Infinite Games

11. Bertha and a Bathroom

I watched the police cruiser pull away from the sidewalk and swim its way back into the flow of L.A. traffic. That cop had been far nicer than I expected. So much so that I had internally forgiven him for laughing at me over a very loud megaphone.

A strong gust rattled the litter, sending fast food wrappers skittering across my bare feet. The resounding shiver --one so violent my human bones threatened to dismantle themselves herein-- and numbness creeping into the tips of my fingers was enough to send me inside.

Demons, I believe, have hardier skin. The tough exterior was birthed through centuries of exposure to hellfire, but cold had never been a worry. Could I get cold as a demon? There had never been any instance of needing a coat while in Demimonde, nor were there any excess clothes provided. Unless, perhaps, the tent were regulated in temperature-

"Can I help you?" asked a woman who may have been solely responsible for all the wrappers traipsing across the sidewalk.

"I was told I could get clothes here," I said.

"Uh huh. Give me a minute."

Her puffed up proportions wobbled and bounced gelatinously as she repositioned an arm to lean her double chin against a meaty fist. The Dodgers shirt stretched across her wide bosom bore the basic name tag I could only recall using on a kindergarten field trip in my youth. It read: Hello, my name is BERTHA.

Her other hand not occupied with supporting a chin slid out of sight. The layered navy desk blocked any chance of seeing what was going on below. A computer mouse began to click, and Bertha's eyes illuminated with the bright colors on the screen, masking the clear boredom of her task.

Letting out a big sigh that released not only air, but the smell of fries, Bertha turned her beady brown eyes toward me again. I was instantly reminded of the big green bug whom had sported Joon Faye's head on its abdomen --and whom had almost clawed my face off.

"I'll be back with your clothes."

I watched in awe as she stood, and staggered out of sight. It was a wonder she could move at all. A few extra beetle legs would have rendered her far more mobile.

Alone, I sunk deep within my mind, recalling Joon Faye and her holographic features to the best of my abilities. Was she homeless as well? Could the police ride have been set up by The Game Masters to allow us to meet here?

The entrance door opened. Expecting fate to play its winning hand, I turned sharply, examining the tall, dark skinned man who carried a trash bag of empty plastic bottles with utter disappointment. Perhaps, it is not that easy, I thought. Perhaps, I am on my own.

Bertha returned with clothing, and directed me to a bathroom to change. My sense of smell was assaulted inside. The toilet and urinal were corroded with a brown-grey buildup, which I could only hope was the cause of the odor. It was fermented excrement crossed with wet dog. How that was possible when a no dogs sign had been hammered above the toilet paper dispenser was beyond me.

I tore the filthy trash bag off, and shoved it in a trash can --the irony was not missed. Without coverage, I could see an ugly patchwork quilt across my torso. There were still ribbons of my old skin clinging to the new flesh, and now that they had dried with the wind, pulling them off one by one was like ripping off twelve band-aids made with superglue. I yelled as quietly as I possibly could.

Lobster-skin pieces discarded, the plain clothes went on, and I was out of the nightmarish bathroom before anything festering in there could grow teeth and take a chunk out of me.

As the stench grew fainter with each step I took, Joon Faye was back on my mind, and I asked Bertha if anyone, ever, had come in here by the same name. No such luck.

Los Angeles was algae. Bioluminescent, it lit up in the darkening skies as its inhabitants stirred, making waves of motion. Neon signs blinked, advertising beer, clubs, restaurants. Oncoming cars became floating headlights to the naked eye, and high above, yellow rectangles glowed, revealing the tiniest glimpse into the lives of human beings not yet dead. The candid mystery of it all was almost enough to make me forget that taking to the streets again meant braving bitter cold.

Clothes were no match for the invisible beast. Its icy tendrils pierced through my thin jacket, impaling every nerve, turning each step into a battle, each block into a war.

I had no plan. So I wandered.