond, what it would have been like to ghost my lips over that brow, to take his nose between my teeth, maybe, to tongue at the gelatinous mounds of his eyes. I ran my tongue against the back of my teeth, then, bit my thumb in an oft-repeated nervous habit.
Too late I remembered the dirt again—and it was too late, anyway, so I scraped it out, let it sit in my mouth, salty and dry. I thought about graveyards, oddly enough, how people bottled grave dirt in crystal vials and sold it, or kept it up on their bookshelves and mantlepieces. I wanted to vomit, very suddenly, and I felt the intention of it roil in my gut, felt the back of my throat start to prickle with the familiar acid-wash. I did not vomit, but the feeling carried me over and I got into my bed, still dressed in my jacket and my shoes and my jeans with the crayon-smears. I turned my face into my clean pillow and spat as enthusiastically as I could manage, which was not very; my saliva trickled down along the curve of my cheek, into the soft indent under my bottom lip. I let my eyes fall shut, imagined the particles of dirt sticking to my soft flesh, juicy, alive. I wanted to drift off into sleep but I didn’t, or maybe I couldn’t—no sleep found me, in any case, and eventually the light faded, dimmed, and left altogether. My room became dark and the dark was sticky, like a greasy residue, like poorly-made tallow. It cloistered in the corners, loomed and bore down upon me.
In that darkness, I noticed a face. It floated, yes, in the corner of my room where I usually hung up my clothes. Its brow jut out, its mouth, like I’d been told, reminiscent of a pile of soft grey dust. I called to it, maybe, my mouth forming the shape of a sound I am unsure of, but no noise came. It might have come closer. I do not know. I felt fingers pressing into my cheek and along the exposed side of my face, brushing my limp hair away from my forehead, scratching into the divot of my nostril, prying my lips open. I allowed it, still uncertain, teetering along the limits of my understandings—of the world, of myself, of the dark safety of my room. The fingers scraped softly into my mouth and as they did, my eyes sought out the face. Relief crashed through me as I saw it was still there, benign, eyes impartial as they looked down at me. Up against the roof of my mouth, down on the soft pink muscle of my tongue. Hands, hands. I was sticky, sticky all over. Everything was disgusting and ripe as fruit. My mouth kept opening and closing as much as the fingers would allow, entirely of its own accord, and I felt the spit from earlier peeling like dried glue. What had happened, I wondered, what had happened what had happened. Who can keep track of all of this. Who could possibly remember.
I woke up in the bright morning. Just look down, I told myself. Keep on that measure, keep along that filth. Keep it all down. I’d told everyone, hadn’t I? So much filth, none of it easy. Impossible amounts of it. Car crashes and urine and sick dogs and unwashed hair, lank and unkempt. All of it, all about. I mustn’t mind, I thought, and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. Everything will be OK.
Coming back from the metro, trudging along, there was a man staring into a bush outside the station. Very intently, I should add, eyes like a hawk’s from under his brow, which jut out to an almost dramatic degree. He had a very classical face, like something you could paint white and pose up in a museum. What are you doing, I asked him. He slapped my back—his hand was firm and steady—and told me to take a look. I took a look. In the bush were some napkins, melting solemnly into the ground, and a broken needle, and a man’s face.
I inhaled, sharp, windmilled my arms and took a huge step back. It’s okay, he said, it’s okay. He’s dead. He’s long dead, long dead, there’s never been anyone more dead. His words calmed me. Sugar cube to the horse. My ears perked up and forwards. I looked again. Napkins, needle, face. A face with a dramatic brow, jutted out, squint-lines about the eyes. Grey, cold, pallid. Tragic and recognizable. The dirt bunched up around where it protruded—just his face, an oval come up. Even his ears were underground.
I looked at the dead man and then at my companion, who smiled at me. There was a gap between his two front teeth, and a quirk about him. There’s filth, I told him. Filth everywhere.
He said, help me dig it up. Come on. I came on. I dropped my bag to the ground—forget the fact that my laptop and my notebooks were inside, my earphones and my book of poems, poems that made me feel like the air around me was shifting unnaturally—and got on all fours, started to dig my thumb into the place where unbloated flesh came in contact with the world. He didn’t follow me down, just braced his hands on his knees and watched, still so intent. I made a groove and grew bold, began to scrabble. The dirt was packed in hard, the chill seeping in through it, but I managed. I dug and I dug.
Who loved you, I asked.
My mother, he answered, and my father, for a while, my buddy Pete, and the woman I kissed at the bar after I was fired from my most hated job.
What job was that, I asked.
I don’t remember, he answered, and I believed him. How do you know she loved you, I asked.
He was silent. The face was like wax under my fingertips, like wax rigged up on scaffolding like cloth. I pressed my thumb to the face’s cheekbone and the skin bounced back to me, plump, lively, missing any sort of spark or vitality. He continued to be silent until he was no longer silent, until he said, she collapsed me down. She folded me up. I only knew her for an hour, exactly an hour. I was on the bus. I got off the bus and she found me, drew me in. You remember being small?
Yes. Yes, I remember being small.
I was small and my room was right outside the landing of the stairs. You remember the ice storm?
No. No, I am not so old as that.
I’m just kidding you. You’re too juicy. It was during the ice storm. I insisted on sleeping in my room, though everyone else was sleeping in the living room, like bears in a cave. I loved my room, you know. Maybe you do know. I woke up and it was night and my nose was cold as ice and pink as a cherry, hands curled into raptor claws inside my blanket. I sat up, considered going down to where everyone was, finding a space at the foot of the couch and sleeping there. I dunno the time. It was early, early morning, or deep, deep night, whichever you want to call it. My door was open. I looked out and I saw a face.
A face?
Yeah, a face. Listen. Just floating there. A bodiless face, you ever seen a thing like that?
Never.
It was watching me. It had these, these piercing eyes. Mouth like a dust pile. It said something to me.
What did it say?
I’ll tell you what: I don’t remember.
Huh. I wiped my hands on my jeans, leaving a streak of brown, like a crayon dragged down along the denim. I had done some good work, made some good progress on the excavation, but I had quickly realized this wasn’t really a face—not a human one, anyway. It had no ears—the flesh extended down and down and down into the earth. What do I do, I asked him.
I don’t exactly know, he said, and scratched his head. Thought it’d be, I don’t know, I thought there would be some clear instruction from here on out.
You said the mouth was like a pile of dust?
Something thereabouts, yeah.
Filth, I said. Filth.
He rubbed at his chin. I heard it, how his stubble scraped. He seemed ancient to me in that moment, though he was not old—not young, mind you, but he was not old. His jacket was a neon green that stuck out like a beacon. Maybe that was what had drawn my eye to him in the first place, because normally I walked with my neck craned downward, scouring the pavement for dropped nickels and quarters and trinkets and luck. I looked down, now, took in his hiking boots, a bit worn, but not badly.
What did that story have to do with the woman, I asked him. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his boots, the salt crusted onto them, the laces, fat from weeks and months and maybe years of becoming soaked and then being left to dry by the heater. Speckles of dirt. Mud. Crack an egg over them.
His mouth pulled into a little o of surprise. Well, I thought it would be obvious.
It wasn’t. It wasn’t obvious.
He turned his attention to the face. I’ll rebury it, he decided. Thank you.
But, I started, and then thought against saying anything more. A dime glistened in a crack in the sidewalk a little ways away. You’re welcome, I said instead. I hope you find the woman again.
He barked out a jackal’s laugh. I don’t want her. She loved me, sure. Don’t want her anymore. Crossed wires.
When I got home, I realized I still had the dirt tucked into the space under my cracked nails. I thought about washing them, thought about it hard. I could feel the phantom sensation of the face’s waxy skin against my own skin still, and I imagined what it would have been like to lean down like I was looking into the depths of a pond, what it would have been like to ghost my lips over that brow, to take his nose between my teeth, maybe, to tongue at the gelatinous mounds of his eyes. I ran my tongue against the back of my teeth, then, bit my thumb in an oft-repeated nervous habit.
Too late I remembered the dirt again—and it was too late, anyway, so I scraped it out, let it sit in my mouth, salty and dry. I thought about graveyards, oddly enough, how people bottled grave dirt in crystal vials and sold it, or kept it up on their bookshelves and mantlepieces. I wanted to vomit, very suddenly, and I felt the intention of it roil in my gut, felt the back of my throat start to prickle with the familiar acid-wash. I did not vomit, but the feeling carried me over and I got into my bed, still dressed in my jacket and my shoes and my jeans with the crayon-smears. I turned my face into my clean pillow and spat as enthusiastically as I could manage, which was not very; my saliva trickled down along the curve of my cheek, into the soft indent under my bottom lip. I let my eyes fall shut, imagined the particles of dirt sticking to my soft flesh, juicy, alive. I wanted to drift off into sleep but I didn’t, or maybe I couldn’t—no sleep found me, in any case, and eventually the light faded, dimmed, and left altogether. My room became dark and the dark was sticky, like a greasy residue, like poorly-made tallow. It cloistered in the corners, loomed and bore down upon me.
In that darkness, I noticed a face. It floated, yes, in the corner of my room where I usually hung up my clothes. Its brow jut out, its mouth, like I’d been told, reminiscent of a pile of soft grey dust. I called to it, maybe, my mouth forming the shape of a sound I am unsure of, but no noise came. It might have come closer. I do not know. I felt fingers pressing into my cheek and along the exposed side of my face, brushing my limp hair away from my forehead, scratching into the divot of my nostril, prying my lips open. I allowed it, still uncertain, teetering along the limits of my understandings—of the world, of myself, of the dark safety of my room. The fingers scraped softly into my mouth and as they did, my eyes sought out the face. Relief crashed through me as I saw it was still there, benign, eyes impartial as they looked down at me. Up against the roof of my mouth, down on the soft pink muscle of my tongue. Hands, hands. I was sticky, sticky all over. Everything was disgusting and ripe as fruit. My mouth kept opening and closing as much as the fingers would allow, entirely of its own accord, and I felt the spit from earlier peeling like dried glue. What had happened, I wondered, what had happened what had happened. Who can keep track of all of this. Who could possibly remember.
I woke up in the bright morning. Just look down, I told myself. Keep on that measure, keep along that filth. Keep it all down. I’d told everyone, hadn’t I? So much filth, none of it easy. Impossible amounts of it. Car crashes and urine and sick dogs and unwashed hair, lank and unkempt. All of it, all about. I mustn’t mind, I thought, and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. Everything will be OK.