WHEN BAD DOGS DO GOOD THINGS

Goal-Oriented People

Goal-Oriented People

The stairs leading down into Ben's basement smell like burning candles and chestnut, a scent that relaxes and lowers my defenses. The walls are a nice cobblestone imitation that makes it feel like I'm going down into a dungeon as the stairs descend, wrapping around a curved corner where there's an alcove with a suit of shiny knight's armor that's a full head taller than me. If this was Scooby-Doo, I'd consider climbing inside of it to hide from it.

I don't know why I always get like this.  If I get a glass of wine in me, I'm sure I'll loosen up and have a better time. That's how it always works, right? When I'm by myself, I'm just fine, but other people bring out this cynical, snide, wannabee funny guy in me and whenever I get home, I'm always left regretting how I talk. I mean, I don't regret it enough to make any conscious change.

The stone stairwell ends in a hallway with an unfinished, concrete floor. Interestingly, I notice that either wall is covered in wallpaper showing a snowy, forest-mountain scene. In between dead trees that are plastered in ice and snow, I can see a handful of deers peering their heads towards the camera, like a giant extra-high-res photograph has been pasted on either side. It's impressive and beautiful, but it feels suspiciously out of place in the basement. Above me are mini-chandeliers fashioned from single sets of antlers, with a fake orange candle in the middle of each that leaves everything feeling shadowy.

Maybe Ben thought plain walls with an unfinished floor looked ugly. Maybe Ben was thinking when he built the place that it made him look distinguished (he's right.) Still, he hasn't mentioned much about being a hunter, so I make myself a mental note to ask him later.

To my left, which from my sense of orientation, I can tell is the side of the house not inside of the hill, are two doorways leading into what I can only assume are guest bedrooms. To my right are two matching doors that are white in color, I'm thinking made from some kind of birch wood.

"Second door on the right," I repeat to myself, echoing Ben's instructions. I study both of the doors on the right side for a moment. The first, as I quickly notice in the dim lighting, has been left about halfway open, a flashing blue light creating a miniature strobe effect is emerging from the gap, like a TV with the sound turned off has been left running, only its rhythmic and alluring.

I'm sure Ben doesn't want the light in the room left on, so like a dumbass, I push the door all the way open and step inside. There's a rectangular fluorescent light attached to the ceiling with a blue piece of foil, like the ones they use in live music theaters, taped to the sides of it. For whatever reason, the light is buzzing and flickering, creating that weird strobe effect.

The space I've entered is otherwise comparable to a darkroom or prep kitchen. The floor is made from what is comparable to bathroom tiles and on the wall across from me is a silver prep sink with one of those extendable spray-hose things. It's big, like as big as a bathtub. On either side of the prep sink are industrial wire metal shelves with three tiers, on which there are a variety of chemicals; some are labeled with words like "BLEACH," "FIXER," and "FLO." Others are just vague, pear shaped bottles with various-colored liquids. Whatever Ben's doing down on here, it smells like vinegar and it makes me just a little uncomfortable.

Attached and linked in between the industrial shelves is a rubber string with clothespins holding onto still-developing photographs. He's developing photos, this much is clear, but what of? The light's still flickering, I stumble towards the sink to take a closer look. The house has gotten too quiet.

"Jesus," I mutter to myself. I feel myself getting sweaty and it's hard to fathom. The first picture on the left is a picture of Kim, she's on her knees and the flash is on, giving those red spots in her pupils. She's wearing a pink sundress but it must be cold in the room, because her nipples are piercing through her outfit like the outfit is wet. Behind her is a white background, like they're in a photography studio. I feel something in my pants stirring, like what I'm seeing is exciting but I know I'm not supposed to be seeing it at all. I have tunnel vision now and all I can focus on is the pictures. The flickering light is irrelevant and so is the noise of the house.